In Entitled Little Bitch, my indie debut, I spelunked into my past. Mining underworlds populated with formative memories, destructive patterns, tragic flaws, excruciating regrets, and loves lost. I found something resembling redemption. But not before doing bloody battle with the demons of these times — narcissism, loneliness, oppression, depression, obsession, dysmorphia, addiction, greed, codependence, ego; above all, simply, time. 

“Tonight we are infinite and beyond,” I wrote on “Prom Night”. It was true, once. But while moments may contain infinities, we remain painfully finite. It’s not long before the bells begin to toll. Whether bubbly drunk on a beach house balcony romanticizing movie deaths in “Why Ye-es” or trapping summer memories like suffocating fireflies on “Eurydice”, time is an unstoppable force throughout Entitled Little Bitch, looming over these upside-down love themes like a clocktower in a Disney classic. The album, too: animated, imaginative, archetypal. 

The imagery of icy plastic soul banger “Frankenberry” is distinct: tailored Brooks Brothers suits, toxic alchemy in styrofoam, a Thin White Duke washing down cake with snake oil and Drano. But you might see yourself in it, too, building relationships on the shaky foundation of style and substances, not true connection. Or maybe in “Real Boy”, a bluegrass ditty bemoaning love of an idea over a person, meandering toward a breakdown, a confession.

Loss imbues Entitled Little Bitch, but not only of love. In ego’s yuge hands, everything slips through the fingers. “For Fall” counts shooting stars and our own fifteen minutes. “Cameras Steal Souls” scribbles out selfies with question marks. “The Jaws” imagines a Gatsby who lived long enough to see his green light shattered, devouring the party, the partygoers, the beat, leaving only the creak of bones and the knowledge of the inevitable. It’s not all bum notes though. Even in the darkest moments, exuberance prevails. These songs are smiles flashing across tear-soaked faces. Celebrations of big, beautiful feelings, and their fleetingness. 

The tape embodies those feelings in both substance and style. It is self-produced, stitched together from instruments, samples, and found sounds I’ve collected over a near decade. A bedroom project, to be sure. There’s no mistaking Entitled Little Bitch for a polished studio product. Vocals are saturated with the character of basements, attics, backyard cabins. Guitar tracks crackle with varying levels of competency. Beats are built from snapping cameras, bubbling brooks, ticking clocks. And the atmosphere — keening peepers, Vermont campfires, dripping Hebridean caves — plucked out of thin air, captured via digital recorder from the spaces occupied while writing it. Its luster oxidized, sure, but still urgent, electrified, metal as hell.

Entitled Little Bitch is not my vision alone. Features from the artists and loved ones who shaped my sound and life punctuate it front to back, gracing it with genres I know nothing about: cloud rap, twee, neo soul, post-hardcore, spoken word.

For the contributions, thank you to Phano, Jalen, Josh, Ethan, Calvin, FTA, JP, Joey, Liam, Yuri, Zac, and Xav. To Lex, for the collaboration and inspiration. Also, to Joanna Newsom. And, for the explicit and implicit support, to my family, Mom, Michael, Liv, Zofia, Dad, Erin, and Fiona, and friends, Connor, Kendall, and Mel. Finally, to those I shamelessly bit, Disney, Morrissey, Born Hero. Sue me. I’ll settle. Sue, too. Zack and Jared, most of all. Thank y’all, truly.