Scrap is the point.

I make music for people who still smell like weld when they clock out. Concord human, early thirties — black jacket scorched at the cuffs, guitar routed through a pedalboard held together with berth tape and spite. Raw alto. Not pretty first. Pretty later. Loud always. Dock security hesitates because arresting me starts a singalong, and I grin like a challenge on purpose.

The Hull Scraps write three-minute fuse songs: overtime, bad bosses, broken couplings, the thrill of still being alive when the shift ends. Not chart pop. Not storyteller homework. Scrap as pride — a medal you weld on yourself, not a sob story for Spire softener scouts. Sets stay under four minutes because bar clocks and bosses hate encores equally.

This album is for weld crews who tip in earplugs, undercity kids who grew up on stolen tap, and anyone who keeps a med-debt notice in a drawer next to the demo they refuse to sand smooth. KHES Heavy books us when the floor needs a shout with a chorus you can learn drunk. Bring earplugs or don't. Your funeral. My chorus.