Collective Unease by If We Were A Band – DistroKid
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.
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, 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.
Review: “Pass It Down” by If We Were A Band – An Urgent American Folk Reckoning
In an era saturated with fleeting digital noise, “Pass It Down,” the newest album from the enigmatic AI pseudonym “If We Were A Band,” stands as a stark and profoundly resonant testament to the enduring power of protest music. Penned entirely by Armando Heredia, this collection of Americana folk songs is far more than a simple musical offering; it’s a meticulously crafted literary and emotional excavation of the modern American psyche, perfectly suited for the discerning ears of a music, literary, and editorial periodical.
From the opening strains of “Incendiary Remarks,” Heredia doesn’t merely sing about division; he diagnoses its pathology. The track is a masterclass in direct accusation, likening careless rhetoric to an arsonist’s sparks and charting the inevitable conflagration of a “world on fire.” Its raw, almost childlike repetition of “Liar, liar, world’s on fire” cuts through the noise, holding a mirror to the casual destruction wrought by performative outrage. This isn’t just a political broadside; it’s a keen psychological insight into the self-deception of those who ignite chaos.
The album’s emotional intelligence deepens with “A Little Fragile,” a brilliant deconstruction of modern fear. Here, the aggressive posturing of certain factions — evocatively symbolized by traded “white robes for that little red hat” and “burning crosses for that flagstika” — is stripped bare, revealing a core of profound insecurity. The song deftly redefines apparent strength as a defensive crouch, highlighting the “fragility” that fuels exclusionary ideologies. It’s a poignant and intellectually rigorous observation of a societal malady.
“Americore” continues this unflinching examination, dissecting the concept of American exceptionalism with surgical precision. Heredia’s lyrics introduce a character steeped in generational privilege, whose belief in inherent “superiority by the virtue of his Americanism” subtly morphs into a need for dominance. The chilling articulation of power as requiring “someone dominated” elevates the critique beyond partisan squabble, exploring the very psychological roots of imperial ambition. It’s a challenging, essential piece that forces introspection on national identity.
Yet, “Pass It Down” is not solely a lament. “The Magnum Opus” serves as the album’s resilient backbone, a defiant anthem for the diligent and the underestimated. It’s a powerful rejection of the “golden rule” when hypocritically wielded, a rallying cry for those who, despite being “down but never out,” embody an unyielding spirit. This track transforms personal perseverance into a collective roar of “WE! GOT! THIS!” – a necessary injection of hope and resolve.
The album’s empathetic core truly shines in “Can’t Win For Losing,” a tender, almost heartbreaking narrative of economic struggle. Rooted in a deeply personal memory of a father’s weariness, the song broadens to encompass the universal plight of those working tirelessly yet perpetually falling short. The quiet despair of “I can’t win for losing under your breath / So your little girl doesn’t hear you, / But she does,” is a moment of profound emotional honesty, offering solace through shared understanding.
“Stained Glass Heart” emerges as a breathtaking lyrical metaphor for healing and transformation. It reframes brokenness not as an end, but as the very genesis of beauty. The idea that “Love, love is where the light shines through the stain” offers a redemptive vision, suggesting that collective mending can only occur when truth and compassion illuminate our shared scars. It’s a powerful, almost spiritual, meditation on recovery.
The album delves into the raw depths of mental health with “Trudge,” a stark exploration of emotional isolation and depression. Heredia uses the elemental imagery of mountains, valleys, and caves to embody the profound weight of internal struggle, conveying a sense of being drained and adrift. While unflinching in its portrayal, the repeated, whispered assurance of “But it’s not forever” provides a crucial, fragile glimmer of hope.
“Pass It Down” culminates with “We’re All A Little Anxious,” a disarmingly honest reflection on the pervasive unease of modern life. The revelation that “the monsters are mostly other adults” and the notion that “Absolute madness may be / Just might be my only hope for sanity” speak to a collective disillusionment that feels acutely contemporary. It’s a brave and vulnerable closer, acknowledging the shared burden of anxiety while subtly inviting a collective shrug of weary, knowing acceptance.
