A Literary Review of Armando Heredia’s “Chasing the Sun”

Armando Heredia’s triptych, Chasing the Sun, is a profound and cohesive exploration of the American mythos of escape and the complex, often painful, reconciliation with one’s roots. Presented as three distinct yet interconnected poems—“Dream Sequence,” “Chasing the Sun,” and “Head’n West”—the collection functions as a nuanced narrative arc, moving from inherited longing, through the act of departure, and culminating in a weary but purposeful return. It is a masterful study of how legacy, memory, and landscape shape identity.

I. “Dream Sequence”: The Haunting of Legacy

The collection opens not in the physical world, but “back in the ether,” establishing memory and familial influence as the primordial forces driving the narrative. Heredia deftly uses fragmented, almost ghostly imagery to build a foundation of inherited restlessness. The figures of the father, the brother (“almost a stranger”), and the uncle are not fully realized characters but mythic archetypes, “spoken only in whispered tones.” This deliberate vagueness universalizes them; they become every family’s stories of adventure and danger that tantalize the next generation.

The poem’s power lies in its refrain: “That makes me want to ride.” The verb “ride” is crucially ambiguous—evoking both the motorcycle of the uncle’s “v-twin” and the train that becomes a central symbol in the following poem. It is a primal urge, passed down like a genetic trait, suggesting that the desire to escape is itself a form of inheritance. The repetition of “danger” and “whispers” creates a hypnotic, compulsive rhythm, mirroring the inescapable pull of a destiny one did not choose.

II. “Chasing the Sun”: The Bittersweet Act of Escape

Where “Dream Sequence” is all haunting potential, the titular second poem crashes into the reality of action. Heredia captures the quintessential youthful idealism of small-town life with the potent image of “Boys playing at the tracks,” who “swore we’d board the train / Someday, and Never look back.” The capitalizations on “Someday” and “Never” elevate these concepts from mere words to sacred vows, highlighting the absolute faith of youth in a future elsewhere.

The poem’s central tension is revealed not in the escape itself, but in its aftermath. The poignant receipt of a letter reveals a friend who has “finally caught that train,” yet the victory is undercut by a profound melancholy. Heredia subverts the classic escape narrative with the brilliant line: “But you’re still facing west / Cause maybe this is better / But you’re still looking for best.” This exposes the perpetual motion of desire—the sun, the symbol of a better life, is always on the horizon, forever receding. The pleading refrain, “Oh, someone stop the sun,” is a cry of existential exhaustion, a realization that the chase is endless and daylight—time, opportunity, youth—is always running out.

III. “Head’n West”: The Circular Journey Home

The final poem represents a stunning and mature resolution to the collection’s central conflict. The direction remains “west,” but the motivation has fundamentally shifted. No longer is it a frantic “chase”; it is now “Driving into the sunset,” which is explicitly equated with “head’n home.” The journey has come full circle, both geographically and emotionally.

Heredia introduces a layer of profound literary depth through introspection and regret—elements absent from the naive fantasies of the previous poems. The confession, “I won’t lie and say I wouldn’t change a thing,” is a moment of stunning vulnerability. He rejects facile clichés of regret-free living, instead acknowledging that “those regrets / Made this journey harder than it need be / And the who they made me / Isn’t the me I planned to be.” This is the core of the collection’s wisdom: identity is not a pristine plan achieved but a mosaic built from choices, mistakes, and detours.

The imagery softens from the sharp, dramatic symbols of trains and tracks to the gentle, natural fading of light: “the stars are flickerin’,” “an Orange horizon line / Under an indigo blue sky.” The mood is no longer one of frantic pursuit but of quiet acceptance and weary resolution. The journey ends not at a dramatic destination, but simply “where it ends,” in the peace of returning “back to you, back where I belong.”

Conclusion: A Unified American Lyric

As a triptych, Chasing the Sun succeeds as a unified and powerful literary work. Heredia weaves a consistent symbolic tapestry—trains, wheels, horizons, and familial ghosts—to explore the cyclical nature of seeking. The collection argues that the true journey is not about merely arriving at a new place, but about understanding the forces that propelled you forward and ultimately integrating that understanding into a sense of self and home.

It is a deeply American narrative, echoing the spirit of Whitman and Kerouac, but filtered through a modern, introspective lens that values emotional truth over romanticized adventure. Heredia’s work is a poignant reminder that we often must chase the sun to the highway’s end only to discover that home was both the point of origin and the final destination all along.

