Tom Waft spends late nights tinkering in his basement studio in New York, recording songs for an audience of one—himself (...and a population of crickets). He has found, after some trial and error, that writing songs for other people is an exercise in futility. Nobody listens, and honestly, who could blame them? But that’s the joke, isn’t it?

Regardless, Tom hunkers down and plays to the darkness, enjoying moments of solitary sound, because if no one’s listening, there’s no one to disappoint.