A slow-burning political epic—post-revolution blues with a brain. It's what happens when rage pauses long enough to ask, “Now what?” This track feels like Americana meets dystopian hymn—equal parts fire and fallout, vision and aftermath.

A Riot That Had Time to Think

License/Purchase

A biting hip-hop satire of hustle culture and online grift. Slick, sharp, and aimed straight at the rented Lambo crowd.

Entrepreneur Porn

Existential dream-pop drift, soaked in metaphor and slow-breath sadness. It’s part oceanic lullaby, part emotional deep-dive. Haunting, slow, and unshakably beautiful, this is the song that stares into the water and doesn’t flinch.

Out Where the Water Gets Dark

A straight-talking, no-nonsense Southern Rock clapback—a sharp, clean takedown of weaponized “niceness” and transactional affection. It’s like if Loretta Lynn taught a seminar on emotional intelligence and set it to guitar. It doesn’t scream—it educates, and then leaves.

Pity Ain't Sexy

A country-folk confessional about the surreal terror of intimacy, disguised as a song about bathroom fruit. It’s like John Prine meets Wes Anderson, and it knows it. The humor’s dry, the existential confusion is ripe (pun intended).

Random Banana

“Same Space, Not Together” is a heartbreak slow-burn—emotional decay in real time, quietly devastating. It's a minimalist country-folk ballad about the kind of breakup that doesn’t explode, just evaporates. It's sleeping two feet apart and feeling like strangers, with lyrics as soft as they are brutal.

Same Space, Not Together

A contemplation of the unknown and inescapable, acceptance rather than resignation.

The Forward Flowing Undertow

Staying in bed in an effort to avoid the hypocrisy and exploitation of the real world - and perhaps missing out on the ability to make things better.

The Snooze Bar (Post-Punk Revival)

This is a true story, though names have been changed...a pop song about briefly dating a narcissist - who - and this is 100% true - ultimately spawned an email from Hinge a few months later because she'd been found to have engaged in fraudulent behavior. I had called her Tulip because she asked for me to show up on a second date with a bouquet of them, to a restaurant, then pitched a fit when I suggested bringing them to her house to be put in a vase instead. That was the end of that.

Tulip

A hipster-hop confession that starts as satire and ends in self-awareness. Wry, layered, and unexpectedly raw.

Unironically Ironic (Hipster Hop)

A terrible storm hits Miami, told from 8 different perspectives

Outtalk the Rain (The Change of Seasons Track 3)

A terrible storm hits Miami, told from 8 different perspectives.

A lounge-noir meditation on disaster and detachment, sung from high above the floodline. Haunting, elegant, and morally anesthetized.

Lightning from a Penthouse Window (The Change of Seasons Track 5)

The Change of Seasons

Not Trained for This

License/Catalog

Not Trained For This (The Change of Seasons Track 6)

The Scene Comes Alive

The Scene Comes Alive (The Change of Seasons Track 7)

A swaggering sports anthem for armchair GMs and dynasty builders. Strategic, punchy, and built for highlight reels and video game menus.

Franchise Mode

A big band swing number with crooner charm and elastic-free swagger. Brassy, cheeky, and smoother than a silk robe on tile.

Commando Patrol

Commando Patrol (Swing)

A scorched-earth economic sermon—half rap, half protest poetry, and all fire. This is class warfare with a beat, economic literacy with bite, and a lyrical takedown of capitalist gaslighting. It doesn’t just slap—it unmasks.

Reasserting Scarcity

A motivational anthem for the mentally undefeated. “Winner’s Mentality” proves that belief is stronger than debt, and grindset energy doesn’t need receipts. Power moves only.

Winner's Mentality

The deep-fried hymn of the Anti-Kale Church of Culinary Hedonism. It’s Southern-fried satire, full of flavor, fury, and food-based freedom. This is comedy gospel with a batter-dipped soul.

Nutritional Balance

Reflecting with appreciation upon a relationship that was good, but not aligned for long term.