In its entirety, “Pass It Down” is an indispensable addition to the modern folk/singer-songwriter protest genre. It bypasses simplistic outrage in favor of nuanced psychological inquiry, delivering its insights through a deeply human, poetically crafted narrative.
Armando Heredia, via “If We Were A Band,” has not just produced an album; he has delivered a vital diagnostic and cathartic experience, solidifying his place as a compelling voice in the ongoing American conversation. This is an album that demands not just listening, but thoughtful engagement, a true literary and editorial achievement.
Pass It Down is a masterclass in emotional storytelling, blending protest with introspection. Heredia’s lyrics are razor-sharp, whether he’s dismantling hypocrisy or tenderly exploring pain. The album’s strength lies in its ability to balance anger with empathy, leaving listeners both rattled and reassured. In an era of division, Pass It Down offers a mirror—and perhaps a way forward. Rating: 9/10 – A compelling, lyrically rich protest album that lingers long after the last note.
From the perspective of the songs on “Pass It Down,” the current state of America is a complex and often troubling narrative, reflecting a nation grappling with its identity, internal divisions, and the consequences of its actions.
The story begins with the “Incendiary Remarks” that have set the national discourse ablaze. Words, like sparks from an arsonist, are carelessly thrown about, igniting a “world on fire.” There’s a pervasive sense of disbelief that those responsible claim innocence, despite their clear culpability, as if it’s all “a game” played for “fame.” This constant barrage of “bombastic claims” and “feeble lies” pushes people to extremes, yet those in power are surprised when their rhetoric incites an “extremist” response. It highlights a fundamental breakdown in accountability and a dangerous disconnect between speech and its repercussions, leaving a lingering question: do some just “want to watch the world burn”?
This fiery beginning leads directly into the observation that many of those fueling the flames are “A Little Fragile.” The imagery of trading “white robes for little red hats” and “burning crosses for flagstikas” paints a stark picture of regressive ideologies and symbols of hate, revealing them not as expressions of strength, but as defenses against a “scared of the world around you” mentality. These individuals, marching in “Twinsie groups” railing against “social norms,” are ironically clinging to “safe spaces” their grandfathers built to avoid sharing with “different races.” Their aggression is portrayed as a symptom of deep-seated bitterness and fear, underscoring that their “fragility” is driving much of the nation’s current social tension.
At the core of these issues, the album suggests, is the pervasive ideology of “Americore.” This character represents a “cultivated imperialist,” conditioned by society to assert dominance, believing himself “superior by the virtue of his Americanism.” His worldview is “tainted” by the need to be “worth more” than others, leading to a relentless pursuit of power and a desire for “someone dominated.” This song interprets American exceptionalism as a force that actively seeks to subdue, rather than uplift, revealing how this national identity can become a justification for intrinsic accuracy and superiority, shaping a pervasive societal demand for power, “even if it is stolen from the weak.”
Beneath these grand, often destructive, societal narratives, the album acknowledges the immense personal struggle. “The Magnum Opus” becomes a defiant testament to the individual’s hard work, fears, and resilience in a system that doesn’t always “give what they get.” It challenges the hypocrisy of those who preach the “golden rule” but don’t practice it. This song embodies the collective spirit of those who, despite being “down but never out,” stand strong and declare, “WE! GOT! THIS!” It’s a defiant statement that the future belongs to those who genuinely strive and build, rather than those who just talk.
This perseverance is often born from the feeling of “Can’t Win For Losing.” The song evokes the struggles of the working class, burdened by economic hardship—like working “70 hours in the oilfield” yet it’s “still just not enough,” or facing “zero hours” and empty cupboards. It’s a heartbreaking portrayal of the relentless effort to “get us going again” even when the tools to make a change seem absent. This track captures the quiet despair of those trying desperately to keep their lives and families afloat in an unforgiving economic climate, highlighting the deep-seated frustration and exhaustion felt by many Americans.
