Encoded Echoes

My work has always circled the same questions, regardless of medium. I write essays about AI memory systems—then realize I wrote a song about that exact frustration fifteen months earlier. I build apps solving problems I've been living with for years. I code solutions to feelings I first expressed in lyrics.

Encoded Echoes is where this convergence becomes explicit. These aren't typical love songs or party anthems. They're explorations of experiences we're all having but rarely discuss: How it feels when your AI assistant hits its conversation limit and forgets everything you built together. The specific texture of teaching your mother to use Instagram for the fourth time. Using rain sounds and meditation apps to fall asleep while knowing screen light disrupts the very sleep you're seeking. Creating art through AI while knowing people might hate you for it.

After Whispers Between Words translated poems into songs, this album marks a new phase: translating thoughts, essays, and lived experience into musical exploration. Music lets me inhabit these ideas emotionally rather than just analyzing them. I can feel the contradiction of celebrating AI assistance while acknowledging its problems. Experience the sweetness and frustration of family tech support. Grieve through digital ghosts on social media feeds.

These are songs only I would write—not because I'm special, but because I'm living particular questions about technology and humanity at this specific moment. And if you're also navigating the messy middle ground between enthusiastic adoption and thoughtful criticism, between gratitude for tools and awareness of costs, maybe these explorations will resonate.

The production had to reflect the themes. You'll hear actual tech sounds woven into the music—notification pings that become percussion, startup chimes that transform into melody, typing sounds that create rhythm. Not as gimmick, but as honest representation of our sonic environment.

The style ranges from dreamy ambient (86 BPM lullabies for "Electric Sheep") to driving electro-pop (120 BPM for "Virtual Vertigo"), but most tracks sit around 92-98 BPM—the pace of contemplation, of working through complexity. The electronic production is warm rather than cold, inviting rather than alienating. Binary whispers meet human breath. Warm synths blend with tech notifications.

Because that's the point, isn't it? We're not separate from technology anymore. We're integrated with it, for better and worse. The sound needed to reflect that fusion—digital and organic, mechanical and emotional, artificial and deeply human.