There’s a moment in Heartstrings—the debut album by Vietnamese-Canadian producer Hoang—where melody and memory fold so tightly into each other, it almost feels like trespassing. In this EDMNOMAD exclusive interview, Hoang reveals that on the title track, a lush but aching instrumental gives way to a truth he rewrote after a friend told him she might only have a few months to live. For Hoang, that one conversation rewired the ‘Heartstrings’ and its emotional DNA.
“I went home after that tour date, rewrote the song from her point of view, showed her the song—and she just started bawling her eyes out,” Hoang recalled. “Fast forward—she’s doing a lot better now. But in that moment, that was one of the rare times I asked myself, am I sharing too much?” This question—am I sharing too much, or maybe not enough?—haunts Heartstrings like vapor.
Heartstrings sets aside bravado and unfolds like a quiet confrontation—with fear, with faith, and with the fragile act of showing up fully between Hoang as both an artist and a son. And if it aches a little? That’s because it’s meant to.
Writing What Hurts—and Letting It Stay
Heartstrings took nearly two years to finish, but it wasn’t labor—it was emotional filtration. The songs didn’t come from strategy; they came from witnessing. Much like ILLENIUM or Dabin, Hoang distills raw emotion from friends who’ve broken down beside him, not just backstage. Messages kept in his inbox. To chapters that surprisingly reopened. What began as a solo exploration of realization and joy gradually became a communal one.
“It was very much about myself and my experiences at first, but the latter half of the Heartstrings album shifted,” Hoang explained. “It started to reflect the experiences of the people around me—my community, my close friends, even fans.” That evolution is most striking on Five Years, a stirring collaboration with Dia Frampton that sits at the heart of the album like a lighthouse in fog. It’s an anthem for anyone stuck between survival and surrender. “That was actually the second song I started writing for the album,” he said. “I always knew it would be part of it.”
Unreleased: Hoang Isn’t Ready to Let Leaving Go
But not every song came easily. Some tracks remain unfinished—not due to technical gaps, but because the emotional charge hasn’t settled. Leaving, an unreleased song that Hoang has held close for years, explores the unmoored aftermath of a relationship so significant, it made every version of the past feel like fiction. “I held back on that because I felt like it was such a personal song about relationships and feeling cut from somebody,” he admitted. “But I’m going to be wrapping it up this summer.”
That gap—between emotional truth and public release—is something more producers might recognize than admit. Earlier in his career, Hoang would release songs before the feelings had even cooled. Now, he’s more patient. “The beauty of putting out music is you’re putting out that song in that mindset, in that moment of time in your life,” he said. “Why delay it ten months, when you’ll be a slightly different person by then?”
When Anger Isn’t Loud—It’s Honest
For an artist leaning on emotional depth, Hoang admits there’s still one feeling he hasn’t fully translated into music: anger. Not because he’s never felt it—but because he’s never truly understood how to honor it in sound. “I feel like I’ve captured sadness and happiness and bliss,” he said. “But I haven’t really portrayed anger yet.”
That absence isn’t a lack of range—it’s a conscious decision. Even with Heartstrings, Hoang doesn’t chase emotion for contrast or trend. “I don’t want to force it just for shock,” he said. “But I think there’s a way to translate it without losing the beauty.” In a genre often dominated by dramatic build-ups and explosive drops, anger is usually performed, not processed. But Hoang wants something quieter. More vulnerable. He’s less interested in mimicking rage and more invested in understanding where it comes from—and why it’s been hard to let out.
A new track may be the turning point. “We have a new track coming,” he teased. “And it does have that. It’s beautiful, but there’s a section in it that shows aggressive anger.” In a culture quick to commodify catharsis, Hoang is choosing a slower burn. His restraint isn’t fear. It’s integrity.
The Risk Hoang Took to Write Heartstrings From the Inside Out
Hoang didn’t just walk away from a corporate job—he walked away from a version of himself that played it safe. But the hardest part wasn’t the resignation letter. It was admitting he had a right to try. “I tied my past jobs, my schooling, all of it to my identity,” he said. “So quitting wasn’t just about work—it was about finally being true to myself for once.”
The world makes it easy to measure success in titles and paychecks. Hoang had those. But they never fit. “For so many years, I was chasing someone else’s agenda,” he admitted. “But quitting my job—that was me taking a chance on myself. That was the scarier decision.”
Belief doesn’t always arrive the moment you leap. Sometimes it trails behind—slow, uncertain, catching up to the future you’ve already chosen. That’s the undercurrent of Heartstrings: not just the sound of emotional storytelling, but of someone finally stepping into the life he wrote for himself.
Asian Identity as Memory, Not Marketing
For Hoang, being Vietnamese-Canadian isn’t a campaign angle. It’s a quiet presence that lingers underneath every note. In an industry still figuring out the difference between representation and reduction, he resists being flattened into a checkbox. He doesn’t wear identity like merch. He carries it like memory.
“It’s already a struggle to represent myself—just being Mike, just being Hoang,” he said. “I never wake up and say, ‘I’m going to post this song because I’m Asian.’ That’s not it. Music, the art, and who I am come first.” That honesty anchors him. His music doesn’t announce cultural identity—but it holds its texture. “In Asian culture, we prioritize unity, family, togetherness,” he explained. “And I think that naturally bleeds into the way I make music. It’s not explicit—but it’s already deeply ingrained in my DNA.”
Still, he’s not blind to how these themes are received. He performs mostly across the US and Canada, where the demand for “diverse” lineups is real—but so is the risk of being seen as an add-on. His response is measured, but firm. “I’ve never felt like I was added to a lineup just to tick a box,” he said. “I believe I’m booked because of the music and the art I bring.”
There’s a subtle power in that belief. Because for artists of color—especially in electronic music—emotional expression often risks being misunderstood. Sensitivity can get coded as novelty. Intimacy can get lost in translation. “Maybe my life experiences have led to my music sounding a certain way,” he said. “Maybe that’s because of my family and my upbringing. But I’ve never sat down and said, ‘Let me make something that sounds Asian.’ It’s just who I am.”
Hoang Brings Heartstrings Home
In a full circle moment, Heartstrings finally made it home to Vancouver—the city where Hoang first learned what it meant to chase something quietly. Where he kept his fears tucked behind late-night demos and unspoken dreams. Where no one knew, for a long time, how badly he wanted this. “We’ve been working on this for so many years,” he said. “I’ve been going to this venue since I was 19. And now I’m headlining it.”
This show wasn’t just a milestone. It was a mirror. An actualization of visionary moments with his mother in the crowd for the first time ever. She’s never seen the lights cut through a room as her son walks onstage. Never heard the chorus of strangers singing his lyrics back to him like prayer. “I got her earplugs. I got her a bottle of whiskey. Everything she needs,” he laughed. “It’s one of the most special shows in my heart.”
But the show isn’t about spectacle. It’s about returning to the place where it all started, no longer afraid to be seen. Where he’s closing the quiet gap between who Hoang was and who he’s finally allowed himself to be. It’s about looking into the crowd and, for once, not searching for proof—only presence. Because while Heartstrings tells Hoang’s story, it carries everyone who helped him find the words. His mother. His friends, the girl, and the fans who stayed. The silence that shaped the songs.
Some albums are made for the world. This one was made to come home.
Follow Hoang on Instagram and listen to the Heartstrings album here.
