Pour the treaty wine. Keep the swing honest.

I make music because a treaty lounge should still know how to swing after the memos die. Warm gravel vocal. Modulated brass with subharmonic valves. Brushed drums. Upright bass. Horn opens; I enter verse one like an attaché who ditched the briefing on purpose. Joyful melancholy. Scat when the floor asks. Not elevator smoothness. Not rock guitars. Not disco command.

Treaty Wine. Shore Leave Swing. Queue Position Blues. Orbital Saints — musicians on the floor, not chapel furniture. Canines at Rest is flirt humor. Last Call Brass is tip-the-trumpet or go home lonely. One Navy Ghost March for a paycheck was enough seasoning — royalties regret, not a parade. Embassy comedy and shore-leave countdowns. History can be someone else's problem while the horn still swings.

This album is for Speakeasy embassy air, Meridian Wire after midnight, KLAG Dance when the hips want swing instead of a lecture, and anyone whose clipboard is still on the chair. Velvet booths that remember dance tiles. Pour the treaty wine. Keep the swing honest.