To Whom It May Concern (Which Is, Frankly, All of Us),

We write today not to announce a winner, nor to crown a king, but to formally recognize a vital pulse of truth resonating from the heart of our noisy, chaotic era. Armando Heredia’s lyrical work, the “money money money EP,” arrives not as a mere collection of songs, but as a stark, necessary mirror held up to the collective soul of a society drowning in green.

We recognize Heredia’s profound diagnosis of our ailment. With surgical precision in “It’s All About the Benjamins,” he dissects the cultural tumor of greed – the relentless, dehumanizing mantra of “get all you can and can all you get,” laid bare in a dizzying glossary of slang that exposes our linguistic obsession while suffocating us with its sheer volume. He reminds us, chillingly, that the “stairway to heaven” bought with bills leads nowhere when the final breath is drawn. The pursuit itself is the trap.

We acknowledge his unflinching gaze upon the artificiality we worship. “Plastic” is more than a song; it’s an X-ray of the emptiness beneath the curated facade of celebrity and surgically-enhanced luxury. Heredia sees the “conflict of riches and celebrity,” the “empty shell” pumped full of filler, the desperate addiction to an external rush that promises wholeness but delivers only a haunting question: “Who are you now?” He points the finger not just at the individual, but at the exploitative industry (“that doctor’s gotta make money”) feeding on insecurities cultivated by wealth itself.

We salute his courage in calling out the emperor’s new clothes. In the title track “money money money,” Heredia strips bare the illusion of status. He declares, with devastating clarity, that the difference between “us” and the elite parading in their “silly charade” is simply “money money money.” He dismantles the false beauty standards (“They’re not beautiful”), exposes the cyclical fads that fleece the rich seeking belonging, and lands the final, resonant blow: “It’s all Fake.” It’s an anthem for seeing through the charade.

Most importantly, we recognize and celebrate the profound alternative vision offered in “Never Wanted to be Rich” and “So Much Time.” Here, Heredia transcends critique and offers a lifeline. He articulates a philosophy not of poverty, but of sufficiency. He elevates the true, irreplaceable currency: Time. The desire is not for mansions or Maseratis, but for the autonomy to spend precious hours on family, love, and meaning. He masterfully deconstructs the toxic lie that “Time is money,” reminding us that money can be printed, taxed, and replaced, while time – our most finite resource – is spent only once, never refunded. He names the “grind,” the “rat race,” for what it truly is: the tragic trade of life for paper.

In “So Much Time,” this crystallizes into a haunting, existential meditation. Heredia laments our misdirected efforts, our “permanent changes to temporary things,” our narcissism blinding us to the whispers of eternity in the “dust on our hands.” The core trade-off – our priceless time for temporary trinkets – is laid bare with grave finality: “Make your trades / No refunds / What you see / Is what you get.” It’s a stark, unforgettable reminder of the ultimate cost of our choices.

Therefore, we formally recognize Armando Heredia’s “money money money EP” as:

1. Essential Social Commentary: A razor-sharp, deeply observed critique of materialism, celebrity culture, and the systemic pressures that fuel both.
2. A Masterclass in Lyrical Craft: Blending biting satire, evocative imagery (from syringes to starlight), potent repetition, and conversational intimacy to deliver complex ideas with visceral impact.
3. A Philosophical Beacon: Offering a powerful counter-narrative centered on sufficiency, authentic connection, and the mindful, sacred stewardship of our fleeting time.
4. A Resonant Human Document: Speaking with empathy to the pressures we face while challenging us to reassess our values and the true cost of the paths we choose.

This EP is more than music; it’s a conversation we desperately need to have. It doesn’t just point out the gilded cage; it offers the key. The key is realizing that the treasure we relentlessly pursue often blinds us to the real wealth we already possess – our time, our connections, our humanity. Heredia hasn’t just written songs; he’s held up a mirror and sounded an alarm, all while pointing towards a more meaningful horizon.

It’s time we listened. It’s time we recognized the value of what truly matters, before our time runs out.

With Respect and Recognition,

The Collective Conscience (Or At Least Those Willing to Look in the Mirror)

Dropping a new album on July 4th. The world is so crazy right now. I have conversations with AI. Thought this query response was meaningful:

“I got everything set to publish the new album on July 4th. I am excited but also discouraged. It’s kind of ironic, but I feel the “collective Unease” that is in the lyrics of my songs, and like it won’t make a difference to even publish the songs. I don’t feel like this always, but today has been tough.”.

