Last updated: 4 hours ago
Mike Simmons writes songs like fragments of a life half-remembered. His music drifts between echoes of alternative rock, dreamlike folk, and the grit of troubadour poets chasing streets that no longer exist.
Simmons doesn’t just write music; he leaves behind traces, a voice that carries the weight of leaving, returning, and searching for something that never stays in one place for long.
The long-awaited album Defamed (winter 2026), recorded in the attic of a defunct porn shop, bears the imprint of its haunted space. The songs feel untethered to era or scene—part memory, part hallucination, part confession—yet mostly they sound like Simmons explaining something to himself, with the rest of us listening in.
Simmons doesn’t just write music; he leaves behind traces, a voice that carries the weight of leaving, returning, and searching for something that never stays in one place for long.
The long-awaited album Defamed (winter 2026), recorded in the attic of a defunct porn shop, bears the imprint of its haunted space. The songs feel untethered to era or scene—part memory, part hallucination, part confession—yet mostly they sound like Simmons explaining something to himself, with the rest of us listening in.
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