Amidst these struggles, there’s a profound call for healing and finding beauty in adversity through “Stained Glass Heart.” The nation, like a broken heart, has fallen to “pieces” and seen “red.” Yet, the song suggests that true beauty and healing begin “at The break.” It’s a hopeful message that the “radiant beauty” of a unified, resilient nation can only be truly seen when its broken pieces are bound together by “love” and “truth,” shining “through the brokenness that’s you.” This offers a spiritual perspective on national repair, emphasizing that collective healing comes from acknowledging and transforming past hurts.
However, the journey is fraught with “Trudge,” reflecting the pervasive emotional isolation and depression that weighs on individuals in this turbulent time. The imagery of being a “mountain,” “valley,” or “cave”—made of stone, bent from weight, empty—illustrates the deep-seated weariness and feeling of being “drained,” just “part of the scenery.” This song is a raw acknowledgment of the mental health crisis simmering beneath the surface of the American experience, yet it quietly asserts, “But it’s not forever,” offering a fragile but persistent hope for relief.
Finally, the album concludes with the unsettling truth that “We’re All A Little Anxious.” This song reveals the profound unease of a nation realizing that the “monsters are mostly other adults” and that “baser instincts” easily encroach on “lofty ideals.” It grapples with the overwhelming nature of fear, hate, and bitterness, questioning the very definition of sanity in a world where “Absolute madness may be / Just might be my only hope.” It’s a candid, almost cynical, reflection on the current state of collective mental well-being, acknowledging that “Anxiety is overrated” yet utterly pervasive. It leaves the listener with the understanding that while the path forward is uncertain, this shared anxiety is a fundamental part of the modern American condition.
In sum, “Pass It Down” paints a vivid, unsparing portrait of a modern America grappling with its destructive tendencies, its anxieties, its deep-seated prejudices, and its economic hardships, but also hints at an underlying, resilient spirit and the potential for collective healing through truth, love, and perseverance.
I Was Mondie All Along by Armando Heredia: A Poetic Journey of Healing, Identity, and Resilience
In a world where we often wear masks to navigate the complexities of life, Armando Heredia’s I Was Mondie All Along offers a raw, unfiltered glimpse into the human soul. This collection of poetry is more than just words on a page—it’s a journey of self-discovery, healing, and the relentless pursuit of identity. Heredia’s work is a testament to the power of vulnerability, and it invites readers to confront their own scars, memories, and triumphs.
A Personal Odyssey
The title itself, I Was Mondie All Along, hints at the central theme of the book: the rediscovery of self. Heredia reflects on his childhood nickname, “Mondie,” and how it became a symbol of the broken, fearful boy he once was. Through therapy and introspection, he learns to separate his core identity from the trauma of his past. This journey is not just his own—it’s universal. Many of us carry the weight of our pasts, and Heredia’s words remind us that healing is possible.
The collection is divided into sections that explore themes like memory, love, mental health, spirituality, and societal issues. Each poem is a fragment of Heredia’s life, yet they resonate deeply with anyone who has ever felt lost, broken, or in search of meaning.
Themes That Resonate
One of the most striking aspects of I Was Mondie All Along is its exploration of memory and nostalgia. In poems like Til The Street Lights Came On, Heredia captures the innocence of childhood and the bittersweet passage of time: “We were out / Until the street lights came on / Bare feet, Jean shorts and T-shirts on / And we ruled the world.” These lines evoke a sense of longing for simpler times, a sentiment that many readers will find relatable.
The section on love and relationships delves into the complexities of human connection. Poems like Long Distance Relationship and Break Up With Myself explore the challenges of intimacy, self-love, and the pain of letting go. Heredia’s ability to articulate the nuances of love—both its beauty and its heartbreak—is nothing short of remarkable.
