Every musician has a folder. A folder that lives somewhere on a hard drive, in the cloud, in phone notes — hidden from managers, producers, labels. It holds sketches too personal for an album, too raw for a single. Most artists treat recordings like these as diaries: they revisit them every six months, wince, close the file. Some hit delete — manuscripts burned. Only a rare few dare to pull these recordings into the light, piece something whole together from scattered pages, and hand it over to a listener. Jake Dryzal and his new solo album “Untogether“ — a record built entirely from tracks that were left behind by official releases.

Material entrusted to an online diary — a private space where the artist stored thoughts, melodies, guitar phrases — was given a second life. Dryzal reworked these recordings, experimented with instruments, acoustics, and guitar textures, and released the result into the world. The title itself — “Untogether” — is an honest declaration of the record’s nature: what is collected here originally existed in isolation, in different moods, on different days, for different reasons.

For the record, projects like these have their own designation — albums made from “leftovers” are a separate genre with a reputation to match. They usually sound exactly as described: fragmented, crumbly, carrying the sensation of rummaging through someone else’s desk drawer. Bonus tracks, deluxe editions, fan-only rarities — this entire category of music exists with the tag “for completists only.” “Untogether,” despite its own title, sounds cohesive. Eight tracks line up into a fairly straightforward route — a day that begins on the shores of the Maldives and ends in the same place, already wrapped in dusk.

The opening track, “Chariot,” sets the tone for the entire journey. A slow, acoustic, meditative song — a chariot rolling along the edge of dawn. Guitar textures create the feeling of that pre-sunrise moment when candles burn down and the horizon is only beginning to flush pink. What reigns here is absolute calm — focused, almost ritualistic. The track functions as an overture: it promises magic that is about to happen and holds the listener in anticipation.

“East Rutherford“ picks up the relay after sunrise. The guitars multiply, the dynamics build, Jake Dryzal’s voice fills the space — tender yet assured. This is a morning track, a coffee track, an awakening track: the sun climbs above the coast, and the song climbs with it. The optimism here sounds organic because it grows out of the melody and sprouts through the arrangement in a completely natural way.

“Lake Michigan“ begins from a distance — an approaching folk ballad that leads through urban landscapes toward a mystical lake. The bustle of a freshly awakened city gradually dissolves into the contemplative stillness of the water’s surface. The sky draws over with light clouds, the atmosphere shifts — and with it the guitar fabric shifts too, growing more transparent, thinner.

On “To the Park,” the density of the guitar sound returns. This is a song-as-memory, a descent into an abandoned childhood park where everything has changed but the echo of old days remains. Swings, carousel horses, enormous pines — Dryzal resurrects these images through an acoustic ballad, calm yet filled with motion.

“Going Downwards“ is the midday peak of the album. A bright, dynamic, richly layered track in which the rhythm of life accelerates but stays comfortable. What sounds here is full-bodied afternoon energy: people discussing plans, someone playing guitar in the park, the sun standing at its zenith. The track is filled with movement, but a relaxed kind of movement — a stroll after lunch rather than any other form of drive.

“Corridor 9“ shimmers with rain-soaked lyricism. A gentle introduction gradually transitions into optimistic dynamics that balance on the edge of drama. This is where the album’s diary-born nature reveals itself most vividly: insistent guitar arpeggios wrapped in a light acoustic haze conjure the image of a springtime corridor — an alley where dreams become tangible. Romantic, persistent, carrying the taste of rain on the lips — one of the most multi-layered tracks on the record.

“Alcohol Is Not an Answer“ stands apart from the general current of contemplative ballads. It is a conversation between friends — strong and constructive — a manifesto track urging the abandonment of a harmful habit in favor of new dimensions of life. Dynamic, warm, embracing — it carries a hidden light that registers almost physically. Among the album’s soft folk sketches, this song lands like a friend’s hand on your shoulder.

The closing “Green Eyes“ returns the listener to the shores of the Maldives, this time just before sunset. The sun rolls toward the horizon, azure waves sway underfoot, the silhouette of a palm tree drifts in the distance. Guitar riffs draw the listener into calm reflections on the day just lived, and the meditative ballad closes the circle begun by “Chariot.” The dynamics slow toward the end, inviting dissolution into an aftertaste — warm, content, complete.

“Untogether” is an album with a paradox at its core. It is assembled from scattered recordings, memories, drafts — and yet it sounds more unified than many records written according to a single plan. One might ask: is there enough variety here? Eight tracks in one stylistic lane — light folk, acoustic textures, ballad structures — sometimes risk merging into one long meditation. The uniformity of tone is the very trait that serves as both the album’s greatest strength and its only vulnerable point. There are moments where you crave a sharp turn, an unexpected instrument, a rough-edged texture — something to jolt you out of a sweet drowse.

To my ear, it is precisely this uniformity that creates the effect for which the album deserves to be heard in full. “Untogether” operates as a single canvas, as one continuous shot forty minutes long. Break away — and the magic scatters. Surrender to it — and you find yourself on a coastline where time decelerates and daily concerns retreat beyond the horizon. This is one person’s confession spoken into the dark, offered to the listener in its entirety — with a trust that is rarely found in music aimed at a broad audience.

The path from “Chariot” to “Green Eyes” — forty minutes, eight tracks. Jake Dryzal turned his diary inside out and discovered that the scattered pages fold into a story. And this story — calm, warm, threaded through with acoustic light — deserves to be heard to its very last second.

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