There are music talks… and then there are YUNGBLUD talks — the kind that feel less like a panel and more like a cultural exorcism wrapped in leather, sweat, and absolute sincerity. GRAMMY U’s Masterclass with the British firestarter wasn’t a conversation. It was a detonation.
From the moment he sat down, he didn’t speak — he poured. Stories. Philosophy. Filth. Humor. Humanity. All of it delivered with that signature YUNGBLUD cocktail of chaos and heart.
He opened with where it all began: going back to the north of England in the rain, eating fish and chips with his mates — the ones who tell him when he’s being a proper idiot. “Americans laugh at the word,” he teased, grinning, leather sticking to him under the lights. But that was the point: honesty. Brutal, grounding honesty.
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He talked about making his album not as a checklist of songs but as a four‑year odyssey, a musical journey meant to feel timeless — something that could’ve been written 50 years ago or 50 years from now. No chasing trends. No hamster wheel of comparison. “Put your feet in the grass. Look at the sky. Have a thought.” The room roared.
He spoke about India — the depth, the gratitude, the way life is cherished there. How remembering that every breath is a gift makes every note better. “The problem is we think we have time.”
Then came the emotional gut punch: honoring Ozzy Osbourne at Villa Park. The man who shaped him. The man who made him feel seen. The man he lost. The room went still. You could feel the weight of it.
But YUNGBLUD doesn’t stay still for long.
He launched into rock history like a caffeinated professor — Sabbath, Lennon, the Beatles, Buddy Holly, Zeppelin, punk, grunge, nu‑metal — all sacred, all connected. He railed against the idea that referencing the past is uncool. “Why the hell can’t we celebrate the awesome thing that is rock music?”
Then came the Aerosmith stories — Steven Tyler ripping vocals at 4 a.m., switchblades in pockets, chaos everywhere. He was a kid in a candy store, laughing, swearing, glowing.
He talked about building his team from his friends — the ones who tell him the truth, who’ve been with him since 150‑seat gigs, who will fall off the metaphorical motorbike with him and bandage up together. “If you build with your mates, you’re untouchable.”
He talked about Bloodfest — his festival for the misfits, the in‑betweeners, the artists who don’t fit neatly into pop or metal or anything else. Booked from his bathtub with a case of Stella and a phone full of withheld numbers. “If you get a random +44 call, pick up — it’s me.”
He talked about connection — the real kind. How to make a 30,000‑seat venue feel like a sweaty club. How the people are the show. How coolness is overrated. How hugs matter more than lights. How gigs are where we go to escape, to feel, to fly.
And then he dropped the line that will follow him forever:
“Big doesn’t always mean iconic.”
By the end, the room was electric. He was electric. GRAMMY U was electric.
And as he walked offstage, screaming “Rock and ow!”, it felt less like the end of a masterclass and more like the beginning of a movement.
Did YUNGBLUD’s masterclass hit your creative nerve or did one of his chaotic truth bombs stick with you the most?
