Bold opener: A three-year-old’s playful imaginings become viral gold, teaching us the power of listening closely and loving wholeheartedly.
I’m listening to the latest Stephen Spencer track, and suddenly I’m moved to tears. Is it the falsetto? the swirling harmonies? No—it's the lyrics: “What did Apple-the-Stoola say? He said ‘I love you’ twenty-sixty times.”
Spencer collaborates with a unique co-writer: his daughter, now nine. Over four months, he has been posting short songs online that are born from her stream-of-consciousness stories. One is a smooth soul ballad about “a regular rabbit, who has regular ponytails just like me.” Another, Funchy the Snow-woman, could sit easily on a 1975 album, yet its message revolves around using a litter tray in the forest. A festive tune about a Christmas cat named Harda Tarda features a wish for Santa—described as “a funny way to say Santa”—to bring her “a doggy, a puppy, and a ninja-bread man.”
When he began sharing these songs, Spencer had just 36 followers; he recalls they were really for his mom and her book club. Today, his audience exceeds 250,000, with the tracks amassing an astonishing 23 million views on Instagram and 5 million on TikTok. Fans have urged him to expand these minute-long pieces into full-length album tracks. “I’m reluctant to stretch them in ways that could spoil the magic captured in those moments,” he says, but longer-form releases are on the horizon. A Spotify drop for Regular Rabbit is slated for this week.
At first glance, the songs are funny and endearing—a refreshing pause from global chaos. Yet they’re also remarkably catchy. Spencer, a former funk-band member in Ottawa who now teaches composition and music theory at Hunter College in New York City, excels at crafting hooks that stay with you. But the real surprise is the emotion behind the tears.
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“I think the songs resonate with parents whose children are no longer three,” Spencer explains via video call. “There’s something fleeting about those early years. I’ve always felt an urge to bottle that moment because it won’t last. Music is my way of doing that.”
This rings true for many listeners. The author’s own daughter is nine now; while she still writes charming stories, the surreal names and dreamlike plots have given way to more practical ideas. Listening to Spencer’s songs transports me back to that dizzying toddler phase.
Yet there’s more to it than nostalgia. At 35, Spencer notices another striking response: the humor born from the contrast between his daughter’s whimsical imagination and his earnest, meticulous delivery. He leans into the camera, singing with passion about a dinosaur named Pasghetti, reminiscent of Flight of the Conchords. “What surprised me,” he says, “is how many people interpret this as an act of love. Listening closely to a child, taking care to understand, and delivering the words with no judgment or correction—that resonance moves people.”
Fans also admire how the characters in the songs actually register progress instead of stalling. “Some listeners feel these songs touch something deep because they were never truly listened to as children,” Spencer notes.
The comments on Instagram (@_stephenspencer) can be as moving as the music. One listener, replying to the Apple-the-Stoola piece (about an apple-man granted wings by a fairy to fly away and locate his lost mum), writes: “I wish I could still tell my Mom I love you twenty-sixty times. She ‘flied away’ nine years ago. If your mom is still in your life, tell her ‘I love you’ twenty-sixty times.”
Spencer emphasizes that there’s a tendency to read his daughter’s words as profound. He picks lines from her stories—phrases with potential depth—and uses them as chorus refrains. In the Christmas-cat song, Santa promises to grant every wish: “I’ll give you everything.” Watching Spencer perform these lines with closed eyes and heart on sleeve, it’s clear he’s speaking to his daughter through the work even as she remains the source.
He also brings deliberate musical craft to the table. While listeners compare his sound to yacht rock and other breezy ’70s vibes, Spencer points to jazz and classical influences. In his theory classes, he shows students how Beethoven modulates through a development section, and he applies similar techniques to pre-choruses and bridges in his pieces.
Does the rising fame add pressure to something that started pure? Not for him. “I try to forget about the attention because what makes it work is the simple joy of hanging out with my daughter and not taking life too seriously.”
The songs typically come together over a couple of afternoons. He records her stories on his phone and may revisit for a line or syllable if needed. It’s a genuine collaboration. But what does his lyricist think of the results? “It’s a touch disappointing to answer,” Spencer jokes, “but from what I can tell, she couldn’t care less. She’s focused on the process, not the product.”
A true artist, indeed. “Exactly. I’ve told her 20 million people have listened, but that number probably doesn’t matter to her. Let’s put it this way: she thinks I’m seven.”
