Memories – The Story Behind the Album

Each song lets you dive into what matters most — love, loss, longing, and the quiet courage it takes to keep going.

These eight ballads weren't written to chase a trend. They were written from the things I actually lived: a mother I lost too soon, a father I stopped calling my own, a sister I couldn't save, the long darkness that came after, and the small dog who walked in at the end and changed everything. Every word is true.

And they're arranged the way I lived them — in order. Memories moves through the dark the way it actually happened, loss after loss, each song a chapter I couldn't skip. There's the mother who held us together with her own hands. The man I needed and never had. The sister carried away too soon. The silence of friends who stepped back when I needed them most. The nights I wasn't sure I'd see the morning. I didn't soften any of it, because softening it would have been a lie.

But the album doesn't end in the dark — because my life didn't either. After everything, a small dog walked in and became the light I had stopped believing in. That's why Queen – My Little Sunshine comes last. It's the moment the album finally breathes; the turn from surviving to living. If you listen from the first song to the last, you don't just hear songs — you walk the whole road with me, from the deepest loss to the reason I'm still here.

They're built the way the old crooners built them — slow, patient, unhurried. Piano and violin carry almost every song, the two instruments I grew up with. The violins, especially, reach for the place words can't go. Nothing is rushed, nothing is hidden. Just feeling, with nowhere left to hide.

If you've ever sat alone with something heavy and wished a song understood — these are for you. Play them in the dark, on a quiet evening, when no one's watching. Listen in order, all the way through. That's where they live.

Memories — eight autobiographical ballads, from the deepest loss to the light at the end. Stream them anywhere, or take the album home below.

Beloved Boy
The song for my mother — and the childhood that shaped it.

This one is for my mother.

Ours was not a soft house. There were nights we children lay awake, afraid of what the dark might bring — nights I wished someone would come and take us somewhere safe. The fear wasn't a feeling that visited now and then; it lived with us. We learned to read the silence, to listen for the sound of things turning bad.

And then there was the night I was ten, when a knife my father threw came to rest in the table an inch from my mother. An inch. That was the night he died to me. I stopped speaking to him, and something in me hardened into a decision I never put into words but never broke: from that day on, I would stand between her and the fear. I became her protector far too young — a boy doing what a boy should never have to do.

She held our whole family together with her own hands. She worked, she carried, she went without — and she asked for almost nothing in return. I gave up the things a boy gives up to stay close to her, and ours became a closeness that never needed words. We simply understood each other. She was the safe place I didn't have anywhere else.

More than anything in this world, I wanted her to reach the far side of all that work and finally find a little happiness waiting there. A quiet retirement. A life that was, at last, her own. She had earned it a hundred times over. But she never got the chance — the cancer took even that from her, the way the years had taken so much already.

When she died, I grieved for more than a year. Not because grief is long, but because she deserved so much more than the life she was given. I kept thinking of everything she never got to have, everything I couldn't give her in time.

Beloved Boy comes from that place: the fear, the love, and the loss that never quite leaves. Every line of it is true. It's all there in the lyrics, if you listen closely — a son still trying to give his mother the tenderness the world never did.