The Sound of Indifference
I didn’t come to music because I wanted to be a musician.
I came to it because something about the world didn’t sound right anymore.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just wrong.
A quiet mechanical hum beneath everything.
The feeling that outcomes are decided somewhere you can’t see. That doors close without noise. That conversations are replaced with scripts.
Before there were books.
Before there were arguments.
Before there were platforms.
There was just a voice.
And a few notes underneath it.
Not performance.
Diagnosis.
The Door Closed
The first record was called The Door Closed.
It isn’t about an argument.
It’s about the silence after.
The moment when something ends without confrontation. When you’re not fired — you’re just not renewed. Not attacked — just no longer included. Not rejected — just replaced.
No explosion.
Just absence.
You check your phone. Nothing.
You wait for the meeting invite. It doesn’t come.
You turn up to the stadium and realise the crowd looks different.
The system doesn’t slam doors.
It reallocates attention.
And you realise you were temporary.
That record captured that feeling.
Not heartbreak.
Indifference.
Customer Support
The second record is Customer Support.
It was written after 52 minutes on hold.
Phone on speaker.
Battery at 9 percent.
The same 12-second piano loop cycling again.
“Your call is important to us.”
You hear keyboard tapping on the other end. A scripted apology. A transfer tone. Then the music returns.
If your call was important, it wouldn’t be measured in average handling time.
You wouldn’t repeat your story to three departments.
You wouldn’t be muted while someone checks “internal notes.”
But you are.
Because you’re not a person in that moment.
You’re a workflow.
A cost.
A duration.
And that’s not cruelty.
It’s optimisation.
Efficiency is impressive.
It just isn’t human.
That’s what the record exposes.
Not anger.
Design.
The language says “care.”
The architecture says “throughput.”
The Thread
I grew up listening to voices more than singers.
Lou Reed speaking truths without decoration.
Leonard Cohen whispering uncomfortable clarity.
Nick Cave telling stories that felt like confessions.
Tom Waits sounding like a man who’d seen behind the curtain.
They didn’t offer escape.
They offered recognition.
That’s what this music is doing.
It sits inside the world of The Boot.
Not as background noise.
As signal.
The Boot is about what happens when craft gets replaced by scale.
These records are about what it feels like when people get replaced by process.
The Catalogue
There are over a dozen songs written now.
Not experiments.
Signals.
Each one exploring the same pressure from a different angle.
Indifference.
Automation.
Isolation.
Replacement.
Each sharper than the last.
I’m not chasing genre.
I’m building atmosphere.
If The Boot ever moves to screen, the sound is already there.
Not because I’m hoping.
Because I’m constructing the world properly.
Piece by piece.
The Point
Here’s the uncomfortable truth.
The system doesn’t hate you.
It just doesn’t see you.
That’s worse.
And yet — the only thing that has ever changed anything meaningful has been people choosing to care.
A friend answering the phone.
A supporter refusing to leave.
A craftsman refusing to cut corners.
Recognition is oxygen.
And oxygen is human.
If you’ve ever waited in a queue while your time drained away.
If you’ve ever realised a door closed without a sound.
If you’ve ever felt processed instead of heard.
These records are for you.
I’m not making this to be liked.
I’m making it because it needs to exist.
Efficiency builds systems.
Empathy builds worlds.
I know which one I’m building.