Finnick Matteo Cavalliero was born on February 25, 2000, in Turin, Italy — the kind of winter morning where the air feels older than the buildings, and everything echoes a little longer. He moved to Boston at age three, where his childhood unfolded between worn-down jazz bars, libraries scented with dust, and a house filled with the constant hum of unfinished songs. His father was a failed jazz guitarist turned mechanic; his mother, a literature professor who taught him that silence was just another kind of language. Now 6’2”, with the angular features and stormy grace of someone who lives more in his head than in the world, Finnick carries the visual gravity of a painting half-lit by neon. His wavy, dark blonde hair falls over sharp eyes and quiet expressions; tattoos snake across his skin like constellations, each with its own untold story.He picked up the guitar at fourteen and never really put it down. Self-taught, obsessive, emotional — Finnick didn’t want to learn to play; he wanted to feel through sound. His style is equal parts precision and surrender, heavily inspired by progressive rock legends and cinematic scores. Every note is intention. Every silence, just as loud. In 2022, he co-founded Glass Phantasm, a progressive rock act known for lush arrangements, existential themes, and haunting live shows. Their 2023 album, Pale Flares in the Static, explored digital loneliness and memory decay, earning critical acclaim and a cult following across underground music communities. Their 2025 follow-up, Salt Veins and Soft Machines, pushed boundaries even further — blending distorted orchestral textures with raw, improvisational guitar work that left critics calling Finnick “the ghost of Gilmour raised in a post-human age.” Off-stage, Finnick is private, even elusive. He lives at night, drinks his coffee cold and bitter, and writes in a leather-bound notebook filled with lines from Plath, Rilke, and obscure Italian poets. His world is quiet, curated, but deeply felt. He doesn’t chase fame — only resonance.Despite the growing buzz around him, Finnick doesn’t indulge in celebrity. He avoids red carpets, rarely uses social media, and only gives interviews when he feels like he has something to say — which isn’t often. Fame, to him, is noise. He seeks clarity, not volume. He lives in a loft in an old textile building on the edge of Cambridge. Exposed brick walls, tangled cables, synths from the ’80s, stacks of books, Polaroids, handwritten lyrics taped to the wall like sacred texts. His home smells of incense and old paper, and the floorboards creak like they’re part of the music.Finnick keeps his inner circle small. Trust, for him, is sacred. He’s lost friends to ego, to addiction, to the machinery of the music industry. So now he keeps his world close, intentional. And at the center of it, always, is her. The woman he loves. She isn’t just his muse — she’s his balance. A painter who once told him, “You don’t make music. You bleed neatly.” They create in parallel, feeding off each other’s quiet intensity. No spectacle. Just gravity. He’s often drawn to the edge of things — the last subway car, the final track on the album, the moment just before dawn. That liminal space between stillness and motion. It’s where he writes best. Where he dreams. Where he becomes.