I've always found the choice I made to be an artist/musician difficult, but I understood early on that this was my calling, not just a “career”. There are ways and means to build and improve upon movement—and even thrive—but not without reckoning with the realities: the decisions made to uphold integrity often closed doors, and carrying this sort of weight along narrow pathways would rarely be understood by others over time.

Throughout the album, I speak to a host of juxtapositions through the discovery of emotional content, divinity, and humanity. The music moves between restraint and release, warmth and dissonance, clarity and distortion—mirroring the inner shifts I experienced while creating it. Some moments feel prayerful, others more fractured, like the sound of something being remembered and reassembled at once. I wasn’t chasing resolution; I was documenting process, contrast, and the space between what’s sacred and what’s simply real. Please enjoy the commentary (in written form) below.

Song Commentary:

OPEN HANDS

“In a land of lovely words, I’m not around.”

The words linger. It’s not very poetic, perhaps positional? The prospect of a promised land will be thought of and discussed, prayed over, fought, and disillusioned for long after humans are unable to maintain the comprehension of “people, places, and things.” Maybe that’s what I’m speaking to in Open Hands. Not arrival, but the action within the act of moving. Not perfection, but the constitution within the offering. Not myth or even mission…more walking orders with requests for honorable paths.

The beat is ancient. How many individuals, fellowships, and communities have carried this sort of communication over time? It’s not a stretch to think of the heartbeat as the most vital of all beats. What else could provide a truth so pure as the one that guides your physical body towards movement in alignment with the heart? The heart is the rhythm that guides you. If we nurture its wellbeing, we connect with others traveling the same path, becoming a culture. We find ourselves through the actions we take.

For many, this is not deep. The ancient beat is a marketing plan. Minimized for consumption. Entertainment. Positioning the ancient transmission provides many opportunities for profit. Control? Not even necessary, in today’s world. Besides, who really has time to lead others anywhere, particularly when they’ve rarely calmed themselves down enough to listen?

“Moving through the music, most may never hear it.”

And so it goes, we carry these contradictions as we contemplate what the hell we’re doing with the time we’ve been given to exist here…sheep and shepherd alike. As for reference, look no further than The Beatles, who wrote a song called Carry That Weight, which joyfully speaks to this, which, if you’ve read this far, you’ve probably heard at least once.

Song Commentary:

State Of The Union

(I Believe)

“I call for reason; I still believe in you.”

A love song, yes. A political statement, truly. A moment of reflection, wholeheartedly. With a title like State of the Union, you might expect protest. A speech. A thesis. But what came out was something closer to prayer—or maybe a private voicemail to something bigger than me. Love? God? Humanity? Hard to say—probably all of them.

We’re bombarded by sounds and imagery so hard-edged and ego-driven, lacking redemption of any kind, all day, every day. In contrast, I wanted to bring listeners toward the feeling of a whisper at the edge of your ear. A pull toward softness. Not weakness—just softness. The kind that opens you up after you’ve been closed off for too long. The kind of openness that feels dangerous in a world constantly building defenses. So I leaned into a sense of vulnerability and let it shape the words.

“I believe” became a sort of mantra. Not to convince—but to uphold a simple truth as human a statement as ever could be. Something beautiful. Something still worth believing in, even if others can’t see it. I’ve noticed we sometimes say “I believe” not because we’re sure… but because we need to believe. We need to keep the door open.

Some of this is romantic, sure. But it’s also metaphysical. The “you” in the song shifts. It could be a lover, a cause, a calling, or the universe itself. That fluidity is intentional. I didn’t want to define the bond—I just wanted to honor it.

It’s a soft song—of the wondrous kind. There’s defiance in being open. There’s power in choosing tenderness.

Song Commentary:

Fresh (Love, Prince)

“Dial up everybody; Get your back up off the wall.”

And this, my friends, is joy. I wrote this following the passing of Prince Rogers Nelson. A humble thank you to the man who transmitted freedom, funk and style with every step he shared with us. He knew better than any of us. The message means nothing if you don’t move. The groove is how you communicate that rhythm to yourself!

