Imagine if Zarathustra, Gilligan, Leonard Cohen, R. Stevie Moore, T-Pain, Sam Elliot and Madame Blavatsky orgy humped and produced a freakish St. Germaine-like man child, a titan genius songwriter to usher in the future of home-recording pop musical mayhem. He would be given foster parents to keep his destiny a secret, all the while nurturing those unique talents and an appreciation for the art of song. One day this demigod would discover his powers, take up his sceptre and reign as grand nagus in the era of peace. "And he shall be called... Stan". Stan is a young musical monstrosity, multi-instrumentalist and lyricist, a fresh off the vine home recording prodigy whose songs arouse emotion in the most unflappable Vulcan and inspire belief in the most supine nihilist. Orpheus-like cherubic and charming (and barely in his twenties), Stan grows aural crystals who's glowing lights foresee a time when darkness shall be no more. I can't get enough of Sunday Brunch With Stan, and Stan is an all you can eat platter. I am now honored to introduce Stan's first album to the world.