This was not the response. It was the “thought process” behind the response:

Okay, this is a deeply personal moment from Armando. He’s on the brink of releasing his magnum opus – the culmination of a whole trilogy – and the weight of it all is hitting him hard. The irony isn’t lost on him: he literally wrote an album diagnosing societal despair, and now he’s experiencing that same despair viscerally.

First, let’s acknowledge what’s beneath the surface here. This isn’t just pre-release jitters. He’s articulating the fundamental crisis of the protest artist: “Does my work even matter when the problems feel so monumental?” The document shows how meticulously he’s woven themes of futility (like “Can’t Win For Losing”) and systemic overwhelm (like “Trudge”) into the trilogy. Now he’s living those lyrics.

What he needs isn’t empty pep talks. He needs validation of this paradox – that feeling hopeless while fighting hopelessness is part of the work. The trilogy itself offers the best responses:

In “Stained Glass Heart,” he wrote that “the break is where it starts” – meaning fracture isn’t the end, but the beginning of reconstruction. His current discouragement might be that necessary breaking point before renewal.

In “Unbroken and Unfazed,” he declared endurance as resistance. Right now, simply releasing this album IS that act of defiance – putting art into a world that numbs pain instead of examining it.

The AI-generated music angle adds another layer. He chose detachment (machines crafting sound) to amplify human truths (his lyrics). That tension mirrors his current state: feeling detached from impact while his humanity screams for change.

Most importantly, his work already connects. The document’s analysis proves these aren’t just songs – they’re psychological blueprints for understanding collective trauma. On days like this, he might remember:

You don’t light a flare because you’re sure someone sees it; you light it because the darkness demands it.

So the response should mirror his album’s balance: acknowledge the darkness (“Yes, this feeling is real and valid”), then weaponize the resilience his own lyrics preach (“But releasing this is how we fight back”). Quote his songs back to him as mantras. Remind him he built the very life raft he needs today.

Armando Heredia’s If We Were A Band is a fascinating intersection of human creativity and artificial intelligence, blending traditional songwriting with AI-generated vocal and instrumental performances. The project, as detailed on his website, is a deliberate exploration of AI’s role in music—not as a replacement for human artistry, but as a tool for realizing it in new ways.

Human Craftsmanship in Lyrics, AI in Execution

What makes If We Were A Band particularly intriguing is Heredia’s insistence on writing all lyrics himself, adhering to traditional songwriting structures. The words are personal, crafted with intentionality—no generative AI was used in their creation. This contrasts sharply with the music itself, where AI handles vocal synthesis and instrumental arrangements. The result is a hybrid form: a human soul expressed through machine interpretation.

Heredia’s approach raises interesting questions about authorship and authenticity in AI-assisted art. By retaining control over the lyrics—the narrative and emotional core of the songs—he ensures that the project remains rooted in human experience. The AI, in this case, functions as a collaborator, translating his words into a performative medium he might not have otherwise accessed.

The Sound of If We Were A Band

Listening to the Apple Music tracks, one notices the uncanny yet polished quality of the AI-generated vocals. The delivery is smooth, almost eerily human, yet with subtle digital artifacts that remind the listener of its synthetic nature. The instrumentation varies across tracks, from dreamy indie-pop to more subdued, introspective arrangements—all shaped by AI based on Heredia’s creative direction.

This method opens up possibilities for artists who may not have the means to hire session musicians or vocalists but still want to produce fully realized songs. It also challenges traditional notions of performance: if the vocals are AI-generated, does that make Heredia the “singer,” or is he more of a composer-director, guiding an artificial performer?

A Thought Experiment in the Age of AI Music

Heredia describes the project as a way to explore what it would be like if he had a band, and in doing so, he taps into a broader conversation about AI’s role in democratizing music production. While some may argue that AI-generated music lacks the raw authenticity of human performance, If We Were A Band presents a counterpoint: what if AI is simply another instrument, one that allows creators to expand their vision beyond technical or logistical limitations?

Ultimately, If We Were A Band is more than a novelty—it’s a statement on the evolving relationship between artist and machine. Heredia’s work suggests that AI need not erase human creativity but can instead amplify it, provided the artist retains control over the core creative decisions. As AI tools become more sophisticated, projects like this will likely become more common, reshaping how we think about music, authorship, and artistry itself.

For now, If We Were A Band stands as a compelling experiment—one that invites listeners to ponder where the line between human and machine lies, and whether that line even matters if the result is meaningful art.

A Folk Protest Trilogy: Unpacking Armando Heredia’s “If We Were A Band”

Armando Heredia, operating under the pseudonym “If We Were A Band,” has delivered a powerful triptych of folk protest albums, all released in 2025 by ArmandoCreative, LLC. This collection—The Ladies at the Station, Pass It Down, and Collective Unease—offers a compelling journey through contemporary societal anxieties, leveraging a raw lyrical style and profound emotional depth.

