Imagine a guy, that used to play in a violently noisy art-rock band. He's a bit softer now than he was then, his hair's started to disappear from his temples. He drinks red wine and scotch (a little water/no ice thankyou) and strong coffee. Imagine this guy, he's got a faint whiff of frustration. His shoulders are never relaxed. Always looks out-of-place in photos of parties. This is the kind of character we're dealing with here: A happy misfit. This guy, this happy-frustrated-cantilevered-sack of bones; this guy, he writes pop songs now. He sits in a remote studio, all on his own, and plays anything he can get his hands on. Drums-bass-guitar-piano-AM radio-lapsteel-other. Running between the womb-like control room and the microphone, swearing.
All of this so you can listen to three minute distillations of his life! It'd make him real glad if you had a listen to the songs here. He hopes you enjoy them.