At Least She Held Me

A Country lament about overcooked steak, overwrought love, and the tragedy of wasted tenderness. Wry, acoustic, and bruised with twang.

Butchered Twice

Lyrics/License

Butchered Twice (Country)

A swampy, slow-burning hallucination dressed in bluesy distortion and late-night gospel haze. This version leans into the surrealism and dry existential weight of the original lyrics—casting God as a weary diner regular and the apocalypse as a casual footnote.

Lurching guitars, molasses-thick rhythm, and woozy atmospherics turn this into a southern gothic fever dream, somewhere between a sermon and a smirk. It doesn’t beg for belief—it mutters prophecy over burnt coffee and walks away.

Perfect for fans of Tom Waits, Black Keys, early Alabama Shakes, and any soundtrack that needs a divine shrug in 6/8 time.

God at the Awful Waffle

God at the Awful Waffle (Psychedelic Blues)

A soft spiral in sound, Unironically Ironic (Lo-Fi) wraps self-aware melancholy in dusty beats and slow-drip synths. It’s a confession in lowercase—a stream of thought from someone who can’t stop questioning their own authenticity, but can’t quite admit they care either.

Layered with warm distortion, lazy vinyl textures, and a voice that floats somewhere between apathy and revelation, this version turns irony into ambiance and emotional fatigue into rhythm.

Perfect for late-night scrolling, anxious journaling, or the moment you realize you’ve become the meme you were mocking.

Unironically Ironic

Unironically Ironic (Lo-Fi Hip Hop)

A warm, nostalgic country ballad steeped in food, family, and legacy. With acoustic roots and a storytelling vocal that feels like a memory wrapped in buttered cornbread, Pass the Peas is about the quiet inheritance of love through recipes. It’s not about the food—it’s about the hands that made it, the moments it held, and the secrets that never made it to the page. Simple, sincere, and slow-cooked with feeling.

Pass the Peas

Pass the Peas (Country)

A sun-soaked mishap set to a breezy island groove, Snorkel Sneeze is a trop-rock tale of one man, one boat, and one very ill-timed nasal eruption. With steel-drum swagger and saltwater slapstick, this track celebrates every vacation gone gloriously wrong. Sit back, crack a beer, and remember: grace is optional, but snorkel awareness is key.

Snorkel Sneeze

A low-slung blues lament about memory, regret, and the kind of locked drawer that creaks louder the longer you ignore it. This stripped-down reimagining of “Old Files, Old Ghosts” trades the original’s folk pulse for smoky electric guitar, shuffle rhythm, and a weathered vocal that sounds like it’s been holding its breath for years. Quiet, bitter, and too real to be dramatic, this version lets the grief settle in the corners like dust you never quite clean.

Old Files, Old Ghosts

Old Files, Old Ghosts (Blues)

A gentle Americana confessional about coming out of your shell—literally and emotionally. Tired of Turtling uses folk-animal metaphors to chart the quiet exhaustion of staying safe and the slow, hopeful act of choosing forward motion. With acoustic textures, warm fiddle lines, and a voice full of earned softness, this track is for anyone who’s ever needed a little push to start moving—even if it's slow.

A song about courage at a crawl. And that still counts.

Tired of Turtling

Tired of Turtling (Americana)

The Way We Feel is a 9-song album of original children’s music designed to teach emotional intelligence, social awareness, and self-regulation—without being cloying, preachy, or disposable.

From identifying emotions and managing anger to learning empathy, resilience, and communication, each track offers kids (and the adults raising them) a tool for understanding feelings, naming them, and growing through them. With playful lyrics, simple metaphors, and clear messages, this album can help spark meaningful conversations in classrooms, families, and little brains everywhere.

Every song is developmentally appropriate, musically rich, and psychologically grounded. Think of it as an emotional toolbox disguised as a singalong.

Recommended for:
Ages 4–10, teachers, parents, caregivers, therapists, and anyone who wants a future generation that’s better at feelings than we are.

