Richie Owens

Grin and Bear It 

Life is one long-running absurdist sitcom, and most of the time, it’s written by a hack. You’re born, you scream, you eat mush, and before you know it, you’re neck-deep in overdue bills, meaningless meetings, and pretending to care about which neighbor won their HOA’s "Best Lawn" award. As kids, we’re sold a pipe dream about how adulthood is the promised land—freedom, independence, and ice cream for breakfast. What they don’t tell you is that freedom comes with a credit score, independence costs half your paycheck, and ice cream for breakfast is a cry for help when you’re 35 and existentially spiraling.

Remember those golden days of comic books, Saturday morning cartoons, and devouring candy bars like a sugar-fueled maniac? Back then, the biggest crisis was whether Batman could stop the Joker or if your cassette tape was unraveling in the player. Now? Now you’ve got world politics, Karen from HR, and that "check engine" light that just won’t quit. And we’re all supposed to keep our heads down, slap on a fake smile, and endure this cosmic joke with grace. Well, screw grace. Grace left the building around the time you realized your parents weren’t superheroes, just tired humans doing their best with what they had—a mix of hope, bad advice, and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

"Grin and Bear It" isn’t just a song title—it’s a battle cry for the quietly bitter, for the ones dodging life’s curveballs like a drunken outfielder. It’s for the folks who wake up every morning, pour coffee into a mug that says “Live, Laugh, Love,” and mutter, “What fresh hell is this?” before clocking in to a job they despise. It’s about calling bullshit on the endless cycle of being told to keep calm, carry on, and just “grin” your way through the garbage.

But here’s the thing—they can’t kill your spirit if you don’t let them. So what if life’s a mess? Laugh at it. Dance in the chaos. Turn up the volume on a kickass album like Reconstruction and let "Grin and Bare It" be your anthem. Let it remind you that sometimes the only way to survive the absurdity is to lean into it with a smirk, a middle finger to the madness, and a commitment to find joy in the cracks where the light gets in.

How She Got Away 
I wrote "How She Got Away" about a guy in a casual relationship, thinking maybe he could do better and entertaining the idea of someone else. But just as he realizes she’s actually The One, she’s already out the door, leaving him behind to stew in his own bad decisions.

It’s a story about bad timing and realizing what you had when it’s too late. Picture him standing there in the rain (because, of course, it starts raining), clutching her favorite coffee mug, wondering how he let a good thing slip away. It’s funny, bittersweet, and a little ironic—about the way love and timing can really trip you up.

Are You Down

"Are You Down" is all about flipping the script on feeling low and turning it into something uplifting and hopeful. The idea for the song came from a playful twist on words—taking the notion of being "down" and using it in two ways. It speaks to those moments when we feel weighed down by life's challenges, but it also doubles as an invitation: Are you down for something fun? It’s a call to action, a way of saying, "Hey, let's lift each other up, shake off the blues, and find joy together."

This song isn’t just about acknowledging the tough times—it’s about rising above them and rediscovering connection, energy, and excitement. It’s an anthem for rallying the people around you and saying, "We’re in this together, and we’re going to make it better." Whether it's a night out, a spontaneous adventure, or simply finding joy in the little things, Are You Down reminds us that positivity is contagious. It's an open invitation to let the good times roll—because life's too short to stay stuck in the heavy stuff. Are you down with that?

"Heartache in the Lost and Found" isn't just a song—it's a mirror. It reflects the cycle of emotional sabotage that so many of us, consciously or not, find ourselves trapped in. At its core, it's a story about people who long for deep, meaningful connection but can’t seem to close the metaphorical back door in their relationships. That door represents escape, a way out when things get uncomfortable, or when commitment feels too much like vulnerability.

The song speaks to a kind of narcissistic love—the kind where self-preservation and fear of being hurt outweigh the willingness to fully invest in another person. It's the type of love where people crave validation, attention, and the thrill of newness, but balk at the real work of partnership—the compromise, the sacrifice, the inevitable messiness of truly being known.

The protagonist of the song, whether they realize it or not, is caught in this trap. They look back on a relationship they let slip away, knowing deep down that it was the "right one." But their unwillingness to shut that back door—perhaps out of fear, ego, or the lure of 'what else might be out there'—meant they never fully stepped into the relationship to begin with. Instead, they stood with one foot in and one foot out, only to watch the person who truly saw them walk away.

The twist, and where the song lands with poignancy, is the moment of self-awareness. There’s no anger or blame placed on the lost partner; instead, the song turns the lens inward. It’s the realization that the heartache they’re feeling is entirely of their own making. They see themselves for what they’ve been: someone chasing love but running from the risk it requires.

The title—"Heartache in the Lost and Found"—is a metaphor for this dynamic. Every relationship they’ve had ends up tossed into that emotional bin of lost things, where it stays until they’re ready to do the soul-searching necessary to break the pattern. It’s a sad yet hopeful acknowledgment: as painful as it is to end up there, it’s also a chance to pick up the pieces, to try again, and maybe, just maybe, to love without fear.

This song doesn’t just resonate with those who’ve lost someone they didn’t fully appreciate—it calls out the larger societal issue of emotional evasion. It challenges the listener to ask themselves: Are you running toward love, or are you just running? And when will you stop leaving the back door open?

You Just Don’t Know About Me 

“You Just Don’t Know About Me” is a song that explores the internal conflict of being in a toxic relationship and grappling with the reality that sometimes, love just isn’t enough to save it. At its core, it's about reckoning with one’s own flaws and the difficult realization that, in order to protect the person you love, you might need to walk away. It’s a mix of confession, regret, and a reluctant but necessary act of love.

