City Lights

When a plane falls, you can only hope to survive.

Fallen from the Sky

Fallen From The Sky

End Title 4

Eat Your Peas

It's How You Live

When You're Gone

When you're Gone

Guess It's Really Over Now

When the Mood Died

Wait for You at the End of Time

No Time for You - No Time for Me

When you love someone so much you would die for them

I Would Die for You

Die for You

Now that You're Gone

Elysium 4

Elysium 4 | An Original Motion Picture Soundscape

Dark Room

Dark Room | An Original Motion Picture Soundscape

Last Chance

Last Chance | An Original Motion Picture Soundscape

Hangzhou

Hangzhou |An Original Motion Picture Soundscape

Weightless

Becoming a Machine

Hurts like Hell

Going Home

Going Home (NEW)

Goodbye

Goodbye (R)

Get Outta Make Head

Get Outta My Head

It's You (Alternative)

Kiss You in the Rain

🎻 Forget Me Not – A Composer’s Reflection

By Jay Hunt

I didn’t set out to write a piece called Forget Me Not. In truth, the music found me first — a quiet phrase at the piano, late at night, when the world had gone still. It was one of those moments where you’re not really trying to compose, just… listening. And something inside says, play this.

The first motif came like a memory. Simple, fragile, yet complete. I played it again. Then again. It felt like tracing the edge of a photograph I hadn’t seen in years — not sad, but full. Full of something that wanted to be remembered.

That’s where the name came from. Forget Me Not — not a command, but a whisper. A wish. A question, maybe.

I wanted this piece to feel like someone remembering you fondly after many years. Not with fireworks, but with warmth. That’s why the piano begins gently, pacing the listener, almost like breath. I kept the phrasing spacious, unhurried — like a walk through places that matter.

Then came the cello. For me, the cello has always carried something deeply human — not just the voice, but the weight of the voice. It enters like someone joining you in reverie. Not to speak, but to sit beside you, quietly understanding. It doesn’t compete with the piano. It answers it.

Compositionally, I kept the harmonic structure restrained on purpose. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone technically. My aim was sincerity — to create a space where emotion could live without being interrupted. The simplicity you hear is intentional. It’s there to let the feeling come through, the way Satie or Pärt trusted their silences as much as their notes.

If you're someone who listens for structure, you’ll find a gentle arc — nothing overly dramatic, but enough to suggest that something unresolved is quietly being accepted. I didn’t want catharsis. I wanted recognition.

At its heart, Forget Me Not is about presence. About those people, places, and moments that may slip from daily thought — but never from the soul. And as a composer, I suppose it’s also a way of saying: “Here I am. I felt this. Maybe you did too.”

Forget me Not

Forget Me Not (featuring piano and strings)

It's You

It's You (featuring viola and piano)

Refuse to Lose

Refuse to Lose (featuring piano)

🎻 Classical Violin – A Composer’s Intimate Dance
By Jay Hunt
I’ve always had a soft spot for the violin. There’s something about its voice — the way it can whisper, weep, or soar — that makes it feel less like an instrument and more like a storyteller. So when I began writing Classical Violin, I wasn’t chasing complexity. I was chasing clarity — of tone, of emotion, of intent.
This piece began, as many do, with a phrase. I played a few notes one evening, not thinking too much — just feeling. What came out was gentle, even elegant, like the opening line of a letter I didn’t know I needed to write. That phrase became the spine of the piece. Everything else — the accompaniment, the pacing, the slight ornamental turns — grew around it, like ivy on stone.
I wanted Classical Violin to feel like a conversation between grace and restraint. Not romantic indulgence, but classical poise. Think Mozart’s lyricism, or the balance in Haydn’s slow movements — where nothing is rushed, yet nothing is wasted. The violin here doesn’t shout or sob. It speaks, with intention and elegance.
The phrasing was especially important to me. I wrote each line imagining it being bowed by someone who cares — not just about playing correctly, but about breathing life into every shift and slide. There’s a kind of dance happening — between the melody and silence, between what’s said and what’s suggested.
For those listening with a classical ear, you might notice the structure leans toward a traditional binary form, but with some quiet deviations — little gestures that nod to Baroque sensibilities while still allowing space for modern tone color. I didn’t want this piece to feel like a replica of the past. I wanted it to remember the past, lovingly, while still speaking in the present.

Why I Wrote It:
Classical Violin is, in many ways, a tribute — not to a person, but to a feeling. The feeling of walking into a quiet concert hall, tuning settling into silence, and that first note piercing the stillness. It’s about elegance, simplicity, and the enduring beauty of melody.
If this piece gives you a moment of calm, or brings back even a trace of something meaningful from your own experience with music — then I’ve succeeded.

Classical Violin

Classical Violin (featuring violin & orchestra)

🏞 Lakehouse – A Musical Memory in Still Water
By Jay Hunt
There’s something about water — especially still water — that invites reflection. When I began composing Lakehouse, I was remembering. Remembering a real place, yes, but also a feeling: calmness, solitude, warmth, and just a hint of nostalgia. That kind of memory that sits quietly with you, unspoken but vivid.
The piece opens with a gentle, almost meditative piano motif. For me, that represents the lake itself — smooth, unbroken, mirroring the sky. I kept the rhythm unhurried on purpose. There’s no urgency here. Just time unfolding, like sunlight shifting across a wooden floor.
As the harmonies unfold, they don't try to surprise you — they try to hold you. There’s a simplicity in them that I leaned into, not out of limitation, but out of trust. I believe that in music, as in memory, sometimes the most powerful things are the ones we don’t over-explain.
Structurally, Lakehouse leans toward a lyrical, episodic form. It doesn’t build toward a dramatic climax. Instead, it wanders — in the best sense of the word. Like taking a walk through a place you know by heart, noticing the small things: the creak of the dock, the flutter of a curtain, the echo of laughter that once filled the room.
There’s a subtle shift halfway through, where the harmonies take on a slightly darker hue — not sad, exactly, but contemplative. Like remembering someone who used to be there, or realizing how much time has passed since that summer. But I don’t leave the piece there. It returns, gently, to its central theme — like coming back to the water’s edge, finding it just as you left it.

Why I Wrote It:
Lakehouse isn’t about grandeur. It’s about presence. It’s about how music can capture not just places, but the feeling of belonging to a moment. I wanted this piece to feel like sitting alone in a familiar room, surrounded by silence, and feeling comforted rather than lonely.
If it slows your heart a little, if it brings a memory to the surface — even one you hadn’t expected — then the piece has done its job.

Waterfall

Waterfall (strings, harp and choir)

Drift

Drift (soundclip)

Lakehouse

Lakehouse “A Place That Remembers You”

I write and produce the music you hear on this channel and play many of the virtual instruments. Thanks for listening.

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