Corpses and Hatchets

I wrote a bunch of songs, things that helped me through hard times and bad thoughts, periods of deep confusion and moments of painful clarity. I played them in my living room and my bedroom and my basement for myself -- and the occasional family member or friend -- over and over again for twenty years. I played them on an acoustic guitar, screaming lyrics into cement holes and drywall.

And I got tired of it. I got tired of treading the same water. Tired of playing out the same emotions. Tired of feeling these ways out loud. This outlet wasn't outlet enough to quell the thoughts from which these songs emerged.

So I found the software and bought some hardware. A basement studio on a small budget I eked out over many years and as many false starts.

I learned how to record it. I learned how to fix it. I learned how to make it sound the way it was always supposed to sound.

Which is to say... It sounds okay. It's not perfect, but it's right. It's where I am.

It's amateur shit, but it's mine, and it's me.

Here it all is. The things I've buried and exhumed. Decomposing flesh music. Sixteen corpses, the hatchets that made them, and an accident that came to feel like a funeral reception.

Take the horrorshow how you will.

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Corpses and Hatchets

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