Volute

Volute, the title track of this album, is a three-part suite that has been simmering in my mind for years, first taking shape as a Facebook post in my early 20s. Back then, I was struck by a simple observation: people care less the further something is from their immediate reality. That idea—of a spiraling, expanding pattern of attention and neglect—became the foundation for this song, woven into both its music and its meaning. Volute explores how our sense of care and responsibility diminishes as distance grows, whether physical, social, or emotional. It’s a reflection on how we obsess over our own spaces—our rooms, our homes—while neglect festers just beyond the doorstep. This contrast is vivid when pristine homes stand meters away from public spaces left in disrepair, a microcosm of how we prioritize the personal over the collective.

But Volute isn’t just about societal patterns—it’s personal too. It digs into shyness, that inward folding we experience when we hesitate to step beyond ourselves. In youth, we crave belonging, often at the cost of our own voice, but over time, a shift happens: we begin to embrace individuality, not erase it. The song’s structure itself mirrors this journey, with a design I haven’t heard elsewhere—Parts I and III share identical lyrics but wield different melodies, while Part II acts as a sonic reset, forcing the listener to lose their bearings before the final transformation. It’s a technique that challenges traditional ideas of repetition and variation, something I imagine AI-generated music could push even further.

Musically, the suite evolves across its three movements: Part I pulses with restraint, Part II lulls with stark monotony, and Part III explodes with unbridled confidence. The shifting drums and soaring vocals propel each section, tracing a path from hesitation to release. Below, I’ve broken down each part to give you a deeper look into what inspired them and how they fit into the whole.

No One Knows - Volute, Pt, I

The Inward Spiral

Part I opens the suite with a sound that’s both alive and restrained—a pulsing rhythm that feels like it’s holding something back. The instruments are taut, the melody coiled, circling itself without breaking free. It’s a musical reflection of tension, of something folding inward rather than expanding outward, setting the stage for the song’s central metaphor.

This girl—partly inspired by a fleeting moment in Grinspoon's Just Ace—

Sweet child, you're such a princess now
I love the rainbow on your brow

radiates vibrancy, her "rainbow" a symbol of bold self-expression. Yet her words loop endlessly, spiraling into themselves. That lyric always stuck with me, not as a throwaway line, but as a vivid snapshot of someone unapologetically themselves. It planted a seed that grew into the character at the heart of Volute.

The louder she speaks, the less clear her meaning becomes, mirroring how we can get lost in our own reflections, polishing the image we want the world to see while ignoring what lies beneath.

The lyrics paint a picture of fading clarity. The "veils of vapor" suggest something intangible slipping away, while "shadows sinking" hint at neglect creeping in. The closer we examine our curated realities, the more cracks we find—but we rarely linger long enough to fix them.

The refrain drives this home with a relentless, melodically catchy almost mechanical edge.

The meaning lies in emotional and societal reflexes. We sweep problems aside, smooth over doubts, and pretend they’re gone. But they don’t vanish; they pile up in the corners we refuse to face. The rhythm here is aggressive, pushing the listener to feel that urgency, that denial.

Then the lens widens. From the individual to the collective, the pattern repeats. The "silver scars" evoke a city’s history—beautiful yet marred—while its "wounds bared" reveal what’s been ignored. I’ve seen this in places like Bangalore and Bombay, but also Bendigo and Ballarat —cities I love for their energy, resilience, and depth. Their streets pulse with life, their histories layered in every worn facade and bustling market. Yet, like so many places, they wrestle with a divide: homes gleam with care, while public spaces struggle under the weight of shared neglect. Part I ends here, suspended in this tension—aware of the spiral, but not yet breaking it.

Nobody Knows - Volute, Pt, II

The Spiral Breaks

Part II shifts gears entirely. Where Part I pulses, this section settles into a stark, monotonous groove—a hypnotic, looping beat reminiscent of a club track that never evolves. It’s intentional: the music lulls you, numbs you, wipes away the intensity of what came before. It’s a reset, a disorienting interlude that forces you to lose your place in the story.

The lyrics turn inward, drawing experiences of shyness, a feeling of being trapped. I’ve been that person, head down, breath held, trying to speak but drowned out by the noise around me. The "swirl of voices" is overwhelming, a crowd that swallows any attempt to break through.

This is the moment of retreat. The "murmur" is a voice—mine, yours—that never finds its footing. The party keeps moving, but I’m static, folding inward like the spiral from Part I. The music amplifies this: the vocals blur into the beat, sometimes not even intelligible, as if they’re being erased by the monotony.

Part II ties back to the song’s broader theme—shyness as a personal echo of societal neglect. Just as we push external problems out of sight, we suppress our own voices, building walls instead of bridges. This section is a mirror to how we lose ourselves in the noise of the world. By breaking the suite’s flow, it primes you for the confidence of the now familiar lyrics of Part III.

Nothing’s Clean - Volute, Pt, III

The Outward Spiral

Part III hits like a revelation. After the restraint of Part I and the haze of Part II, this section unleashes everything. The lyrics are identical to Part I, but they’re reborn. The boldness of the music has a swagger and a conviction. It is melodically expansive, the vocals soaring with a confidence that feels earned. The drums surge, the beats are bolder, pushing the music higher, transforming what was once coiled into something unbound.

What was once hesitant now rings with authority. That girl’s "loud circles" aren’t convoluted anymore—they’re a declaration, a refusal to be ignored. The melody lifts these words, giving them wings where they once stumbled.

The refrain, once resigned, turns defiant. It’s no longer about hiding—it’s about confronting what we’ve pushed away. The vocal attack here is fierce, the rhythm insistent, as if the song itself is breaking free of its own spiral.

This isn’t passive anymore—it’s a call to see the scars and the life together, to stop turning away. The music swells, carrying the listener to a place of clarity.

The song spirals toward its core, reaching it in the bridge.

And what of the tide
The crush, the swell
We see the spiral but not ourselves

We shape it as much as it shapes us. Part III doesn’t tie things up neatly; it leaves you with a question, a push to reflect on your own place in these patterns.

Volute is an experiment in form and feeling. Its structure—repeating lyrics with shifting melodies—subverts how we experience repetition, proving that meaning isn’t static. It’s a reflection on distance and connection, on how self-discipline and perception shape our realities. It asks: Are we trapped in the spiral, or are we the ones turning it?

Each part of Volute is available in isolation on the album, so you can dive into any single section on its own. But I recommend listening all the way through—the full suite is where the story lives, where the transformation from hesitation to release unfolds.