A raw, unraveling dive into disillusionment, enough is never is the latest album by R.U.D.Y — a collage of cracked mirrors, whispered rage, and distorted truth. Across ten blistered tracks, it drags grunge through the ruins of modern life: addiction, violence, performance, and the quiet ache of trying to stay human.

Each song is a different wound — some still open, some barely healing. From the desperate confession of “407” to the apocalyptic cradle of “Chalk Outline of Youth,” the record doesn’t follow a clean arc. It spirals. Hooks unravel mid-line, verses collapse into noise, and solos erupt like panic attacks. This is music that refuses to look away, even when it hurts to see.

Fueled by jagged guitars, bruised vocals, and stripped-down drums, this is no nostalgia act — it’s a fractured reflection of now. Gritty, poetic, and unfiltered, the album doesn’t offer closure. Just questions, scars, and noise.

Play it loud. Or don’t. It’s still bleeding either way.

glitch in growth

chalk outline of youth

do re mi

bought and sold

"bean soup" is a quiet purge — soft chords, sharp memories, and the hollow ache of trying to feel something pure again. Stripped-down and unfiltered, these songs sit with you like a late-night conversation you didn’t plan to have. It’s about addiction in all its forms: to people, to silence, to the stories we keep telling ourselves. There’s warmth here, but it’s cracked. Familiar, but wrong. Like comfort food in a world that no longer digests hope the same way.

It’s not healing. It’s what happens right before.

clean

heartstrings

sugarbleed

I work with machines the way some people work with memory—shaping what’s already there, not to control it, but to understand it. The tools I use are made of code, but the intent behind them is completely human.

R.U.D.Y. began as a fictional band. A name I could hide behind. But over time, that fiction became the most honest expression I had. It stopped being a mask and started becoming a mirror—a place to reflect the moments we don’t have words for, the spaces between emotions that feel too raw or too distant to name.

I call what I do synthwrighting. Not because it sounds futuristic, but because it feels accurate. I don’t write songs—I uncover them. I collaborate with algorithms the way a sculptor chips away at stone. Sometimes the machine surprises me. Sometimes it just listens. But what emerges is always shaped by instinct, memory, and feeling.

These songs aren’t performances. They’re echoes. Sonic fragments of questions I don’t always know how to ask. I’m not here to offer answers or compete with noise—I’m here to slow things down enough that something deeper can be heard.

R.U.D.Y. is not a band. It’s not even really a name. It’s a signal. A reminder. Something you’re meant to feel before you understand.

And if you’re still listening, that means you're not done yet.