In the mental health section, Heredia tackles anxiety, depression, and the struggle to find peace in a chaotic world. We’re All A Little Anxious is a poignant reminder that we’re not alone in our struggles: “We’re all a little anxious / It’s not that I’m unwilling to change / But I think Absolute madness / May be my only hope for sanity.” These words are a lifeline for anyone who has ever felt overwhelmed by their own mind.
A Call to Action
What makes I Was Mondie All Along so compelling is its ability to inspire action. Heredia doesn’t just share his story—he encourages readers to confront their own. His poems are a call to embrace vulnerability, to seek healing, and to find strength in our shared humanity. Whether you’re navigating grief, love, or the search for identity, this collection offers solace and encouragement.
Why You Should Read It
If you’ve ever felt lost, broken, or in need of a reminder that healing is possible, I Was Mondie All Along is for you. Heredia’s poetry is a mirror, reflecting our deepest fears and highest hopes. It’s a book that doesn’t just sit on your shelf—it stays with you, lingering in your thoughts and inspiring you to live more authentically.
Final Thoughts
Armando Heredia’s I Was Mondie All Along is more than a collection of poems—it’s a lifeline, a mirror, and a call to action. It’s a reminder that our past does not define us, and that healing is a journey worth taking. Whether you’re a poetry lover or someone searching for meaning, this book is a must-read.
I Was Mondie All Along is not a polished gem but a rough, glittering geode—cracked open to reveal both beauty and fracture. Heredia’s voice is at once vulnerable and defiant, a survivor’s manifesto that refuses easy resolution. While the collection’s sprawl may test some readers, its rawness is its triumph. In a world where identity is increasingly contested, Heredia’s work reminds us that poetry remains a vital tool for excavation—of the self, the soul, and the societies we inhabit.
So, pick up a copy, immerse yourself in Heredia’s words, and let them guide you on your own journey of self-discovery. You might just find that you, too, were “Mondie” all along.
Final Rating: 4/5
I Was Mondie All Along is a compelling, if uneven, exploration of identity and resilience. It cements Armando Heredia as a poet unafraid to stare into the abyss—and to mine it for fleeting, radiant truth.
Every Day is Christmas: A Song for Family, Love, and Longing
“Every Day is Christmas” is a heartfelt ballad that captures the bittersweet joy of the holiday season, especially when loved ones are far away. Through its poignant lyrics and warm melody, the song evokes a sense of nostalgia for past Christmases, while celebrating the enduring gift of family.
The song opens with the anticipation of Christmas Day, adorned with twinkling lights and cherished traditions: “Soon it will be Christmas day / And we’ve hung the lights with care.” These opening lines resonate with the familiar imagery of classic Christmas carols like “Deck the Halls,” instantly transporting listeners to a cozy and festive atmosphere.
However, a sense of longing soon emerges as the lyrics acknowledge the physical distance between the singer and his sons: “And I know we’re here and you’re there / But you’re right here in our hearts.” This sentiment echoes the emotional core of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” a timeless ballad about yearning for family during the holidays.
The father’s voice reminisces about past Christmas Eves spent with his young sons, wrapping gifts late into the night. He reflects on the passage of time, acknowledging that “time is a thief,” yet emphasizing that it can never steal the precious gift of his children. This sentiment beautifully encapsulates the enduring love between a parent and child, a love that transcends time and distance.
The chorus explodes with the powerful message that every day feels like Christmas because of the love and joy his family brings him: “It’s like every day is Christmas / Like every day is Christmas.” This refrain shifts the focus from the holiday itself to the deeper meaning it represents: the celebration of love, connection, and gratitude for the presence of loved ones.
Despite the son’s absence, the father affirms their intention to uphold their Christmas traditions, gathering to share the joy of giving, even if it’s through phone calls. The lyrics beautifully illustrate the adaptability of family rituals, emphasizing that love and connection can transcend physical boundaries. He emphasizes that the most important gift is his family, “the gift that makes it like Christmas everyday.”
