Joyeria

Poland, a whisper then. Canada, a wider, emptier space. And then London, the city that swallows the unwanted, makes them its own peculiar ghost. Joyeria, he'd say with a shrug, 'Nobody wants me,' as if that were the simplest explanation for ending up amidst the pigeons and the rain. Fame, a bright, gaudy trinket, traded for the quiet hum of making his own strange noise.

A body built for the rough shove of the ice, heft that could check you into the boards of existence, but the mind clicking like an abacus in a darkened room. His songs, little boxes of shadows and unexpected laughter. They don't fit neatly, these tunes, they have elbows and odd angles. Raw, like a skinned knee. Honest, in the way a chipped teacup holds the stain of too much tea. You listen, and something in your own quiet corners starts to stir, a thought caught in the throat, a picture half-formed in the dim light.

Expect a raw, honest performance that's as thought-provoking as it is captivating.