Who Is Adam Rye?
I was born in Pig Farm, Illinois
That’s not a metaphor. It’s just a fact. A flat stretch of Midwestern nothing where I tried to shine in a town that didn’t know what to do with a femme-butch band nerd who could crush a trombone solo, ace a math test, and choreograph a show choir number in the same week.
I was a cheerleader in seventh grade, and that pretty much tanked my social life with the boys. From then on, I floated between cliques—a chameleon in marching band, madrigals, math team, and musical theater. I was too weird for the Christians and too closeted for the stoners, but somehow survived high school with trombone lips, a heap of extracurriculars, and a handful of ride-or-die friends like Miguel (they/them), who came out as queer with me before we even had the words for it.
I was also the son of the high school chemistry teacher, which meant teachers knew me before I knew myself. My mom—musical, tomboyish, loving—taught me sports and songs. My dad—loud, brilliant, ashamed of both his and my softness—taught me how to speak up, even when I didn’t want to.
I was a math team state champ. A jester in madrigals. A freshman in Disney spinning on teacups trying to escape the awkward kids we were stuck with. I grew up singing harmonies and making people laugh. I also said horrible things to protect myself. I still carry regrets. I’ve done the work.
From Church Kid to Glittergrit
I was a church golden boy who prayed the gay away until I couldn’t anymore.
In college, I joined a megachurch that looked progressive on the outside—women in leadership, rock music, big hugs—but once you got inside, it smelled like shame. I volunteered six days a week: leading worship, running youth group, filming sermons, praying at the altar. It was a full-time job built on the lie that I could be “healed.”
But I wasn’t broken. I was queer, autistic, and bright as hell—and I’d been taught to hide it.
I performed the Spirit the way they wanted: swaying, crying, speaking in tongues I made up on the spot (“Shatta-kitta-honda-laka”—I swear to Cher). But in my head? I was thinking about nachos and how good the wrong boys looked in tight jeans that reeked of pig poop and Axe body spray. That’s the truth.
They called it “revival.”
I call it survival.
Eventually, I left. I got married to someone who was also escaping that world, and we tried to be safe for each other. But we were trauma-bonded, not in love. I dimmed myself down for years—my shine, my body, my queerness, my voice. We split. It was the best thing for both of us.
That’s when I started creating again. Not for approval. Not for church. For me.
What Is Glittergrit?
Glittergrit isn’t a stage name. It’s my creative heartbeat.
It’s the part of me that survived the shame and came back louder, gayer, and covered in rhinestones. It’s the camp in survival. The punchline after the pain. The hymn that hits harder when you reclaim it for yourself.
As Adam Rye, I make queer country music, poetry, and multimedia art rooted in recovery, rage, and resilience. I’m part exvangelical bard, part DIY pop star, part dirt-road femme outlaw. I sing about scars like they’re sequins. I use my baritone voice with sparkle and defiance. I write about shame, sex, faith, bodies, joy, and revenge—with a wink and a gut punch.
I’m not for everyone.
But I am for the ones who’ve been told they’re too much, too femme, too weird, too loud.
You’re not. You’re magic.