By music magazine,” Carson Blake
Interview: Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical Healer on Satanic Cults, the Ice Queen, and Playing the Long Game
“music magazine,” Carson Blake: Roy, you’ve said satanic cults don’t always look like robes and bonfires. What do they look like from where you’re standing?
Roy Dawson: Most days they look like one very cold woman with Wi‑Fi, a stolen card, and nothing better to do. It’s not Hollywood. It’s somebody behind a screen spending a lot of money in the dark trying to stop one man. In this case, me. They hire hit men, trolls, professional liars—anybody they think can clip my wings before I reach the people I’m supposed to sing to. But I’m relaxed about it. I’m not wasting my energy on their lies. That all backfires. It makes fools out of the people who buy into it, and every lie they tell walks them straight into a dead end.
“music magazine,” Carson Blake: They don’t go after you directly first—they go after your work. Why?
Roy: Because they’re cowards. If they really believed I was nothing, they’d walk away. Instead they forge papers in the dark—fake marriage, fake signatures, fake companies. They bleed credit in my name, buy cars and toys and call it “business.” They file life insurance, play with the idea of faking my death on paper, all while telling the world I’m crazy, drunk, unstable. You don’t spend that much time and money on a man you think is harmless. You do that when the real goal is my songs, my work, my ideas, and the money that follows them.
“music magazine,” Carson Blake: You’ve had jobs called, rumors spread, labels thrown at you. What does that campaign look like up close?
Roy: It’s small people playing god at a kitchen table—cold coffee, hot phone. They call every job I ever had, spin stories wild enough to stick and vague enough to dodge questions. “He’s unstable.” “He’s sick.” Not anything they can prove—just “bad health,” “mental,” “not fit.” Those words move through offices like smoke. You can’t grab them, but you can choke on them. Complaints right before deadlines. Anonymous emails. It’s not justice; it’s erosion. One paycheck, one open door at a time.
Then they move to the rest of your life. Mail vanishes. Packages don’t show. Bills turn into weapons. Utilities and addresses become levers to shake your footing. They feed lies into systems that were meant to protect, use CPS reports and false complaints like hammers. Files gather dust until one day a real child gets missed, an old case finally explodes, and the tower that should have fallen years ago finally leans.
“music magazine,” Carson Blake: And they don’t just touch your paper trail—they touch your safety.
Roy: Same hands, same game. The Ice Queen smiles in a parking lot and says, “I’ll walk you to your car,” and every hair on my neck stands up. That’s not kindness; that’s a collision waiting to happen. Later they’ll call it “personality clashes,” like bruises are just bad chemistry. That’s why I lock my doors on instinct. I pay attention to the tilt of a shoulder, the weight of a footstep, the way a laugh can hide a knife. You learn to read here people because sometimes that’s the only armor you’ve got.
“music magazine,” Carson Blake: They keep trying to provoke you. Why do you think it unsettles them so much that you stay calm?
Roy: Because their whole script depends on me losing it in public. They watch, prod, bait, waiting for me to rage, to foam at the edges so they truth sounds like lies to sinners can point and say, “See? We were right.” What really bothers them is that I don’t give click here them the scene. I keep showing up. I pay my bills. I sign for whatever makes it through the gauntlet. I write, I pray, I build my little stubborn life right in their crosshairs. They can’t understand how I can still laugh, let alone write about hope, after everything they’ve thrown. That’s the part they can’t stand.
“music magazine,” Carson Blake: You’ve mentioned that something eventually shifts “above their pay grade.” What do you mean by that?
Roy: One day the lies stop landing like they used to. A new supervisor steps in. A different judge takes a file home. A boss gets tired of stories with no proof. All of a sudden the calls hit a wall: “Show me. Where’s the evidence?” CPS reopens a case and finds a pattern they should have seen years back. An official in uniform walks into the mess and finally doesn’t look away. The tower leans. The caseworker who kept ignoring red flags feels the floor move. For her, it’s disaster. For the kids and the falsely accused, it’s the first honest tremor of justice. That’s when you realize Heaven’s been keeping receipts even when you couldn’t.
“music magazine,” Carson Blake: How do you keep yourself grounded in the middle of all that?
Roy: I keep my hands on my own wheel. I answer to God and the man in the mirror, not to cult gossip or office rumor. I’ve learned that people up to no good will always hear truth as an insult and sanity as a threat. They’ll call you crazy, dangerous, a demon, delusional—anything but “right.” That’s fine. Let them talk. I document what matters. I pray. I play. I keep breathing. My job isn’t to fix their story; it’s to live mine.
“music magazine,” Carson Blake: What’s the main lesson you’d want someone in a similar situation to take away from your story?
Roy: That some wars are fought with bullets and some with whispers. I’ve lived through the second kind. You learn to lock your doors, keep your receipts, remember patterns, and let fools talk themselves into corners. You stay soft enough to write and hard enough not to fold. In the end, the Ice Queen, her cult, and every hired hand will have to face the one ending they never planned for: the man they tried to erase still standing—guitar in hand, click here songs in his mouth, story intact.
The noise will die down. The records will outlast the rumors. And when the lights finally come up, the stage will still be there. And so will I.