About
We first came to the desert to find refuge. Not from the cold, the blazing sun or the howling wind. We came to find refuge from a manufactured world.
You pay a price for freedom in this place, but it’s worth the cost of admission.
The desert doesn’t coddle or console. It watches. It waits. It peels the performance off a person until only the pulse is left. Too much sky. Too much silence. You either start telling the truth or face going back to the system on your knees. JAWBONE came out of that tension — heat, nerve, and instinct.
Out past Twentynine Palms the wind sounds like it’s dragging chains across the desert floor. These 12 songs were born from that dust. Big drums that feel like storms rolling in. Guitars that hop fences and don’t ask permission. Melodies that know better than to behave. Its anthemic rock running wild amperage through rusty barbwire, nail driven folk lyrics with pottery shard teeth, pop that refuses to put on a shine. Nothing unnecessary survives.
I’m releasing this album the way it wants to be heard — one song at a time on the first Friday of every month, for 12 months. Like finding random postcards from a long stretch of forgotten highway. If you follow long enough, you’ll start to see the outline of something bigger; a pattern in the dust — a story about hunger, freedom, tenacity and deliverance. The usual beautiful crimes.
The JAWBONE visual world is a desert hallucination —sun-faded denim, fur coats in 100-degree heat, exposed skin, neon metallic against bone dry sand. It’s feral glamour and patriotic decay colliding in broad daylight: loud, bawdy and unapologetically American. The merch, the videos, the sound — it’s all part of the same fever dream.
The tame should keep their distance. The rest of us will step into the heat and see what survives.