The Way We Feel

Other Eyes Don't See the Same

The Sorry Safari

It Don't Hurt to Assert

Step Back and Breathe

What's This Feeling?

What's This Feeling

A slow-crawling, smoke-thick Swamp Blues sermon on faith, patriarchy, and institutional rot. Fingerpicked electric guitar slides through the muck while the vocal delivers each line like it’s carved into cypress bark—measured, resolute, and ready to burn the pulpit down. There’s no shouting here, just a gospel of quiet refusal. The steam rises. The judgment simmers. And the truth doesn't knock—it waits, glowing red, in the waterline.

A Pillar of Salt

A Pillar of Salt (Swamp Blues)

A stripped-down gospel soul version of “Pass the Peas,” delivered with quiet conviction and foot-worn grace. A female voice—weathered, warm, unwavering—leads the way through verses of legacy, struggle, and ritual. Acoustic and unhurried, this take trades groove for grit, with harmonies rising like memory behind her. It’s not performative—it’s practiced. An altar made of wood, breath, and repetition.

Pass the Peas (Gospel Soul)

Bell-Bottom Stride (Vintage Funk) reimagines a lyrical time capsule as a strutting, horn-laced groove straight out of 1973. Channeling the swagger of Curtis Mayfield and the streetwise poetry of Gil Scott-Heron, this version blends classic funk textures with a vocal that’s half sermon, half smirk. It’s a love letter to Blaxploitation cinema, underground pride, and the sacred ritual of walking tall—if only for 90 minutes in a darkened theater.

Bell-Bottom Stride

Bell-Bottom Stride (Vintage Funk)

A defiant stomp-hymn built from dust and memory.
A Pillar of Salt opens with stripped, percussive tension—just voice and footfall, like someone testifying through gritted teeth. The verses march. The choruses rupture. Electric guitar crashes in like a flood—controlled, searing, inevitable.

It’s a reckoning with belief, betrayal, and the price of disobedience.
A song for those who looked back—and didn’t regret it.

A Pillar of Salt (Industrial Folk-Rock)

A slow-burning lo-fi hip-hop confessional built around fingerpicked acoustic guitar and soft boom-bap drums. “Baggage Claim” reflects on what we carry—regret, memory, hope—with hushed vocals and a steady, introspective pulse. No frills. Just the quiet rhythm of emotional weight, repacked and replayed.

Baggage Claim (Lo-Fi Hip-Hop)

A stark ambient folk noir track built on spacious acoustic guitar and hushed, unflinching vocals. “Cold Comfort” traces the quiet brutality of emotional detachment with slow-burning clarity. There’s no catharsis here—just silence, distance, and the ache of connection refused. Minimalist. Bitter. Beautifully restrained.

Cold Comfort (Folk Noir)

This one’s built like a flashback with a beat. Mid-tempo indie pop dressed in soft synths and arcade glints—coin drop tones, score flashes, and memories caught in motion. A warm track about small joys and the games we keep playing long after the lights go down.

Skeeball is its Own Reward

Skeeball is its Own Reward (Indie-Pop)

A swagger-fueled funk rock anthem built on punchy drums, strutting guitar, and brass-laced defiance. “You Gotta Tug” is a no-shortcuts sermon dressed in groove—equal parts grit and gospel. Every line hits like a call to action. No polish, just pressure. If you want it? Tug.

You Gotta Tug

You Gotta Tug (Funk Rock)

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Phrases and Phases Publishing is a one-man label, archive, and reality-refraction field. Founded by J. Adam Walters - lawyer-turned lyricist, satirist, and architectural dropout from polite society - it's the home for songs that shouldn't exist, poems that go to far, and fictional universes with better paperwork than the Library of Congress. 

From folk elegies to parody rap to theocratic cartoon trauma epics, everything here is written by a human who uses AI as a collaborator and instrument rather than an outsourced brain, and finished only when it reaches a space where laughing hurts, or hurting laughs.

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