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Backroad Burdens” is Texas Titan’s debut EP — a raw blend of country, Americana, and late-night Southern soul. With his deep, gravelly voice, Titan tells stories of heartbreak, betrayal, loss, and the roads that shaped him.

From the pain of “Twenty Years Don’t Feel Like Enough” to the lonely glow of “Ghosts in the Gas Station,” each track feels honest and lived-in. This EP is the sound of a man carrying heavy memories down long Texas highways — and singing through the weight.

Ghosts in the Gas Station


Woke to the glow of machines in the dark,
Intensive care re-mapping my heart.
Five litres lost while I slept through the fight—
Didn’t know death brushed past me that night.

The scar’s healing fast, but beneath the skin,
There’s a long road home I’m learning again.

They say I made it, but I’m changed inside,
From the day I didn’t know I died.
Got a nine-year-old boy I’m here to guide,
Building back trust with every stride.
Yeah, I’m still healing, still terrified—
From the day I didn’t know I died.

Walking more steps but I’m strange in my skin,
Outside looks better than the inside’s been.
He laughs like sunrise, that boy of mine—
I hope his joy outruns my borrowed time.

Nights get quiet, but the doubts get loud,
Questions I can’t say out loud.

They say I made it, but I’m changed inside,
From the day I didn’t know I died.
Got a nine-year-old boy I’m here to guide,
Building back trust with every stride.
Yeah, I’m still healing, still terrified—
From the day I didn’t know I died.

Maybe “me again” ain’t who I’ll be—
Maybe I’m learning a braver version of me.

They say I made it, but I’m here to stay—
Stronger in a quiet, different way.
Got a boy I hope life lets me guide,
A few more years walking by his side.
I’ll keep healing with every sunrise—
From the day I didn’t know I died.


From the Day I Didn't Know I Died performed by David Brooke

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.

Anh Từng Cố Gắng

Nhật Phong

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