lori jean

Songs. Stories. Soot.

Lori Jean doesn’t just write songs—she collects them like bones, like old letters, like the soot left behind from burning pages torn out of her own journals. Her music doesn’t fit neatly into genres (and she’s not trying to). Rooted in folk, tangled with poetry, her songs sound like pages pulled from the underbelly of a life fully lived—love, grief, heartbreak, soul longing, and the terrible ache of being human.

She’s the kind of artist who asks, “Is this in service to the muse?” Not, “Will this chart?” That’s why her music shapeshifts—from stripped-down folk ballads to haunting soundscapes that refuse to stay in their lane.

But the songs don’t stop at the guitar. Lori’s storytelling spills into essays, poetry, video, and even gardening—each piece a companion, a ghost, a thread leading deeper into the labyrinth of her creativity, and her life as she lives it daily. Her work isn’t just a catalog. It’s a landscape. A place to wander, to linger, to get lost.

In a world obsessed with branding and tidy categories, Lori Jean is busy blurring the lines, blurring the paint, blurring the edges between song and story, art and life.

With her guitar in hand and soot on her boots, she invites you in. Not to be entertained. To feel something. To remember something. To leave marked.