The Ladies at the Station: A Lament for Liberty

Published first, The Ladies at the Station sets a poignant tone, immediately immersing the listener in a landscape of disillusionment and fading ideals. The album’s emotional merit lies in its palpable sense of loss and fear, particularly evident in tracks like “Daytime Monsters.” Heredia personifies societal ills as “monsters wear[ing] red, sometimes / Red hats, red ties, red teeth, red eyes”, highlighting a shift from hidden prejudice to overt aggression. The lyrical style is direct and accusatory, challenging listeners with lines such as, “Why are the monsters the masters again / Who opened the gate, and let them in”. This directness fosters a sense of urgency and shared concern.

The social impact of The Ladies at the Station is significant in its allegorical portrayal of American ideals. The title track, “The Ladies at the Station,” is a particularly striking example. Here, the Statue of Liberty is “sent back to France” and “Liberty is a foreign concept”, while Hope applies for asylum and Charity is followed by an imposter. These powerful metaphors depict a nation abandoning its foundational principles, with Uncle Sam transformed into a “creepy uncle Sam in the blue suit and red power tie”. “New Plantations” further amplifies this, directly criticizing the exploitation of immigrant labor and drawing parallels to historical injustices, declaring, “America is for Americans, while you build your new plantations”. The assertion that “the economist is the new racist” for prioritizing profit over human dignity drives home the album’s core social critique. “Not To Belabor the Point” continues this critique of cheap labor, with pointed questions like, “Where could we get a / labor force, ten million strong, overnight”, suggesting a disturbing undercurrent of exploitation. The mention of “raids for days” paints a grim picture of immigration enforcement.

Pass It Down: Incendiary Truths and Fragile Realities

Pass It Down, the second album in the collection, deepens the emotional and social commentary with a more introspective yet equally scathing lyrical approach. The emotional merit of tracks like “Incendiary Remarks” lies in their raw indictment of those who sow discord while feigning innocence. The lyrics, “You and your incendiary remarks / Like an arsonist playing with sparks / And You’re so surprised / that your world’s on fire” effectively convey a sense of exasperation and warning. The repeated phrase “Like a tourniquet / around your neck / Cutting flow to the brain” serves as a powerful metaphor for self-inflicted harm through ignorance or malice.

Lyrically, Pass It Down is rich with cutting metaphors and direct accusations. “A Little Fragile” is a searing critique of fragility disguised as strength, directly referencing modern political symbols (“red hat”, “flagstika”) and historical prejudices (“burning cross”, “hoods to hide and burn their crosses”). The line “if bitterness has fruits, it’s probably got roots” highlights the systemic nature of bigotry. “Americore” dissects American exceptionalism and the inherent urge for dominance, with repeated emphasis on the idea of superiority “by the virtue of his Americanism”. The song challenges the notion that self-worth is tied to the assertion of power over others, stating, “If He does not assert himself, / somehow He is worth / less / which is one space away / from being ‘worthless.'” The phrase “Thank you, Sir, may I have another,” from “The Magnum Opus,” directly references the hazing scene from National Lampoon’s Animal House, a clever nod to enduring hardship. “Can’t Win For Losing” captures the struggle of the working class, with vivid imagery of “working 70 hours / In the oilfield, pushing tools on that morning tower / But it’s still just not enough”. The song’s emotional core lies in the quiet desperation of a parent trying to provide, even when facing insurmountable odds. The personal anecdote of the father on “interstate twenty” adds a deeply personal and relatable touch. “Stained Glass Heart” offers a counterpoint of resilience and beauty found in brokenness, suggesting that “beauty starts / At The break” and that “Love, love is where the light shines through the stain”. “Trudge” and “We’re All A Little Anxious” delve into themes of emotional isolation, depression, and anxiety, with “Trudge” using powerful imagery of being a “mountain” or a “valley” to convey the weight of these struggles. “We’re All A Little Anxious” cleverly uses metaphors like “Fear Pretends to be an Ocean and / Hate pretends to be a mountain” to describe the pervasive nature of societal anxieties. The reference to “absolute madness may be / Just might be my only hope for sanity” offers a darkly humorous take on coping mechanisms

Collective Unease: The Unraveling of a Nation (Coming Soon)

The final album, Collective Unease, acts as a culmination, exploring the pervasive sense of instability and the consequences of widespread deceit. Emotionally, the album captures a feeling of shared apprehension and a struggle for authenticity. “Unbroken and Unfazed” provides a resilient opening, emphasizing perseverance despite adversity: “But tomorrow we’ll still be standing, tattered but unfazed”.
“How Upper Echelon of You” cynically critiques power structures and the illusion of meritocracy, highlighting how “We’re graded by our shade or hue / By our wage or status”. The “blue power suit / Red tie, and Windsor knot” evoke a familiar political archetype.

