Frida Mann always wanted to pursue music. But for much of her life, that desire remained locked inside, as it was at odds with the Orthodox Jewish world where she was raised.
In her religious community, obedience, modesty and devotion came first. There were strict rules about how women could express themselves.
“Women are not allowed to sing in front of men from the age of 12,” she said.
Mann grew up in Brooklyn, New York, and married at age 19.
She had children and spent several years living in Israel.
About six years ago, her family packed up and moved to Cleveland.
She was deeply involved in religious life after the move, working at a traditional Jewish educational institution called a yeshiva.
She was known in the community as a rebbetzin, a rabbi’s wife and spiritual role model.
But during the COVID-19 pandemic, Mann had an awakening.
“It happened kind of like a year and a half after I moved here,” she said. “Everything kind of just whooosh … just exploded.”
Seeing the world through a new lens
Mann took a road trip to Yellowstone National Park and experienced a newfound sense that the world was far larger than the one she had been allowed to experience.
“It was a feeling that completely took over me,” she said. “What else exists out there in the world that you didn’t know about? There must be so much more.”
That realization came with a cost.
“That was the moment where I was like, 'Oh, I’ve changed,’” Mann said. “I can’t unsee this. I can’t un-feel this.’”
Soon after returning from that trip, Mann picked up a guitar for the first time.
Messy, emotional and unfiltered songs poured out of her as she tried to process years of suppression, shame and longing.
“I had a breakthrough, a meltdown, a breakdown, all the above,” she said.
She began performing quietly at open mic nights around Cleveland, often under the radar.
Though her husband and five children are still in the faith, singing publicly meant stepping away from the Orthodox community that had shaped Mann’s entire identity.
She was fully in the midst of the slow, painful process of deconstructing beliefs, resisting ingrained expectations and confronting trauma.
“There’s so much shame,” Mann said. “You’re untangling what’s yours, what was imposed on you, what you actually believe and what you were just taught to fear.”
Still, she kept singing.
Letting herself be seen
In 2023, Mann made another leap: She opened her first Instagram account, publicly claiming her identity as a musical artist.
For someone who had spent years staying invisible, it felt terrifying but necessary.
“I’m just like, ‘Please, just know my truth. I can’t keep this secret anymore. She needs to be let out,’” Mann said.
Until then, people who heard her at open mic events would often ask where they could find her music.
“I’d be like, ‘You can’t, actually,’” Mann said. “I’m like, ‘It’s nowhere, and it will stay nowhere. Thank you very much for asking.’”
That began to change when her neighbor invited her to jam in his basement.
Their casual jam sessions began to grow as more musicians joined in.
Stefan Johnson played bass, and Zach Horstman joined in on drums. Almost by accident, a band formed. The newest addition is guitarist Zack Asher.
Mann resisted at first when the others suggested centering the band’s name around her, but soon, Frida and the Mann became official.
“It’s really cool to me that the guys are the ones who thought of it,” she said. “It’s this beautiful experience when you have men who would have to leave the room when I sing, and now they’re giving you this honor. Like, ‘No, Frida. We’ll name it after you.’”
A new kind of community
The band’s live debut with guitarist Adam Cramer came in early 2024 at the historic Rialto Theatre in Akron’s Kenmore neighborhood.
It was a raw, emotional performance where Mann’s searing vocals and expressive movements evoked something deep within.
“You could tell I had just come out of something,” she said. “I was like pooping out all the trauma on stage.”
A track recorded that night, “Goodbye,” captures Mann’s departure from oppressive relationships and structures that once defined her.
“Really saying goodbye to the control,” she said. “And if saying goodbye to the control means saying goodbye to people, bye. I’m gonna own this. I don’t want to be controlled anymore.”
Other songs, like “Let’s Get Carried Away,” explore empowerment with a contrast of seriousness and humor.
It’s a poppy, anthemic song that showcases Mann’s powerhouse vocals, which shapeshift from girly tones reminiscent of Jewell to deep, throaty roars like Johnette Napolitano.
The band’s sound blends alternative rock and indie pop, pairing skillful, pulsing instrumentation with raw, emotionally charged lyrics.
"What else exists out there in the world that you didn’t know about? There must be so much more."Frida Mann
Now winners of the 2024 Cleveland Music Awards for Best New Artist, Frida and the Mann are making their mark on the local music scene, and Mann is finding community in a new place.
After leaving behind her tightly-woven social world built around faith, musichas filled a void in unexpected ways, she said.
“You know, we think of community as people,” Mann said. “But what if community is the talents that you have, the tools you have, the wisdom you accrue over time in your journey? That’s all community too.”
In that sense, Frida and the Mann is more than a band. It’s a reclamation of voice, autonomy and belonging.
And for the first time, Mann is singing without asking permission.
With the support of her bandmates, Mann finally released her music into the world last fall. A new single, “Monsters,” comes out Friday.
