Ballad (2002)

Ballad (2025) is acoustic cinema for the soul—finger-picked guitars, emotive piano, and gentle, human textures that hold a story without saying a word. These pieces lean into the true spirit of a ballad—song as narrative—only here the melodytells the tale. You’ll hear warm wood resonance, piano that breathes between phrases, and understated percussion that moves like footsteps on an old porch. 

Perfect for reflective listening, writing, journaling, or filmic underscores, the album invites you into quiet scenes of memory and meaning. It’s intimate but cinematic: homegrown folk color with story-first composition—music for dusk, long drives, prayerful pauses, and late-night edits.

Listeners often report that acoustic, slower, and personally liked music helps them “downshift” after stress and settle attention—consistent with research showing music can aid psychological and physiological stress recovery for many people (effects vary by person and task). 

Vibe in five words: warm • narrative • cinematic • tender • spacious

The Story Behind the Music

I wrote Ballad (2025) like a handwritten journal—one entry per song, one breath at a time. Most nights began the same way: a single chord on a well-loved acoustic, the room quiet, Memphis unhurried. When the chord felt like truth, I pressed “record.”

“Ballad Eight” started on an open-string figure that felt like coming home after a long drive. I kept the tempo just behind the clock so the guitar could lean into each measure. A few passes later, a soft piano line slipped in like a memory you didn’t know you missed.

“Ballad Eleven” arrived as a descending progression I played while watching evening light across the studio floor. I added faint harmonics—little glints of hope—and let the reverb tails teach me patience.

“Ballad Fifteen” is the quietest thing I’ve made in years. I left the creak of the chair in the take because it felt human, like the room was breathing with the song.

“Ballad Eighteen” widens the frame—rounded bass, felted keys, and a melody that lifts and lets go. It’s the moment in the film where the camera steps back and the heart steps forward.

I kept a simple rule: if the take didn’t lower my shoulders, it didn’t make the record. Some nights I kept thirty seconds from hours of tracking. That’s the discipline: restraint, story, and the courage to leave space so the listener can bring their own.