This record is a time capsule.
Collected here are the songs that survived the road trips, the dead hard drives, the late nights in desert towns and rainy forests. They’re the ones people kept asking for after shows, the ones that caught a little fire online, the ones that wouldn’t let go — of me or anyone else.
Some were recorded in vans. Some in cabins. Some on borrowed gear with the clock ticking. All of them came from the same place: a need to say something real, something beautiful, something weird enough to feel true.
I don’t know if these are hits in the traditional sense. But they’ve hit me, and they’ve hit others. That’s enough for now.
Thanks for listening.
— Max Lee, 2025
Max Lee never really arrived on the scene — he emerged from the haze like a broadcast from a distant star. Somewhere between the hush of dawn and the hum of broken amps, Max stumbled out of a restless sleep one morning, heart pounding with unwritten songs and unfinished thoughts. The band he was tethered to, Calm Mind, was still carving its sound into magnetic tape — but Max had something else humming under his skin. In 2018, with a quiet urgency and a wild glint in his eye, he dropped Colors of Noise, a solo signal flare that lit up the outer edges of the underground.