In a world where memories live forever in the cloud, where WiFi signals once connected hearts, and where love lingers in unread messages, Disconnected captured the ache of digital-age heartbreak with cinematic scope.

But some stories deserve to be told again—quieter, closer, and even more vulnerable.

Disconnected (Echo Sessions) is a reimagining of the original album, a collaboration between R.U.D.Y. and the hauntingly soulful vocalist KennedY, whose voice wraps around each track like a memory you’re not ready to let go. These aren’t just acoustic versions—they’re emotional retellings, stripped to their bones, wrapped in warmth and reverb, letting every breath and silence carry meaning.

KennedY brings a new kind of ache—soft, ethereal, and intimate. The space between notes is filled with ambient textures, room noise, and the quiet hum of reflection. Every guitar strum feels like a sigh. Every word sounds like it’s being sung just for you, late at night, when the signal is gone but the feeling still lingers.

From the pinned conversations that no longer light up to the echoes of laughter trapped in old voice notes, this version of Disconnected leans in closer. It’s not just what was lost—it’s what’s still left behind.

For those who’ve heard the digital ghosts in their hearts—this is the unplugged séance.

🔹 Play it with headphones. Play it alone. Let it echo through you. 🔹

year in review (echo sessions)

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.