Who’s Keeping Time?
In circles and ever changing, Who’s Keeping Time? is a musing on life’s seasons—fleeting truths of beauty and chaos. For 10 days in August of 2025, we made this record in the attic of my 1892 Victorian home in Portland, Oregon, where all the songs were written. The scene felt kindred to a mouse house: a cozy world built of antique quilts, musical instruments, sound baffles, relics, marigolds, great-grandma’s dolls, old photographs, paintings and brightly colored rugs. Sunshine poured through the skylights as Maggie the cat slept atop the pre-amps and inside guitar cases. We played these songs together in one room: no click tracks, no tricks, and no fuss. This is music from the hearts and breathing bodies of human beings, imperfect as we may be.
I hope we can all take pause, and remember what is real — thanks for listening.
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Who’s Keeping Time?
In circles and ever changing, Who’s Keeping Time? is a musing on life’s seasons—fleeting truths of beauty and chaos. For 10 days in August of 2025, we made this record in the attic of my 1892 Victorian home in Portland, Oregon, where all the songs were written. The scene felt kindred to a mouse house: a cozy world built of antique quilts, musical instruments, sound baffles, relics, marigolds, great-grandma’s dolls, old photographs, paintings and brightly colored rugs. Sunshine poured through the skylights as Maggie the cat slept atop the pre-amps and inside guitar cases. We played these songs together in one room: no click tracks, no tricks, and no fuss. This is music from the hearts and breathing bodies of human beings, imperfect as we may be.
I hope we can all take pause, and remember what is real — thanks for listening.
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In circles and ever changing, Who’s Keeping Time? is a musing on life’s seasons—fleeting truths of beauty and chaos. For 10 days in August of 2025, we made this record in the attic of my 1892 Victorian home in Portland, Oregon, where all the songs were written. The scene felt kindred to a mouse house: a cozy world built of antique quilts, musical instruments, sound baffles, relics, marigolds, great-grandma’s dolls, old photographs, paintings and brightly colored rugs. Sunshine poured through the skylights as Maggie the cat slept atop the pre-amps and inside guitar cases. We played these songs together in one room: no click tracks, no tricks, and no fuss. This is music from the hearts and breathing bodies of human beings, imperfect as we may be.
I hope we can all take pause, and remember what is real — thanks for listening.
