We grew up listening to our parent's record collections. Big white cans with a black curly cord connected to pioneer systems, each component divided by glass and too heavy for a young boy to lift. It's a memory we all share as a band. Music was a process, it was something to touch, feel, smell and protect. It was also a gateway to another world. Falling asleep on the floor, cans on, connected. It's a vivid memory we all keep and one that remained with us as we created our own record. Our wish is for people to exist in the music, feel the songs, hear the lyrics, and fall asleep on the floor, connected. Although we've become victims to the pace of our world, where nothing lasts and the water is shallow, we chose to take a dive, to the bottom. It matters not that the music won't sell, that we most likely will never recoup the true cost of our story and labour. What matters is that the music exists, and it did not before. The stories exist, the feelings are legitimate, the experience is real and forever, and we shared it. Good Grief carries great meaning and reconnects us to another time that holds memories of the spark that is now a raging inferno. From little kids bewildered by the magic of music and song, to now, as grown adults with children of our own and more than ever in awe of the power of music as an outlet to the daily grind and rigors associated with the passing of time. The connection is legitimate, the timing fortunate, the content mirrored by the reality of life. More than ever before we feel proud of this work, protective like a parent and unhinged from the burden of success. We'll forever lie on the floor, cans on, with the music in our ears. We hope you do the same and find your reflection along the way.