THE LISTENING ROOM: MAX KORIA
Building sound, community and momentum
When you talk to musicians who have moved to Geelong in recent years, a familiar pattern emerges, something about the region quietly opens its arms, hands you a cable or a contact, and says, “Plug in...you’re home.” For one local musician, trombonist, arranger, and eager collaborator, that sense of welcome was immediate, disarming, and creatively catalytic.
Max remembers the moment with surprising clarity: arriving at Locals Night at the Torquay Hotel two and a half years ago, standing in the crowd as the lineup unfolded. The names of every act from that night remain etched in his mind, not because of star power or spectacle, but because the audience, spanning teenagers to retirees, listened with a rare, unified attentiveness. “Everyone was genuinely into the music,” he recalls. “I started chatting and introducing myself to musicians right away, and people were really open.”
Those early conversations became more than friendly exchanges. Liam Brennan from The Grimwoods pointed him toward a studio; Liam’s sister Rach, then organising Sofar Geelong, introduced him to a wider network of artists. What Max discovered wasn’t simply a local scene, it was an ecosystem, one that functions with a generosity he still finds remarkable. “Maybe that’s how any community works,” he says, “but that kind of support feels amazing.”
A composer who thinks like a producer
Max's musical output can seem deceptively varied at first glance, horn lines for folk bands, large-ensemble arrangements, ska traditions, doom-tinged noise experiments, but beneath it all is a consistent, producer-minded approach. He likes to build from need, purpose, and context: music that belongs to something specific.
But the move to Australia disrupted his usual process. The emotional strain of relocation created a different sort of project: a private, intensely raw doom album recorded entirely on an iPhone and wired earbuds. The “studio” was improvised, the sound was rough, and the process was a kind of catharsis. “If I were a journalist,” he jokes, “I’d describe that work as A Sacrifice to GarageBand.” It wasn’t made for release, only for expression, for close friends who understand its place in his personal timeline.
Outside of those experiments, his arranging workflow today is a blend of notation, DAW sketches, and quick problem-solving with whatever instrument sits closest. A small MIDI keyboard, Ableton Live, and an electric guitar allow him to move briskly from idea to form. Recently, he took on the horn arrangements for the upcoming album of local folk group Seal Prince and the Roofrats. He describes their collaboration with particular fondness. “I’d mock up ideas in the DAW, send them to Lachie, he’d suggest tweaks, and then I’d transfer everything to notation. We nailed it in one session. They’re amazing musicians.”
A trombonist’s origin story
Yet for all his production work, the heart of his musical identity lies with the trombone, an instrument Max stumbled into almost by accident.
As a teenager in Russia, he was absorbed by the underground punk scene but struggled to find a band. “There were way too many guitarists,” he laughs. Around the mid-2000s, ska-punk suddenly surged, and guitar-heavy punk bands were scrambling for horn players. Timing did the rest: he was preparing for music college, knew a friend whose ska-punk band needed a trombonist, and decided to give it a try.
The instrument stuck, not because of convenience, but because he discovered an expressive range that felt more human than anything he’d played before. “Horns have way more expressive tools than most instruments, only vocals beat them,” he says. And the trombone, with its slide, its physicality, its visual charisma, quickly became an extension of his musical language.
International collaborations
His career before moving to Australia was rich with collaboration across genres, but one project stands out, the work of Lollypop Lorry. A particular highlight was having their music included on the compilation Ska Cares: A Global Benefit for the Alpha Institute, created in support of the Kingston boarding school that shaped many of Jamaica’s legendary musicians. As Max says, "The very fact that we were invited to be part of this compilation feels like recognition that all our work wasn’t in vain."
Melbourne Ska Orchestra also contributed to the project, helping bridge continents and scenes. “I’ve always been proud that we helped shape the look and feel of our city with our music movements,” Max says. The pride in his voice doesn’t come from individual success but from belonging to collectives that value purpose over ego, scenes that understand music as culture-building work.
Making connections, making music
When it comes to recording and producing music, Max lights up most when talking about collaborations. “I’m pretty generous with my creative energy,” he admits. Many of his compositions and arrangements exist because a particular ensemble, performer, or community needed them. That pattern, giving shape to other people’s songs, is long-established and deeply ingrained.
But since settling on the Surf Coast, he’s begun the slow work of creating for himself again. “I’m slowly trying to make things for myself too. It’s hard to break a pattern that’s formed over many years.” Still, he remains wide open to collaboration, and the region keeps responding in kind.
The story of how he joined his current big band reads like a small-town fable: the moment he arrived in Torquay, he posted in a Facebook group looking for musicians. A full year later, someone messaged saying they were forming a big band across the Surf Coast. He showed up that same day.
“There were about five people besides me,” he recalls. That was a year and a half ago. Today, the ensemble is a full 18-piece concert lineup with a growing repertoire, a proper gear setup, and recently, a conductor. The rapid evolution feels emblematic of the local scene itself: steady, collaborative, and driven by people who quietly show up again and again.
Finding a musical home on the Surf Coast
In the end, what stands out most about his journey is not genre, or technique, or the long list of projects he’s contributed to. It’s his belief in music as community infrastructure. From ska-punk beginnings to international collaborations to folk-rock arrangements to big-band rehearsals, every chapter has been tied to people — their generosity, their curiosity, their shared commitment to making something bigger than themselves.
Geelong, with its ready stages, well-equipped venues, and diverse audiences, has given him a new home. But more importantly, it has given him a new framework for belonging: one built on openness, reciprocity, and enthusiasm.
“The support here is amazing,” Max says simply. And in the way he says it, you understand that he’s not talking only about equipment, or gigs, or introductions. He’s talking about finding a place where music doesn’t just fill rooms...it builds communities.
Head over to Max's instagram, see if you can keep up with him.
Max just seems to pop up everywhere!
Would you like to get your music into The Listening Room? Just email us at geelongcereal@gmail.com. Our earballs are ready!
Have you subscribed? Go on. It helps us and it means we can send our new articles straight to your email. Subscription is free and gets you full access to everything on Geelong Cereal.