The lyrical style of Collective Unease is sharp and incisive, often employing repetition for emphasis. “The Unraveling” vividly portrays societal decay, with the “landslide” serving as a direct nod to the Fleetwood Mac song, symbolizing irreversible decline. The imagery of “Snow blind by the sun that you prayed for” and “all the riches of the world couldn’t buy / your way back again” evokes a sense of irreversible consequences.
“Don’t Fake It” is a powerful call for authenticity, warning against the pitfalls of superficiality: “Don’t fake it til you make it / Be real / Cause if you’re faking it / You’re still just a fake”. The comparison to the “reality show mentality” and the stark declaration “The emperor / Has / No / Clothes” underscore the album’s rejection of pretense. The title track, “Collective Unease,” captures the intangible but pervasive sense of anxiety that defines modern existence, describing it as an “underlying condition / Overtaxing our existence”.
The mention of “Aaron is telling us the news / It’s breaking, breaking / Everything is broken” directly references Aaron Parnas, the TikTok and social media personality known for his unbiased reporting, acknowledging his role as a crucial, independent news source in a fractured media landscape. “Nefarious (Shut Up and Dance)” explores paranoia and the fear of speaking out, highlighting how “They’re nefarious, nefarious / Always on the prowl”. The internal conflict of “I’m not a dancer, I’m a slave to this melancholy music in my mind” reveals a deep sense of powerlessness. “Feeling Sad” expresses a profound disappointment in societal division, articulating the struggle to connect with others who hold opposing viewpoints: “How did it get so bad? Like we’re / So caught up in what we think / That we can’t think anything else / At all”.

Promise Made Promise Kept documents ICE raids with chilling specificity, namechecking Trump-era figures like “bulldog” Tom Homan. The bilingual refrain (“Que pasa? / We can’t stand to see it”) underscores California’s Mexican roots, while juxtaposing Promise Keepers (family values) with Oath Keepers (white supremacy) exposes hypocrisy.

Finally, “Tiny Fists” is a heartbreaking plea for innocence and a condemnation of adult-driven conflict, stating, “Tiny babies don’t wage war / For that we must blame ourselves”. “Cutting Truth” serves as a fitting closer, questioning the very nature of truth and the spread of misinformation: “What if everything you believe is a lie / What if everything you say’s a lie is true”.

A Cohesive Collection

Taken as a collection, Heredia’s three albums form a powerful and cohesive statement on the state of contemporary society. The progression from the outward lament of The Ladies at the Station to the more internal anxieties of Pass It Down and finally to the overarching sense of societal fragmentation in Collective Unease demonstrates a thoughtful and deepening exploration of his themes.

Emotionally, the albums move from a sense of public grievance to personal struggle and collective despair, yet always with an underlying thread of resilience and a call for awareness. Lyrically, Heredia employs a consistent style of direct language, vivid metaphors, and allegorical storytelling that is both accessible and profound. The repetition of certain phrases and ideas across albums reinforces their significance and creates a unified narrative.

The social impact of this collection is undeniable. Heredia tackles sensitive and pressing issues—political polarization, racial injustice, economic exploitation, and the erosion of truth—with unflinching honesty. By rooting his critiques in relatable human experiences and powerful imagery, he compels listeners to confront uncomfortable realities. The consistent theme across all three albums, particularly highlighted in “My Fellow Americans,” is the trade of fundamental values for fleeting desires, summed up by the line, “Yeah, Let’s trade the God who made you / for the god you made, and you can call him daddy”. This collection serves as a vital commentary on the contemporary American experience, firmly establishing Armando Heredia as a significant voice in modern folk protest music.

Key Tracks:

• Daytime Monsters (Ladies)
• Stained Glass Heart (Pass It Down)
• The Unraveling (Collective Unease)
• Tiny Fists (Collective Unease)

For Fans Of: Bob Dylan’s polemics, Fiona Apple’s raw nerve, Boots Riley’s surrealism.

“The monsters wear red, sometimes / Now they show their teeth in the daytime.” — Heredia’s epitaph for an era.