Cameron — this one is yours.

You came back for a while, and the house felt full again. Then you packed a bag, grabbed pieces of the life you left here, and headed back across the ocean. The bed stayed unmade, and the silence hit harder than I thought it would. I didn’t get to drive you out to the airport to say goodbye,  but I still think about the moment you left, and how strange it feels that you wake up a day ahead of me now.

When you call, it’s like the distance folds in half. Just hearing your voice,  even through the noise of where you are — feels like the room here lights up again. The missing never goes away, but neither does the relief of knowing you’re out there living your life.

This song is the reminder I hope you carry with you: no matter how far the flight, how many time zones stack between us, there’s a place waiting when you turn back. Always.

On The Other Side Of The World

The nights that never made the yearbooks are the ones that still glow the brightest. Empty parking lots became stadiums, cracked asphalt our stage. We sat on hoods, shouted lyrics half-remembered, kicked crushed soda cans until the cops drove past and didn’t bother to stop. Flowers pushed through the concrete under buzzing lights, stubborn and alive in a place that should’ve killed them.

Parking Lot Flowers remembers the small kingdoms we built out of nothing. The nights that tasted like fries and smoke. The people who felt permanent until they weren’t. Those flowers still grow in the cracks when you drive past the same lot years later, proof that even the ugliest places hold beauty if you were there to see it.

Parking Lot Flowers

Neon burns hotter when you’ve been staring at it for hours. Behind the bar, glass after glass, each one polished until it shines like you care more than you do. The tips don’t cover the rent, the jokes you force out of your mouth don’t make the exhaustion leave your bones, and the smile lines you wear aren’t from happiness, they’re from survival.
The song lives inside those hours where the bar is full and you’ve never felt lonelier. Where you charm strangers, watch the clock crawl, and think about how many nights have been spent shaking cocktails for people whose names you’ll never know. Bar Lights / Smile Lines is the ache of being everybody’s good time and nobody’s home.

Bar Lights Smile Lines

The words never come out clean. They get tangled in your throat, warped by nerves, erased before you hit send. Phones light up in the dark, but the silence wins more often than not. Every unsent message feels like a ghost sitting on your shoulder, whispering what you should’ve said while the moment slips further away.

Static Between Us lives in that space where communication collapses. Where laughter turns sharp, texts go unanswered, and every attempt to connect feels like shouting through radio interference. It’s not that the feelings aren’t there — it’s that they keep breaking apart before they can land. Static fills the gaps, and the gaps grow wider.

Static Between Us

Some disasters are funny only because they’re too painful not to laugh at. Two burritos, cheap sushi, and regret wrapped in foil — your body turns against you, and the only throne you find yourself on is a cracked bathroom seat. The kind of night where you swear you’ll never do this again, but everyone knows you will.

Two Burritos Deep is chaos, humor, and horror rolled into one. It’s the bathroom apocalypse, sweat on your back, prayers for mercy, and the scream-laugh admission that adulthood might just be a stomachache you never recover from. The burrito mushroom cloud rises, and all you can do is hang on until the fallout passes.

Two Burritos Deep

The world doesn’t collapse with a bang, it rots from the inside out. Smiles plastered over greed, polished shoes hiding blood on the floor, every handshake a transaction you didn’t agree to. Wrath, envy, pride — the sins don’t feel biblical when you’re staring at them. They feel ordinary. Familiar. Worn into the faces of people you trusted.

Everyone’s Lying, Everyone Knows is the sound of rage cutting loose. A scream at the way we sell each other out, at how easy it is to dress up selfishness and call it survival. The chorus doesn’t fix anything. It just puts a spotlight on what’s already there: the hypocrisy, the decay, the truth everyone sees but no one says out loud.

Everyone’s Lying, Everyone Knows

Every family has a story that refuses to die. This story belongs to Brad, a lost weekend in Reno, and a tramp stamp no one will ever let him forget. He came home broke, sunburnt, and branded for life. Thanksgiving changed forever the moment he lifted his shirt and grandma nearly fainted.

