Walk into Melbourne's Bakehouse Studios on a weekday during school holidays and something unusual greets you. Sixty-four teenagers are spread across rehearsal rooms, a plant-filled courtyard, and a recording space decorated with the kind of eclectic clutter that makes musicians feel at home. Some are mid-song, others are huddled over a half-written chorus, and a few are simply talking to each other. What none of them are doing is scrolling.
There is no official phone ban at Rock Academy. The teenagers are just choosing not to bother. For anyone who spends time around young people in 2025, that alone is worth pausing on.
Isaac Wicklein, who has attended Rock Academy regularly over six years, offers his own explanation for the phone-free atmosphere. "I think it's because people are so invested in the creative side of things," he says. "But I've learned a whole bunch of life skills as well, like how to connect with people, make friends and maintain conversations, because I've kind of struggled with those things."
Wicklein is not alone in that struggle. As he speaks, other teens nod in recognition. Several admit they nearly didn't come at all on their first day, convinced they would be judged by cooler, more experienced musicians. Others describe how the programme gave them the confidence to apply for part-time jobs, or simply to show up at a party instead of spending the weekend alone. For those who were labelled "weird" at school, finding a group that shares their passions has been quietly profound. One girl, visibly emotional, puts it simply: "This place feels like home."
What Rock Academy Actually Is
Rock Academy is easier to describe by what it is not. It bears no resemblance to a traditional school music programme where students work through scales or receive grades on technique. There are no competitions, no uniforms, and no trophies. Students can return as many times as they like throughout their high school years, and a number of those who started as participants have since come back as adult mentors.
The programme was founded in 2015 by musicians Alan Long and Phil Ceberano, both veterans of the Australian music industry. Their model assumes participants already have an instrument teacher. What Rock Academy adds is something most music education ignores: the lived experience of being in a band, solving problems under pressure, and performing for a real audience.
"We assume they've already got a music teacher showing them how to play their instrument," Long says. "When the kids are writing their original songs, we might show them how to build in dynamics: making it faster or slower, or louder or quieter, so they can learn to build attention and then hold or release it."
Ceberano's contribution draws on decades in the industry as a guitarist, producer, songwriter and composer. He teaches students the unglamorous realities of performance: what to do when a PA cuts out mid-song, how to recover if you forget your lyrics, how to adjust a microphone without breaking a tooth (a hazard he speaks from experience about). The lesson is not perfection but adaptability. "The show must go on" is not a cliche here; it is a working philosophy.
Learning by Doing, Not by Being Told
Each programme splits participants into bands. The groups choose a cover song and rehearse it, with no adult directing the process. They negotiate, disagree, compromise, and eventually find something that works. They are also shuffled into different configurations throughout the week, which means every student works alongside every other student at some point.
Owen Perks, who has done Rock Academy 18 times, is clear about what this pressure-cooker environment produces. "It teaches you things like compromise and conflict resolution, and those are skills that have helped me in my life," he says. "You just have to learn how to do it because we know we have to play a gig at the end of the week."
The mentors are instructed to guide without prescribing. Rather than issuing instructions, they share experiences: "I've been in this situation before; have you considered approaching it this way?" Long is direct about the philosophy behind this. "We're not these kids' parents," he says. "We treat them like adults and expect them to act accordingly, and generally, they do."
The three rules Long recites are, characteristically, blunt. Rule one: don't be a dickhead. Rule two: treat the venue like your grandmother's house. Rule three: if you have any issues with the first two, refer to rule one.
The Gig at the End
The week builds toward a Saturday afternoon performance at a genuine Melbourne music venue, including past events at The Prince of Wales Bandroom and The Esplanade Hotel. These are ticketed, alcohol-free events that draw friends, family, and local music fans, sometimes more than 400 of them.
Ask the students how it feels to walk off that stage and they talk over each other trying to answer. "It's the most amazing feeling in the world," says one. "It really does put you on a high," says another. A third admits to bursting into tears, but emphasises they were the good kind.
Mila Henning, a vocalist, remembers arriving at her first programme convinced she was not interesting enough to belong. "Everyone was so welcoming and friendly," she says. "It didn't matter how old you were or how much experience you had; everyone treated each other as equals. In this generation, it's hard to make friends. But since I came to Rock Academy, I'm always growing and changing as a person. When you learn about other people, it actually helps you learn about yourself."
Why This Matters Beyond the Music
Australia's ongoing conversation about youth mental health, screen dependency, and social isolation tends to generate two kinds of responses: hand-wringing about what is being lost, and calls for government intervention in the form of bans, restrictions, and new bureaucracies. Rock Academy suggests a third option, one that is less dramatic but possibly more effective: give young people something genuinely worth showing up for.
The research base on arts participation and adolescent wellbeing is substantial. The Australian Department of Health and organisations including the Australian Bureau of Statistics have documented rising rates of loneliness and anxiety among teenagers, particularly since the pandemic. What programmes like Rock Academy offer is not a clinical intervention but something more organic: genuine belonging, structured challenge, and the satisfaction of making something together.
There are fair questions about reach and access. Rock Academy is a private programme with associated costs, and Bakehouse Studios in Melbourne is not accessible to teenagers in regional towns or outer suburbs without reliable transport. Scaling this kind of model, or incorporating its principles into school curricula and community arts funding, would require genuine investment and genuine will from education and arts policymakers alike.
But the young people at Bakehouse Studios are not waiting for a policy review to tell them what works. They are already in the room, writing their songs, threading their guitar leads through their straps, and preparing to play to 400 strangers on a Saturday afternoon. That, on its own terms, is worth paying attention to.