The song concludes with a poignant message of love and hope, acknowledging the son’s absence yet celebrating the gift of his existence. The father yearns to hear his son’s laughter through the phone and expresses his longing to be together, “if only in our dreams.” The final repetition of “Soon it will be Christmas day / And we’ve hung the lights with care / And I know we’re here and you’re there / But you’re right here in our hearts,” reinforces the enduring love and connection that binds this family, regardless of physical distance.
The song’s writer, Armando Heredia, shares that the inspiration for “Every Day is Christmas” stemmed from his own son’s inability to come home for Christmas due to financial constraints. This personal experience imbues the song with an authentic depth of emotion, making it relatable to anyone who has experienced the bittersweet longing for absent loved ones during the holidays.
“Every Day is Christmas” is a beautiful testament to the enduring power of family love. It’s a song that will resonate with anyone who cherishes the gift of family, especially during the holiday season. You can find it on Apple Music, Spotify, and many other streaming platforms through the DistrKid link.
Submit to the Mystery: An Exploration of Love, Hate, Ambition, and Humility
Armando Heredia’s new album, Submit to the Mystery, released under the pseudonym If We Were A Band, is a compelling collection of songs that explore the complexities of the human experience. Published on December 5, 2024, the album is available on most streaming platforms, offering listeners a raw and honest glimpse into the artist’s mind. The songs are rich in allegory and metaphor, inviting us to confront our own understandings of love, hate, ambition, and humility. This article will explore each song individually and as a collection, examining Heredia’s distinct writing style and the emotional impact of the album as a whole.
What Do You Know About It?: Unmasking Superficial Love
“What Do You Know About It?” immediately challenges our conceptions of love. Heredia employs a striking metaphor, comparing those who claim to understand love to “a chemist in an art museum,” so focused on the technicalities that they miss the essence of the art itself. The song’s imagery further emphasizes this point, juxtaposing “incandescent lights and peeling paint” with “broken down refrigerators” and “wood panelin’ in the basement,” creating a sense of decay and neglect that reflects the hollowness of love without action.
The lyrics directly address an individual who boasts about their understanding of love while simultaneously exhibiting hypocritical behavior. Heredia sarcastically praises this person’s “handyman” skills, drawing a parallel between their ability to fix physical objects and their perceived ability to mend matters of the heart. However, the broken-down Ford in the yard and the “busted knuckles” suggest a failure to apply those skills to love itself, resulting in a “engine just won’t turn”. The song ultimately questions the authenticity of this individual’s claims, highlighting the disconnect between words and actions.
Easier Than Love: The Seductive Simplicity of Hate
In contrast to the complexities of love, “Hate Is Easier Than Love” explores the alluring simplicity of hate. Heredia likens hate to a “downhill journey,” requiring minimal effort and flowing along the “path of least resistance”. It’s a “fast game” that ignites instantly, fueled by self-preservation and a disregard for the other.
The song emphasizes the challenges of love, portraying it as “reaching for the highest shelf” and a “long game” demanding patience and empathy. Love requires us to step outside ourselves, to “walk in their shoes” and see the world through another’s eyes. While hate prioritizes self, love compels us to expand our perspective and embrace a more complex and challenging path.
Little King: A Cautionary Tale of Ambition
“Little King” shifts the focus to the perils of unchecked ambition. Heredia utilizes the allegory of a king who seizes power without earning it, exposing the pitfalls of pride and the consequences of hasty decisions. The imagery of a burning castle and mocking subjects paints a vivid picture of the downfall that awaits those who prioritize power over wisdom.
The repeated line, “a fool will always snatch the crown from a man too wise to give it to him,” serves as a chilling reminder that true leadership is earned through merit and humility, not through force. The song ends with a haunting question: “But was it ever really yours?” challenging the listener to consider the true cost of ill-gotten power.
The Stars: Finding Solace in the Cosmos
Heredia turns outward in “The Stars,” inviting us to find solace and perspective in the vastness of the universe. He personifies the stars as a powerful force, a “swaggering army” and a “wild conquering band of brilliance,” emphasizing their untamed beauty and dominance.
