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 at the Picture Show is not just a soundtrack — it is a séance.
A record made of celluloid ghosts, dusty marquees, missing reels, and outlaw sincerity, assembled from the fragments of Ramble’s strangest cinematic years.

Recorded during the decade when the studios didn’t know what to do with him — when he was too serious for comedies, too haunted for hero roles, and too poetic for drive-in westerns — these tracks capture the moment where the legend broke away from the films and became something larger.

Each song on this album was originally written for a different Buck Ramble picture:

some released in compromised form,

some recut for television,

some never screened outside of a single town’s closing night,

and at least one (Hell at High Noon) that survives only as a burned-through print in a county archive.

The music is larger than the movies that held it.
Where the budget ran out, the voice kept going.

This album collects those performances as they were meant to be heard — stripped of studio edits, laugh tracks, narration overdubs, and all the compromises that once buried them. What remains is the sound of a man acting with absolute seriousness inside films that were often collapsing around him, singing to audiences that may never have existed… and meaning every word.

In these songs, we hear:

the romantic outlaw who stole trains just to make love last,

the weary investigator who hunted sins older than the badge itself,

the villain who watched the canyon burn and called it beautiful,

the sheriff in moccasins who treated a comedy like it was scripture.

If the movies couldn’t contain Buck Ramble, the songs did.

Buck Ramble at the Picture Show plays like a lost theater rediscovered in the woods —
one final reel still spinning in the dark,
projecting a man who never stopped believing
that every story — even the broken ones —
deserves a song worth dying for.

You Can’t Hang a Man Twice

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®.

You Can’t Hang a Man Twice

Volant Records

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