This is dancefloor scripture. We use resistance within our rhythm. Community through sweat. When I say “Get your back up off the wall,” I’m not just hyping the room—I’m telling you that your presence is paramount. How you show up is on you. The radical act of joy when the world expects you to be angry, tired, or invisible means everything.

Even the chorus—“So fresh, yeah”—is a looped affirmation. A reminder. You still got it. You still matter. You’re still alive in this body, with this beat, right now.

Some lines feel playful (“cleaner than a hundred grand”) but they’re all layered. That sense of clarity. Of finally seeing your place in something real. Even the joy has edges. But that’s what makes it authentic.

This is my electric baptism. A call to the dance. An ode to the soul that refuses to be dimmed.

Song Commentary:

Travel These Realms Nurturing Spirits

“These words few choose to keep; lost dancing in their sleep.”

I was part of a spiraling ascent—what I can only describe as tea lights climbing a mountain. As travelers of all creeds and crafts, our mission was to traverse a ludicrously high mountain path with as much calm and clarity as we could muster.

A consistent part of the journey within this dream space included the mantra: “Travel these realms, nurturing spirits.” We spoke it in unison at key moments along the mountain path. In those moments, it felt as though the words offered a kind of protection—an energetic renewal of sorts. My notes on this dream also mention that it felt like a life-changing procession of a house... perhaps the constituents of the human family?

In any case, I’ve become quite attached to this mantra, and I now carry it into waking life as part of my meditations.

The juxtaposition between the mantra and the lyric “these words few choose to keep; lost dancing in their sleep” is intentional. We make choices in our daily lives that often show our presence isn’t aligned with our intentions. And I think that’s a deeply human thing. The push and pull of our realities can send us in all sorts of directions when we’re not as attentive as we’d like to be.

As the music changes, so too does the path—unless we are aware of our stewardship. Unless we remember that we carry a light, and that the rhythm of the world doesn’t always have to pull us off course.

Song Commentary:

Art Contest, 1976

“Notable, you and your friend from the couch.”

The performance—the front people put on, the image they maintain—is its own brutal kind of theater, isn’t it? Part grief, part rage, part letting go. It was with that feeling—like a wound being dressed in real time—that I wrote Art Contest, 1976. A sort of reckoning through release.

You can feel the end of a relationship sometimes, anyway. One day you wake up and realize you’re midway through a performance. There’s this sinking feeling—you’ve dressed yourself up to maintain a sense of order, for yourself, for your dance partner, and for everyone watching from the cheap seats. And this beautiful theatre you’ve found yourself churning in? It’s on fire. And you’re still in it.

Maybe there’s a skillset out there—some life manual with lessons on how to manage difficult people better. But you’re outta there. You’ve had enough. That’s the feeling I tried to convey.

The words are blunt. There are no metaphors. No soft stares to mask the fact that you’re done with the bullshit. Memories of indecencies flare up. It loops. You leave.

Forgiveness? That’s for later. In this moment, you’re standing in the heartbeat between rage and resignation. No illusions. No attempts to fix anything. It’s time to let go.

Sometimes, it’s just like that.
And no—you are not to blame.

Song Commentary

Beginnings

“Announcing ‘I am God’ ain’t got the same shine without doing the work.”

We are who we are, and it’s alright. We’ve built this.

I think of this song as a personal call for reflection. If we’ve decided to layer our sense of self with any sort of importance, what is it for?

Not taking away from the effects of what is done to us over time by outside forces, but as individuals, let’s take some ownership of some of the things we find ourselves doing and take up the challenge of deciding to not do some of these things anymore, when it is no longer of use.

Presenting myself as someone great and important means nothing if I haven’t laid the groundwork that speaks for itself or accurately reflective of whatever I feel I’ve become.

This song is full of spiritual reminders and affirmation. Lines like “Providing the mind with love, trust and respect” aren’t just lyrics. They’re practices. It’s not ego, it’s effort.

Finally, we honor the journey of those who haven’t skipped the necessary foundational steps, as we call to them with the chorus, “Lovingly designed by those of us who start at the beginning”.

Doing the work makes divinity meaningful.