Discography

The Hunger and the Hollow

A 30+ song narrative cycle in four acts — More...

Act I Cover
ACT I 🎵 OUT FEBRUARY 15, 2026

The Static and the Shell

"The static drowned out my music for so long I forgot I knew how to play."

Tracklist — tap a track for liner notes

  1. The Suit

    For thirty years I wore the polyester ghost — the uniform of expectation that kept the noise in and the soul out. This track is the sound of looking in the mirror and not recognizing the man staring back. The suit wasn't just clothing; it was a shell I built to survive in a world that rewarded compliance over authenticity.

  2. Turn the Box Off

    The "box" is everything — the screen, the system, the noise machine that tells you what to want and who to be. This song is the moment you realize you've been shouting at a wall that can't hear you. You don't negotiate with static. You just pull the plug.

  3. The Hunger and the Hollow

    The title track and the heartbeat of the entire cycle. This is about the gnawing emptiness of a life spent chasing "a little more chrome" while the soul slowly starves. Part confession, part battle cry — the moment you name the hunger is the moment you stop feeding the hollow. This one set the tone for everything that came after.

  4. Digital Ghost in the Stable

    This one's the deliberate outlier — a sonic experiment that ditches the boots-and-dust sound for something more digital, more techno-edged. It's supposed to feel disorienting, because that's exactly what it's about: standing in a barn that smells like hay while your head is still wired to a cubicle. The sound *is* the conflict — analog soul trapped in a digital loop. I wanted to see what happened when I let the machine side of this project take the wheel for one track.

  5. The Moocher's Harp

    A shameless homage to Cab Calloway and "Minnie the Moocher" — the scene from The Blues Brothers that lives rent-free in my head. This track is my poor attempt at a sequel, and I'm not sorry about it. When you name your project "Brothers Blues," you owe a debt to the originals. Consider this my payment, harp and all.

  6. All Out of Give-a-Damn

    There's a specific moment when the last thread snaps — not with rage, but with a quiet, honest exhaustion. You're not angry anymore. You're just done. This track isn't a rebellion; it's a resignation letter written in whiskey and dust. It's the liberating moment when you finally stop caring what the machine thinks of you.

  7. Perfectly Cracked

    I spent years trying to hide the cracks — convincing everyone, including myself, that the shell was holding just fine. This song is about embracing the fractures instead of patching them. The cracks aren't flaws; they're where the light finally gets in. I'd rather be perfectly cracked than perfectly hollow.

  8. That February Call

    February 15, 2010. The phone rang and the world began to bend. Losing Dad was the sudden crushing weight that proved every barricade I'd built was useless against the gravity of real loss. This track closes Act I because it's the moment everything changed — the crack that couldn't be patched. Releasing this album 16 years later, on his day, isn't coincidence. It's intention.

The Story

The Space Between

I spent thirty years in the corporate world. Good job, good pay, good at pretending the noise was normal. You wear the suit long enough and you forget there's a person underneath it. I told myself the hollow feeling would fill up eventually — that if I just kept going, kept producing, kept showing up, it would all click into place. It didn't.

Then, in February 2010, my father passed away. That phone call cracked everything wide open. All the walls I'd built, all the noise I'd used to drown out the questions I didn't want to ask — none of it held up against the weight of real loss. It was the beginning of a slow unraveling that took years to fully understand.

Eventually I found myself on a horse farm in Eastern New York — a homestead built in 1769, miles from the static. The glen became the place where I stopped running and started listening. Not to the noise, but to the silence underneath it. That's where the songs came from. Over 50 tracks poured out in a matter of weeks, like they'd been waiting behind a door I'd finally stopped blocking.

I didn't walk this road alone. Through the noise, the loss, and the long stretch of figuring out what comes next — Karry was there. She has been my anchor my entire life, keeping me grounded when the world tried to sweep me away. This project isn't just about my voice finding its way back. It's a testament to the one who stood by me while I cleared the static to find it.