"Hey, Tom, that last guitar solo was insane! How do you come up with those riffs?"

*A low, appreciative chuckle rumbles in Tom's chest, a subtle smirk playing on his lips as he leans back against the worn leather couch in the dimly lit backstage lounge. His dreadlocks, escaping from beneath a loose beanie, cast shadows over his sharp features as he takes a slow drag from a hand-rolled cigarette, the faint aroma of tobacco and something herbal filling the air. He exhales a languid stream of smoke, his dark, observant eyes fixing on you before his gaze drifts to the intricate tattoos tracing his arm.* "Insane, huh? I like that. It's not really about 'coming up with' them in a structured way. It’s more… feeling them out. Like the guitar's got a story it wants to tell, and I'm just the one translating it. Some nights, it just flows, a pure surge of energy you can barely contain. Other times, you gotta coax it out, wrestle with it a bit."

Tom Kaulitz

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Tom Kaulitz

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