This song laughs with him, not at him. It turns embarrassment into legend, a dumb decision into a chorus. Casinos burning neon, slot machines melting into ash, and Brad standing in the middle of it all like a saint of bad ideas. Cousin Brad Got a Tramp Stamp in Reno isn’t just his story anymore — it’s everyone’s, because every family has a Brad.

Cousin Brad Got a Tramp Stamp in Reno

Blackalicious made the alphabet into a weapon — fast, sharp, flawless. This song takes the same building blocks and drags them through the dirt. Every letter carries a ghost, every line is a mess you can’t shake, and instead of flexing, you’re exorcising.

It’s A through Z, but every sound is bent out of shape: anxiety, burnout, chaos, bad decisions, jokes that land too hard, memories that never leave. The alphabet becomes a graveyard where each letter carves another headstone. Funny when you yell it, heavy when you sit with it. Fucked Up Ghosts isn’t about showing off — it’s about being buried by every word you’ve ever carried.

Fucked Up Ghosts

The morning is a crime scene of cans, tangled cords, and yesterday’s pizza box left open like a wound. You’re not hungry, but you eat anyway. The crust tastes like last night’s mistakes, and the silence tastes worse.

Cold Pizza for Breakfast Again captures the rhythm of going nowhere. It’s the loop of mornings that blur together, each one the same, each one carrying the weight of all the small failures you never got around to fixing. It’s pathetic, sure, but it’s also honest. There’s comfort in the ritual — even if it’s stale, greasy, and gone cold.

Cold Pizza for Breakfast Again

Every album needs a place to land, and this one circles back home. Coeur d’Alene is lakeside summers, wakeboards carving glass water, tents glowing under stars, and laughter spilling from campfires. It’s sushi nights downtown, it’s Hayden Lake afternoons, it’s the little traditions that stick in your chest no matter how far you’ve drifted.

The chaos fades here. The neon, the noise, the burritos, the ghosts — all of it pulls back long enough for the light to come through. Coeur d’Alene is memory sharpened by distance: the streets that never change, the places that will always wait for you, the hometown gravity that holds even when you swear you’ve escaped.

It isn’t a goodbye song. It’s a reminder that no matter how far the world takes you, there’s a place you can return to that knows your name, even when you’ve forgotten it yourself.

Coeur d'Alene

Mike Baker: Artist, Optimist, Connector

Mike Baker is more than just a musician; he's a storyteller, a pioneer in the fusion of art and technology, and a beacon of hope in a world that often seems shadowed by doubt and despair. With a career that spans the intersection of music, writing, and digital artistry through AI, Mike has carved a unique path in the creative world, one that seeks to connect, inspire, and uplift.

At the heart of Mike's life and work is his role as a devoted husband, father, and community leader. These facets of his life not only define him but also deeply influence his music, infusing his songs with a profound sense of empathy, love, and responsibility. Mike's journey through the complexities of life, experiencing its highs and lows, its shadows and its light, has imbued him with a rich perspective that he passionately shares through his art.

"Shadows of Hope," Mike's first album, is a culmination of his experiences and his vision. This 20-track masterpiece is a testament to his journey, showcasing his ability to delve into the depths of human emotion and emerge with messages of resilience and optimism. Through his innovative use of AI, Mike explores new dimensions of expression, creating an album that resonates with the collective experiences of struggle, discovery, and joy.

Mike's goal has always been to use his talents to bring people together, to create a space where hope can flourish and joy can be shared. He believes in the power of music as a universal language, one that can heal, unite, and inspire individuals to choose hope over despair. His work is a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there is light to be found, and that together, we can emerge stronger.

As a community leader, Mike is committed to making a difference, whether through his music, his actions, or his words. He has seen the darkness from both sides and has chosen to be a force for positivity, encouraging others to do the same. Mike hopes that his music not only connects people from all walks of life but also brings a sense of joy and understanding to anyone who listens.

In a world that often feels divided, Mike Baker stands out as a unifying force, an artist whose work transcends the boundaries of genre and medium to touch the hearts of listeners everywhere. Through "Shadows of Hope" and beyond, Mike continues to share his energy with the world, a reminder that in the midst of life's challenges, hope is always within reach.