RANDOM ACCESS MEMORY (SMALL EXTRACT)

"In 2014, I was pitching the future at SXSW. Not long after in New York, I was running from a man with a box cutter. What happened in between changed everything."

Chapter 1: RANDOM ACCESS MEMORY : EMPIRE STATE OF MIND

It all kicked off in 2014. Life was finally moving. We’d just launched at SXSW Interactive—and what a launch. VIP access, thanks to the other Australian directors and the startup. Pandora Music’s venue was ours all week. Damon Albarn played a rooftop set in a bloody parking garage. Tried to catch Timbuktu—no show. G-Love and Special Sauce played a hotel foyer with the same loose charisma I’d seen from him years earlier at Bluesfest Byron. These weren’t just gigs. They were moments. Signals that we were playing in the right spaces. We had a music product, so SXSW was the perfect launchpad—cutting-edge tech with a physical twist, right in the beating heart of music and innovation.

I was there with our Americas Key Account Manager and some of the other directors, pitching new NFC and Beacon tech—innovations we believed would fuse digital and physical worlds. It wasn’t just a product; it was a shift in behaviour. Imagine discovering new music through a tap, or sharing a curated playlist via a physical object. We were convinced it could change how people interacted with music, how brands connected with fans, how memories were made and shared. For a moment, so was the crowd at SXSW.

People noticed. A few tech blogs and media outlets even listed us in their “best of” SXSW roundups. Our digital ad partner? Blown away. Said our stand was the slickest thing there—clean design, real engagement, clever interactions. I even demoed the product to their top clients at their Manhattan HQ. Real talks. Walmart-level talks. Big fish circling.

One guy at our booth nodded like he’d seen the future and said, “This is brilliant… but you’re ten years too early.”

He wasn’t wrong. Apple hadn’t rolled out NFC yet—only Android had. We were pitching future tech to a world still clinging to yesterday’s user habits. But Sony—one of our key clients—got it. They were already baking NFC into their ‘One Touch’ lineup. TVs, headphones, speakers—you name it. Tap to pair, tap to share. Seamless, elegant, ahead of its time. We were riding shotgun with them, helping to make that experience frictionless and human.

It felt like we were building real momentum. Deals lining up. Global interest. A genuine buzz. And just before everything went sideways, we got a meeting at Spotify’s New York HQ. They loved it—Sharetapes, the nostalgia, the tactility of it. Music you could hand someone. Digital and physical, fused. Something real. They saw the magic.

The local team at Sounds Australia was backing us too. Aussie bands were starting to use Sharetapes for album launches. Gang of Youths were there—wide-eyed, impressed. It felt like the little Aussie-American startup that could.

And then, without warning, it all came crashing down—at least for me.

Because when you’re on the edge of something big, the fall can come from nowhere.

We were running lean but hard—sales offices in New York and Chicago, PR hub in Silicon Valley, marketing in Sydney. I was holding down the Financial District in NYC, based at WeWork Charging Bull, right near Wall Street. Every day, I walked past Ground Zero, watching Tower 1 rise. It was like a daily reminder of resilience. Eventually, I landed an office at WeWork Empire State—across from the building itself. That skyline energy pulsed through every window. It felt like I was finally in the game.

I was living in Williamsburg with Laura, a Sydney screenwriter, and her partner Rowan—though Rowan was back in Australia visiting family, so it was just Laura and me in the apartment. We got along well, both riding the creative wave, working crazy hours, chasing something abstract and vital.

Before everything changed, Tim and Bek—die-hard Mets fans—took me to several games at Citi Field. Hot dogs, Shakeshack burgers, the roar of the crowd. For a few hours, the stress melted. Those afternoons were a rare and welcome pause. Just baseball, beers, and a reminder that life wasn’t all pitch decks and product demos.

Williamsburg itself was a collision of worlds. Peak Brooklyn hipster—boutique barbershops, vintage tees, murals on every second wall. But just around the corner? The Satmar Hasidic Jewish community. Yiddish signs, long black coats, no eye contact. Two worlds coexisting, almost pretending the other didn’t exist. It was fascinating, sometimes surreal.

Then came that Sunday night. Spring, 2014. I’d wrapped work and wandered down to The Candy Store—a local bar, nothing wild, low-key open mic. A couple of acoustic guitars, half a dozen regulars. Plan? Chill, maybe meet someone interesting. Nothing hectic.

An older Polish guy sat nearby, silent. At one point, he dropped a drink in front of me. No words. Just plonk. And like a bloody idiot, I drank it. My solo radar was off. I wasn’t watching myself like I should have been.

The last thing I remember clearly? Watching Red Bulls vs. Toronto on the bar TV. Chatting with a football fan about Tim Cahill and the upcoming World Cup. After that—blackness.

Next thing—I wake up in the apartment. Blood on my shirt. A shallow puncture wound in my chest. A slash across it. Not deep, not life-threatening. But real. And confusing. My wallet and phone? Still there.

I stumbled to the shower. Cleaned up. Tried to make sense of it. Later, I stepped outside for air—and at the crossing, there he was. A guy stroking a box cutter, calmly, like he was sharpening it with his thumb. No eye contact. No words.

I turned and bolted back inside. That’s when the fear properly arrived. It sat heavy and didn’t leave.

I went to the local NYPD precinct. Told them everything. They listened, then shrugged. Sent me upstairs to two detectives. They laughed. Like it was some drunk Aussie tale. Said there wasn’t much they could do.

Unreal.

Next day, still rattled, I forced myself into the office. WeWork Empire State. Told the receptionist I needed food. She pointed me to Smash Burgers nearby. I could barely stomach lunch.

Called Tim. Told him everything.

He said, “Come over.”

Ubered across the Williamsburg Bridge to his place in Lower Manhattan. I needed a soft landing. Tim and Bek took me in, no questions. I crashed on their couch. Tried to keep working by day, but by night I was just… gone. A ghost.

I started cancelling meetings. Missed a dinner with one of the Sydney directors and our lead investor. My rhythm collapsed. A trip to Brazil for the World Cup was briefly floated—a reset. But deep down I knew the gears had jammed.

Then it hit hard.

Three nights after the attack, I ended up in Bellevue Hospital. Bek rode in the ambulance with me. Anxiety. Panic. Shock catching up. I was discharged the next morning, but not out of the woods.

The following day, I checked into Beth Israel. A private mental health unit. Five days. Dr. Christina ran the place with a calm, steady hand. No judgment. Just gentle maintenance. I needed that. I was cracking apart.

While I was there, I booked my flight home—JFK to Brisbane via Dubai. The Australian Consulate helped arrange my lift to JFK Airport. Made it easier.

My brother picked me up from Brisbane airport and drove me straight to Toowoomba. Home. Quiet. Safe.

That night in Brooklyn didn’t break me—but it cracked something open. The tech, the deals, the momentum—all gone in a flash. A decade on, I’m still unpacking it. What it meant. What it cost. What it gave me.

Some open mic night.

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