THE MUSIC

A collection of sights and sounds as raw as the man himself. Nothing slick here. No auto-tuned bullshit or over-polished pretense. These are songs scraped from the bone, howled into half-empty rooms and whispered into busted microphones. They bleed. They bruise. They remember. This isn’t music for the charts—it’s for the scarred, the wandering, the ones still holding on by a thread and a chord.
Welcome to the wreckage. Pull up a chair. Light something. Listen.