Ziro (2015)
Ziro is a map of empty rooms. Recorded in the dead hours between midnight and dawn, these instrumental tracks are the sound of air conditioning hums, distant traffic, and the flicker of a monitor left on. I used my PC as MIDI keyboard, and whatever VSTs wouldn’t crash my old laptop—layering loops until they felt like a place you could walk into. It’s less an album than a habitat: The auditory equivalent of staring at a stranger’s apartment window, wondering what their walls sound like.
Portrait of A Crying Bastard (2021)
These songs are proof that vulnerability doesn’t need polish. Recorded in one take on a phone mic, with no metronome or second chances, they’re the musical equivalent of a cigarette smoked on a fire escape at 3 AM—ash and all. The lyrics are direct, the guitar is out of tune in the right ways, and the pauses are where I forgot the next line. I kept the glitches and throat-clearing as a manifesto: sometimes the truest thing you can do is let the cracks show.
Stains 128 (2023)
The sound of a melody dissolving before it’s finished. There’s no beauty here, just the raw ache of a note held too long. I built it in the gaps between sleep and waking, where taiko (太鼓) rhythms start to sound like words and my synth twists into half-remembered hiragana. Track #2 came from failed Japanese lessons, its drums muttering phrases I couldn’t pronounce; the rest is just the hum of an old laptop fan. It’s not an album. It’s the residue of something that almost existed—the echo that’s left when you stop believing that a loop will ever resolve. Hello there. Goodbye.
