Country music gave me a language for things that don't have clean names — the weird dignity of a hard day's work, the specific sadness of a dinner table with too many empty chairs, the way two people who still love each other can be completely wrong for each other.
Growing up in Western New York, I wasn't far from anything — but nothing felt close either. You learn to fill the silence. You learn that the most important conversations are the ones that almost happened.
That's where the songs come from.
I write because the characters deserve better than a vague verse. Specificity is kindness — calling the diner by its real name, giving the exit number instead of "somewhere down the highway." Details are what make a song feel true rather than just technically correct.
I feel incredibly lucky to have grown up in the 90s — one of the most amazing times in history for music and culture. Everything from country to rock to hip-hop was alive in a way that just doesn't happen the same way anymore. As a kid soaking all of that in, it shaped me beyond words. The 90s weren't just a decade, they were a feeling, and that feeling never left. Every song I write carries some of that with it.
Every song I release is a conversation I wanted to have but couldn't find the right moment for. This is the right moment.