xVille Original music. Lived-in stories.

My grandfather bought this Martin 00-17 new in 1933. My brother Jeff let me spend a few months with it in 2024. I recorded this instrumental in a single take, using one $65 PC microphone, then returned the guitar to him. The instrument stayed in the family; this performance became part of its history.

Written during my father's dementia, this song holds the strange grief of watching someone still present begin to lose the memories that connected us. The wake is everything behind the boat: real, visible, and impossible to steer back into.

This is a song about my relationship with beer: the comfort, the invitation, and the slippery ease of saying yes. I perform it in the emotional voice in which I wrote it, regardless of how my life has changed since.

Empty bottles, glowing screens, familiar rooms, familiar actions. This song looks at what it feels like to repeat something before you've decided whether you want to.

Morning light, a bottle on the windowsill, a hard look in the mirror. This is about living in the gray area between denial and certainty, without dressing up a complicated moment as a tidy ending.

The stones were always under the water; they simply weren't visible through the turbulence. A song about making room for acceptance without claiming the world has become perfect.

Detroit's smokestacks, working hands, my grandfather's Martin, and my father's struggle all meet in one family portrait. Part of War Machines, a release connected to the memory of my brother Jim.

From Mixed Episodes, a deeply personal collection. In this song, radio static and worn records become images for memory, damage, and the sounds we leave behind.

Electricity, stubborn creativity, and the possibility that something made today can keep traveling long after its maker is gone. One of my songs about sound refusing to disappear.