Hearthscrap by Curbfolk

*Hearthscrap* is the sound of cracked concrete and hard-won hope. We’ve all felt what it’s like to be on the outside looking in, and this album, it’s that long, anxious walk to find a place at the fire. We recorded it rough and ready, letting the city noise bleed in, because the Splay isn’t a clean place, and neither is this music. You’ll hear it from the first strained chords of “The Refused,” where our wanderers get the cold shoulder from every crew, through the scratch of "Scrap Maps" as they plot their way past God-tech whispers on the edge of town. It's the sound of desperate movement, powered by tin-can beats and guitars that refuse to sit still.

This isn’t just a story; it’s the rattle and hum of survival. We put the daily grind into every note on tracks like “Kettle Half-Steam,” where interlocking guitars mirror the jury-rigged life, showing how much effort it takes to keep the kettle spitting. You’ll feel the knot in your gut during “Rifle Strangers,” the tension of unwanted visitors and old slogans echoing a fight we thought was done. The heart of it all is about finding community, even when it’s messy. Listen to the jumble of voices on “Block Meeting Blues” – that’s real democracy, fighting over rain tanks and streetlights, proving how people rebuild meaning from nothing but grit.

But there are quiet moments too, when the light flickers, like in "Gloamlamp Confessions." That’s where stories become currency, shared under a cobbled-together lantern, and a kind word feels like warm bread. It’s the breath before the storm, the moment you realize some kindness still exists. And then, there’s “Scav-Market Singalong.” This is where the whole thing explodes, the culmination of that desperate journey. Every washboard, every stompbox, every battered amp comes alive, pulling you into the crowd's raucous defiance. It's about how music can stitch people together, how an outsider can finally find their voice braided into the communal song of the Splay. We wanted that moment to feel like a riot, pure and unpolished, because finding joy in the ruins *is* a riot.

After the dust settles, there’s the rhythm of belonging in "Barter for Batteries," the delicate dance of trust and trade that keeps things running. And finally, "Half-Mended," where the music itself becomes a patch job, weaving all those frayed edges into something stronger, something that lasts. We believe these tracks, this whole journey, captures what it truly means to exist in a world that’s constantly being rebuilt, piece by broken piece. It’s the raw truth of holding onto hope and dignity, played out on biscuit-tin snares and re-wound strings, sung with voices that are sharp, talky, and absolutely unwilling to give up. This isn't just an album you listen to; it's an album you live, reflecting the spirit of our own makeshift civilization.

We're the ones you find on busted porches, scraping stories from concrete, tin-can percussion in our bones. When the streetlights flicker, our three-chord revolution blooms between broken bricks—fighting for rain tanks and neighbor bread, howling against the cold with patchwork hope.