Freaque is for the derelicts, the heretics, the tree stumps, and those who live on the fringes of society. A tattered voice, made of strung out words, hung to dry over broken chords on his mother’s piano. His songs range from the kind of folk and blues you find in graveyards and gardens, to fuller grooves you can find in swamps, sewers, and junkyards. In a wooden womb of darkness, he took what he had and rose above a society that constantly tells us we are not enough, that we’re only worth the possessions we own, the money in our bank accounts, and our body's abilities. We do not have to conform to societal standards to be valued as human beings. That is why he creates music and art.