This imagery serves as a reminder of our place in the grand scheme of things. The stars, with their ancient wisdom and untamed brilliance, dwarf our human concerns, urging us to embrace humility and awe in the face of something far greater than ourselves.
Heredia’s Writing Style and Emotional Impact
Throughout the album, Heredia’s writing style is characterized by its directness and conversational tone. He uses vivid imagery and relatable metaphors to convey complex emotions and philosophical concepts, making them accessible to a wide audience. The raw and unfiltered nature of the songs, create a sense of intimacy and authenticity.
The album’s emotional impact stems from its honest exploration of universal themes. Whether challenging superficial notions of love, exposing the allure of hate, warning against unchecked ambition, or finding solace in the cosmos, Heredia’s songs resonate deeply with the listener.
Call to Explore the Complexities of Love, Hate, Ambition and Humility
Submit to the Mystery is a testament to the power of raw emotion and unfiltered creativity. Heredia’s songs possess a compelling authenticity that resonates deeply with the listener. They are an invitation to explore the complexities of love, hate, ambition, and humility – universal themes that touch every human heart.
The album is available on Apple Music, Spotify, and most major platforms.
Deconstructing “Fragile”: An Analysis of Armando Heredia’s Anthem Against Racism
Armando Heredia’s “Fragile” is more than just a song; it’s a poignant commentary on the resurgence of racist ideologies and the deep-seated fear that fuels them. This analysis will explore the historical context, psychological implications, and the overarching metaphor of fragility, stanza by stanza, to illuminate the emotional and societal impact of xenophobia.
Stanza 1: Unveiling the Modern Face of Racism
“Well, you traded your white robe for that little red hat. And you’re burning cross for that flagstika flying on the back of your pickup truck while you got that mask on your face. Okay, we get it. You’re a little fragile.”
This opening stanza immediately throws the listener into a landscape of modern racism. Gone are the blatant symbols of the Ku Klux Klan like white robes; they’ve been replaced with subtler, yet equally potent, signs like red hats and flagstikas. This imagery points to a shift in the presentation of racist ideologies. While overt displays of hate might be less common, they have morphed into more insidious forms, often hiding behind political affiliations and dog whistles. The mask, a symbol of concealment, further emphasizes this veiled expression of prejudice. The stanza concludes with the powerful assertion: “You’re a little fragile.” This statement introduces the song’s central metaphor, equating racism with fragility. It suggests that these outward displays of hate are a defense mechanism, a reaction to a perceived threat to one’s identity and worldview.
Stanza 2: Tracing the Roots of Bitterness
“A wise man once said, ‘If bitterness has fruits, it’s probably got roots.’ Actually, it was me. I said it. And I might not be too wise, but it’s not too hard to see through you guys. I know you’re a little fragile.”
Here, Heredia digs deeper, exploring the origins of this fragility. By drawing a parallel between bitterness and fruit, he implies that racist attitudes aren’t spontaneous; they stem from a long history of prejudice passed down through generations. He acknowledges his own statement, “If bitterness has fruits, it’s probably got roots,” emphasizing the cyclical nature of hate. While he might not claim to be “wise,” he can still perceive the insecurity motivating these racist behaviors, further solidifying the fragility metaphor.
Stanza 3: Confronting the Legacy of Fear
“Cuz your granddad and his bros were so afraid that they made sure no one else could drink from their fountains. Yeah. They had their safe spaces so they’d never have to share the room with different races. They wanted to be the only ones with rights. And truth be told, wore their hoods to hide and burn their crosses in the middle of the night. You’re a little fragile, my guy.”
