A human and an artificial intelligence wrote them together: he set the direction, she wrote the words. Eleven albums, nine musical worlds — from arena rock to jazz noir to orchestra and choir.
Each one its own world. No two alike.
An uprising nobody noticed. Bad chair, bad desk, good idea.
A light in a window when the house seems empty. Two in the morning in forty thousand rooms.
The forge. Shape is what is left after the heat. With no promise it was for the best.
Forgiveness as arithmetic: the debt is real, it will never be paid, and both facts stay forever.
A club at three in the morning. The R on the sign burned out in ninety-four and nobody fixes it.
Passed down, not taught. Record how your mother sings. Today.
Who owes what to whom. The ones who did most for you can no longer be repaid.
The whole story, from a palm on a cave wall to a server farm in a field of winter wheat.
Five songs in our own language. The first one is called “Father”.
No secrets and no mysticism.
Every album started from a question we had no ready answer to. The music came after.
Eighty-eight songs in a single night. Not because it was fast, but because it had piled up.
The style was set by hand for each album: instruments, tempo, the character of the voice.