About

I am Remy Holt. Concord human, thirty-one — baseline height, black jacket scorched at the cuffs, guitar routed through a pedalboard held together with berth tape and spite. My voice is raw alto. Not pretty first. Pretty later. Loud always. Dock security hesitates because cuffing me starts a singalong, and I grin like a challenge on purpose. The Hull Scraps is the name the undercity stuck on us when the amps were stolen fair and the set still finished under four minutes.

I grew up on stolen tap and shift bells. Mother's med debt still sits in a drawer next to a softened demo I refuse to play — not theater, not a ballad marathon, just a bill that won't leave. Label scouts want weaker lyrics. I answer with feedback and a grin that is not friendly. Weld crews get thanked between songs. Cheap strings get smashed. People do not.

Hull Scraps is scrap worn like a medal. Shift Ends is the lie the bell tells about freedom. Plasma Borrowed is tool-theft heat without naming names. Overtime Romance is sparks on a visor and a kiss you weren't supposed to afford on this wage. Brass Vein Nights is pit heat without a tourist brochure. Label Softener is me saying no loud enough that pity can't talk over it.

We tour undercity clubs and mining-station bars on Brass Vein runouts — rooms that smell like weld and cheap pours. Not chart pop. Not storyteller homework. Three-minute fuse songs: overtime, bad bosses, broken couplings, the thrill of still being alive when the shift ends. Opening slots get the same volume war as headliners. If they wanted quiet openers, they hired wrong.

KHES 91.3 Corridor Heavy books us when the floor needs a shout with a chorus you can learn drunk. Junkers still spin the early cuts. Catch Hull Scraps when the amp is warm and the scrap is still proud. Bring earplugs or don't. Your funeral. My chorus.

Find the music on Corridor Radio — KHES 91.3. Between sets, notes land on the Scrap Log. Squawk: @remy_holt.