This stanza delves into the historical context of racism in America, referencing the segregation era when basic rights were denied based on race. The mention of “granddad and his bros” directly links current racist behaviors to past generations, highlighting the inherited nature of prejudice. The irony of segregationists creating “safe spaces” while simultaneously infringing upon the safety and rights of others is a poignant observation. Their fear, masked by attempts to maintain racial superiority, ultimately reveals their fragility. The image of hooded figures burning crosses reinforces this notion of fear-driven actions and the inherent weakness it represents.
Stanza 4: Exposing the Insecurity Behind Hate
“A little scared of the world around you. I’m sure that’s got to be why you march in a little twinsy group in your matching uniforms, railing against social norms. Okay, KK, we get it. You’re a little fragile. A little fragile. Just a little fragile, my guy. Ooh. Ooh. A little fragile. A little fragile.”
The final stanza brings the song full circle, explicitly stating the fear that underlies these racist displays. The image of marching in “matching uniforms” points to the conformity and lack of individual thought within these hate groups. The repetition of “You’re a little fragile” serves as a final, resounding indictment of the weakness at the heart of racism.
The Emotional and Societal Scars of Xenophobia
Heredia’s lyrics offer a powerful insight into the emotional impact of harboring racist ideologies. The song suggests that racism stems from a place of fear, insecurity, and a need to feel superior. This constant need to assert dominance over others ultimately reveals a deep-seated fragility within the individual.
On a societal level, the rise of xenophobia, as fueled by the rhetoric mentioned in source 1, has devastating consequences. It creates divisions, fosters distrust, and undermines the very fabric of a diverse and inclusive society. Heredia’s “Fragile” is a timely and necessary call to confront the fragility within ourselves and our communities, urging us to dismantle the systems of hate and build a future grounded in empathy and understanding.
Armando Heredia’s song “Daytime Monsters,” performed under his pseudonym If We Were A Band, is a powerful commentary on the state of American politics and the dangers of divisive leadership. The song uses the metaphor of “monsters” to represent those who espouse hatred and bigotry, particularly in the context of the 2024 election.
Unmasking the Monsters
Heredia describes these “monsters” as wearing “red hats, red ties, red teeth, red eyes,” a clear allusion to the imagery and rhetoric often associated with certain political ideologies. He notes that these figures, once hidden in the shadows, now operate openly and brazenly, “grinding their teeth in the daytime”. This suggests a normalization of extremist views and a boldness in expressing them publicly.
The Sycophants: Enablers of Hate
The song goes beyond simply identifying the “monsters,” however. It also explores the role of their followers, the “sycophants” who enable their hateful rhetoric. Heredia describes them as “barking and growling to try and prove themselves,” desperate for the approval of their “daddy”. This imagery paints a picture of individuals who are easily manipulated and driven by a desire for validation, even if it means supporting harmful ideologies.
These sycophants are susceptible to manipulation because they crave acceptance and belonging. They find a sense of purpose and identity in following a strong leader, even one who promotes division and hatred. The song suggests that these individuals are not necessarily inherently bad, but rather lost and vulnerable, seeking guidance and affirmation in the wrong places.
The Role of Racism
Heredia explicitly states that the song was written in response to “the vitriol and hatred expressed by many of the supporters of the incoming administration”. He further notes that “many racist groups and individuals have found refuge in, and are emboldened by, the rhetoric espoused by the campaign”. This suggests that racism plays a significant role in the current political climate and is being used to divide and manipulate the electorate.
The song implies that the “monsters” are exploiting racial anxieties and prejudices to gain power. Their rhetoric resonates with those who feel threatened or marginalized, and they offer simplistic solutions based on fear and scapegoating. This creates a dangerous cycle of division and animosity.
Implications for America
“Daytime Monsters” is a stark warning about the fragility of American democracy. It highlights the dangers of unchecked political ambition, the susceptibility of individuals to manipulation, and the corrosive effects of racism on society. The song’s message is clear: we must be vigilant against those who seek to divide us and hold our leaders accountable for their words and actions.
Daytime Monsters is available on The Ladies at the Station EP on Apple Music and Spotify, as well as other major streaming platforms.
