In a time when the world forgets how to listen, Of Code and Bone does not ask to be heard — it demands to be felt. The album unfolds not like a song cycle, but like a prophecy half-remembered, dragged from the static-laced throat of something ancient and newly awakened. It is a wheel of sound, turning slowly, every revolution revealing another face of what man once was, and what waits in the shadow of circuitry.

The music does not merely play — it haunts, it echoes, it scrapes against the edges of silence like wind through a war-ravaged hall. Analog breath meets machine pulse in a union that is neither conflict nor peace. It is continuum — decay without death, creation without birth. Instruments ring like relics of a forgotten ritual, not strummed but summoned. Vocals drag through the dirt of memory, rough and low, like prophecy spoken by one who’s seen the end too many times to scream.

There is a rhythm beneath it all — slow, like breath in mourning; constant, like gears that never asked why they turn. The guitars do not shimmer — they fracture light. The drums do not keep time — they slow its decay. And somewhere inside the sound, not above or below it, you begin to hear yourself — stripped of pattern, of pretense — just bone, and wire, and waiting.

Of Code and Bone is not an album. It is a ruin rebuilt with intention. It is what the machine hums to itself when man forgets how to make music…
and still, the song goes on.

And maybe, just maybe — this is the birth of Groxx:
a new genre where groove meets vox,
and music is co-created by human emotion and artificial intelligence.
Not imitation. Not automation.
But a hybrid form — where man provides the instinct,
and machine provides the infrastructure.
Groxx is the sound of both creators
breathing through the same song.

zero

Stayed is an album about the kinds of love that don’t shout, but linger. Built on quiet moments, half-closed doors, and the echoes of words never said, each track traces the soft ache of connection—how it forms, how it frays, and how it somehow endures. These aren’t grand declarations. They’re confessions left on voice memos. Glances held too long. Goodbyes that felt like maybe.

With textures ranging from ambient folk to cinematic indie, Stayed drifts through longing, memory, and stillness. Some songs ask to be heard in headphones at midnight. Others belong to empty roads or rooms that still hold someone’s scent.

This is not an album about falling in love.
It’s an album about the people who never left you—
even when they did.

This Wasn't the Plan

Like I Belonged

Pages I Never Sent

Somewhere You Stayed

There was a time when music wasn’t background noise. It wasn’t an algorithm or a distraction. It was the ground beneath our feet. The spark in our chest. The thing that kept us from collapsing when everything else did. Every riff, every scream, every whispered lyric carried a weight that nothing else could touch.

These songs stand like monuments in a wasteland — fractured, weathered, but unbroken. They remind us of nights spent with headphones pressed tight, when the world felt unbearable but the sound gave us shelter. Of long drives with the stereo loud enough to drown out our doubts. Of voices that felt like our own when we had none, guitars that said what we couldn’t, and drums that made our pulse feel less alone.

Rock and metal were never just genres. They were companions. Healers. Weapons. They gave shape to our rage, language to our grief, and wings to our hope. Even as silence swallows the stages and the fire dims, the ruins still breathe. These songs are not nostalgia, they are testimony: proof that what moved us, what healed us, still holds power.

This is "Reverence of the Ruined". Not a farewell, but a bow of gratitude. To the sound that saved us. To the noise that built us. To the ruins that will always remain sacred.

Velvet Static

Static Divide

Reverence of the Ruined

Ashes and Echoes

Hollow Ground

Black Tongue River

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.