When Zach and I started writing Galatea, I don’t think either of us realized just how deep we were going to go.

 

What began as a loosely sketched concept soon turned into something much more personal... something that felt, at times, like it was writing us as much as we were writing it. The result is a collection of songs that forms a dark kind of nonlinear journey through obsession, longing, the painful process of self-reckoning, and the fragile hope of redemption.

 

As cliché as it may sound, we really did put everything we had into this one. From the writing to the recording to the mixing, it was just the two of us in the studio, chasing this vision down. It’s without question our heaviest work, emotionally and sonically; but also the most honest.

 

Part of that honesty came from the fact that, while this record was taking shape, I was going through a period of major self-inflicted upheaval in my own life. The emotional undercurrents - grief, confusion, hope, shame, regret - all found their way into the music. In some ways, making this album helped me process what I couldn’t yet understand about myself, much less even wanted to.

 

 

The album had kind of an unexpected beginning. I had written a dozen or so songs with the idea of making an album based on a story I had in mind: “a lovelorn serial killer and the heroine redeemer of his dark obsession.” It was a dark concept, but one I felt compelled to explore, both musically and psychologically. I presented the songs to Zach, thinking we might use them as the foundation for the next Widetrack record. He listened and told me he really liked the first two tracks, Saturnine and Red. I was glad to hear that - but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed that the rest of it didn’t land for him the same way.

 

But then something shifted.

 

Zach started writing his own set of instrumental ideas and sent them my way to see if I wanted to add vocals, drums, and lyrics. As soon as I heard them, something lit up inside me. I can’t quite explain it - his ideas tapped into an emotional space I hadn’t even realized I’d been circling around. That’s really what lit the fire that became Galatea. And once we were locked into that creative rhythm, the whole thing just poured out.

 

It never ceases to amaze me, almost in a surreal kind of way, how eerily accurately his songwriting style and creativity have always nailed the exact vibe I was going for - even more than I could ever fully articulate myself. From our very first collaboration when he was only 12 years old, it’s like he’s been able to reach directly into the emotional core of what I was trying to say and bring it to life with uncanny eloquence.

 

That’s what I love most about collaborating, especially with him. It opens up parts of my creativity that I just can’t seem to access on my own. There’s something about our connection, musically and personally, that brings out a deeper truth in the work... one that neither of us could reach without the other.

 

 

As far as the lyrical narrative is concerned, Galatea is the story of a man caught in a destructive cycle of idealization and control. He thinks love means finding someone who fits his image of perfection... someone he can possess completely. Every time that illusion cracks, he lashes out. The women he draws in are "collected", tested, broken, and, finally, discarded.

 

But then, one woman doesn’t break.

 

She sees him for what he is and stays anyway - not out of weakness, but out of strength and compassion. She loves him, but not blindly. And eventually, she draws a line: "I love you, but I can’t fix you."

 

It’s a moment that forces a choice, unraveling into a “tragically positive” resolution that captures the sobering clarity that settles in when the mask finally comes off.

 

One of the things I tried to do with this record was to thread the needle of finding a delicate balance between calling out toxic masculinity and understanding the pain that often fuels it. As someone who knows that mindset from a demographically relevant perspective, I wanted to show what it looks like when someone can’t let go of the fantasies designed to conceal the insecurities of a fragile ego - and what it takes to begin seeing the truth; not just about others, but about oneself.

 

While the title and structure of the album had already taken form, the narrative was still unfolding when I read author Madeline Miller’s Galatea novella. Her afterword in particular helped crystallize something I hadn’t yet been able to put into words. She speaks of Ovid’s version of the myth - how Pygmalion carves the “perfect woman” from ivory because he finds real women impure and unworthy, and how Galatea herself is voiceless, nameless, existing only to satisfy male fantasy. Miller reimagines her with a voice, complexity, and courage, and casts Pygmalion as an archetypal figure representing the kind of man who desires women, yet fears and resents their autonomy.

 

Her insight - particularly the idea that this myth speaks across time to the experience of women who’ve been turned into objects of projection - helped me better understand what I was trying to express. Galatea became not just the story of a man unraveling, but of a woman rising.

 

In the final stretch before our self-imposed deadline, we had the rare luxury of road-testing the material live - a creative gift we hadn’t often had in the past. Rehearsing and eventually performing the songs on stage shaped them in ways the studio alone never could. Two shows in particular proved pivotal: a private concert for our closest friends and family on December 7th, 2024, and a final public performance on December 28th. Both were unforgettable nights that felt like a real turning point for us as a band.

 

 

 

By the time Zach was preparing to leave for Berklee, we had completed the album; literally the day before he left.

 

As we drove to Boston together, we listened to the final mix of Galatea from start to finish. At one point, I turned to him and said, “You know, I hope we get to keep doing this for a long time… but if, for whatever reason, this ended up being the last music I ever made, what an album to go out with.”

 

(Of course, we’re both counting on that not being the case.)

 

After settling him in and saying our goodbyes, I made the long drive back to Michigan alone. Somewhere along the way, the emotional weight of it all hit me - pride in his growth, gratitude for our collaboration, the quiet ache of knowing how much I’d miss him... and the sense that a new chapter was beginning, for both of us.

 

When I finally pulled into the driveway back home, I just sat there for a moment. I let out a long sigh and smiled.

 

 

 

Galatea is more than just our sixth album. It’s a document of a fleeting, formative moment - a creative lightning strike and shared vision pulled out of the shadows and into the light.

 

Whatever the future holds, this album will always mark the point where something clicked - where what we’d been reaching for started to feel within our grasp. It reminded me what’s possible when we commit to the process, trust each other, and follow the thread all the way through.

 

It was a difficult album to make in some ways, but maybe that’s what makes it worth sharing.

 

If you decide to take the journey through it, I hope you find something in it that resonates. Even if it’s just a moment of reflection, or a spark of feeling heard.

 

Thanks so much for listening.

 

– Ron

 

(click on this photo to hear Galatea)