About
Scurvy Brandon Bones writes like the ocean owes him money. Raised in Oxnard, baptized in Nardcore distortion, he fuses blues sorrow, punk volatility, pirate folklore, and grimy self-aware rap into something that shouldn’t work but absolutely does. A poet first. Always. Before the hooks, before the distortion, there were poems. Love letters. Breakup confessions. Dockside monologues about loyalty, ego, and the cost of believing too hard in the wrong person. Then they turned into songs. Bones moves between romantic devastation and crooked-smile bravado without flinching. From the self-aware swagger of, “I’m a ho, you know I’m a ho… self-aware, self-made, let the judgment go.” to the deck-splintering fury of “Ironhook Strom,” his catalog swings like a lantern in a storm. Now comes, Tottenham Vandal — a grimier chapter that leans harder into rap / grime / dubstep, UK energy. Five tracks. No apology. Just raw voice, sharp hooks, and the kind of honesty that makes people uncomfortable if they’re not built for it. This isn’t industry polish. It’s salt-crusted authenticity. For the romantics who get called villains. For the ones who loved too loud. For the emotionally unstable genius