In Those Days is a dark-fantasy jazz/blues concept album built on the book of Judges—half film score, half rock opera, all one continuous world.

Obligé scores a crownless Canaan with smoky horns, upright bass, haunted guitars, and stormy drums: temple nightclubs for Baal, crooked odd-meter stealth for the left-handed assassin, noir prophecy under the palm tree, iron chariots rolling like war machines, midnight tension in Jael’s tent, Gideon shaking in a winepress, a daughter caught in the teeth of a vow, and a man who looks ordinary but tears down gates and pillars by a strength that makes no sense.

Some tracks play like pure score, others like songs sung from inside the story, but the same themes keep resurfacing—motifs slipping between sax lines and vocals, big-band blasts giving way to quiet, wounded prayers. This is Judges as a jazz-shadowed myth: no king, too many gods, and a handful of fragile people trying to stand up in the ruin.

The Song of Deborah

The Song of Barak

A fractured manifesto set to hard rock, machine pulse, and cinematic dread.

Coterie of Cretins is a broadcast from the fault line where humanity and technology intersect — not in harmony, but in discomfort, suspicion, and reluctant dependence. These songs live inside the fluorescent hum of a world where every device pretends to listen, every choice feels rehearsed, and every person is half algorithm whether they admit it or not.

Across twelve tracks, the album follows the last free thinkers, doubters, Luddites-for-likes, and digital ghosts as they move between locked doors, broken signals, and too-perfect faces. Some fight back. Some give in. Some just scroll until the scrolling stops.

The sound is heavy, resonant, metallic, industrial at its core but driven by human lungs and human fear. Guitars grind against synths. Drums slam against circuitry. Voices remain the last unprocessed instrument — desperate, stubborn, hopeful, furious.

This is not an album about technology.
It’s an album about living through it.

Coterie of Cretins asks one question repeatedly:

If this is the future, is there anywhere left to stand that’s still ours?

Through the Window

Angles of Angels

The Uncanny Valley

A Luddite for Likes

Parallel

The Grand Hallway

Buck Ramble is older now—but not finished.
He’s traded horsepower for a rocking chair, the open range for a north-facing porch, and the need to run for the grace to stay. Across the River Stones is the final chapter in a life lived hard and redeemed slowly, where every song feels like a lesson learned the honest way.

He sings about summer storms on tin roofs, unsent letters that became fuel instead of regret, and the kind of dancing only a worn-out body can do with total freedom. He gives fatherly advice to sons both real and imagined. He revisits old legends—like Doc Holliday—not to retell history, but to bless the men who never got the peace he found.

This album is not about dying. It’s about finally living right, even if you came late to the lesson. It’s about choosing joy over bitterness, letting humor outlast pride, and knowing when to put the past down so you can still move your feet when the fiddle kicks in.

There’s no final showdown here—just acceptance, gratitude, and a groove that somehow keeps getting faster at the end. The porch still faces north, the rain still falls, and Buck Ramble is still singing—maybe softer now, but truer than ever.


Every man carries something—
this is the sound of learning what to lay down
and what to dance with anyway.

A Man Can Only Carry So Much

Volant Records is a story-driven label and shared universe: cinematic concept albums, stutter-house, western sagas, haunted pop, and hymn-like instrumentals. Home to Jupiter Morrow, Avaline Ingels, Shadow Face, Buck Ramble, Choralith and more. All Worlds Reserved®.

A Man Can Only Carry So Much

Volant Records

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