What’s It Gonna Take 

This song is about waking up to emotional manipulation and the pain of realizing you’ve been used. The lyrics explore a toxic relationship where the manipulator thrives on causing heartbreak and chaos while playing the victim. Metaphors like “wolf in the kitchen, granny in the bed” highlight their deceitful nature, hiding harmful intentions behind a façade.

The chorus, “What’s it gonna take to make it go away? Watching your heart break—that’s how she likes to play,” captures the manipulator’s enjoyment of emotional control, while the narrator struggles with guilt, shame, and the realization of their own entrapment. The repeated line, “Shouldn’t be that difficult to understand what’s being done to you,” underscores the frustration of finally seeing the truth.

Ultimately, the song is about recognizing toxic behaviors, confronting the pain they’ve caused, and finding the strength to break free.

Welcome to America 
This song was born from a haunting story that PBS brought to light—a story that cut to the heart of what it means to seek hope and endure unimaginable struggle. It told of a farmer whose land stretched across the border of Mexico and the United States. His fields, meant to nourish life, became a tragic stage for stories of survival and heartbreak. People, desperate for a chance at a better life, crossed his property, dropped off by human traffickers known as coyotes. These were not just men or women, but mothers clutching their children, their hope outlasting their strength, even as they ran out of food and water. Some never made it.

When I heard this, I couldn’t stay silent. I thought of the unspoken goodbyes, of mothers whispering promises of safety to their children, promises they might not have been able to keep. I thought of how hope, so deeply human, drives people to unimaginable risks. “Welcome to America” became my way of holding a mirror to these stories—stories of desperation, courage, and humanity often drowned out by headlines and political debates.

But this isn’t just about what’s happening at the border. It’s about the soul of America. Today, the state of immigration in this country feels like a storm caught between compassion and contention. Policies shift like desert sands, sometimes shielding, sometimes exposing, but always leaving scars. Families are torn apart. Refugees knock on doors only to be turned away. And yet, the dreams keep coming—dreams of sanctuary, opportunity, and belonging.

“Welcome to America” is a song for them. It’s a song for the farmer whose heart breaks for the lives lost on his land. It’s a song for the children who don’t yet understand the borders drawn around their futures. It’s a song for us all, to remind us of the humanity that connects us beyond walls and fences, beyond fear and politics.

Trying 

This song, is about the hardest fight I’ve ever faced—not just for my wife Lisa, but for us. I wrote it when Lisa, my sweetheart and the love of my life, was diagnosed with near-stage-four cancer. In that moment, it felt like the ground beneath me gave way, but one thing became crystal clear: I wasn’t giving up.

It’s about standing by her side when the world feels like it’s falling apart, about holding onto hope when fear tries to take over. This song captures the strength and love I felt for her, the determination to keep going no matter how tough things got. Lisa isn’t just my wife; she’s my everything. And Trying is a reflection of what it means to love someone so deeply that you refuse to let go—even when it feels like everything is at stake. It’s about not giving up, about faith, and about the kind of love that never stops fighting.

Who Knows 

This song came from a place of questioning and clarity. I was thinking about those moments in life when everything feels uncertain—when your faith in yourself or the path you're on starts to falter, and you’re surrounded by people with opinions, trying to tell you what you should do. It’s overwhelming, and it’s easy to get lost in all the noise. But deep down, there’s always this voice inside—your gut—that knows what’s right for you. That’s the spark that inspired this song.

The lyrics, “listen to your heart, when we’re worlds apart,” are about reconnecting with that inner compass, even when it feels like everything else is pulling you away from it. I wanted to explore how life is constantly changing—nothing stays the same—but there’s something steady and unchanging about that gut feeling, that inner wisdom. It’s always there, guiding you, if you let it.

Writing this song was also about reflecting on how much of our energy can get wasted holding onto old ways or listening to the wrong people—the "fools" I mention in the lyrics. It’s about breaking free from that and trusting yourself enough to let go of what doesn’t serve you anymore. That’s not always easy, but it’s necessary.

Ultimately, it's about empowerment and self-trust. I wrote it as a reminder, not just for others but for myself too, to stop second-guessing and believe in what you feel inside. At the end of the day, your heart knows the answer—you just have to trust it.

When the Wrong Survive 
"When the Wrong Survive" is a song that channels the frustration and disillusionment I feel about the state of the music industry and, by extension, the world we’re all living in. It’s about the growing sense that doing the right thing doesn’t seem to matter as much anymore. In fact, it feels like the ones who cut corners, manipulate, and act in bad faith are the ones who get ahead. Whether it’s in music, business, or just life in general, it’s like the game is rigged, and the people who play dirty are the ones who win.

This song came from that raw, honest place of being tired of seeing hard work, talent, and integrity take a backseat to politics, connections, and opportunism. It’s frustrating to watch systems that should reward authenticity and effort instead prioritize shortcuts and who you know. That kind of disillusionment wears on you, especially when you’re trying to stay true to yourself in a world that seems to value anything but.

At the same time, this song is about more than just the music industry. It’s about life as a whole—how the same problems play out everywhere. Whether you’re dealing with people in power, the media, or even personal relationships, it’s becoming harder to trust what’s real and who’s genuine. There’s this constant pressure to conform, to play along, to go with the flow of what’s expected, even when you know it goes against what’s right. And that struggle—to stay grounded and hold onto what’s true in the face of all that—is at the heart of this song.

Ultimately, "When the Wrong Survive" is as much a reflection of frustration as it is a statement of keeping your integrity no matter how hard it is to do so. It’s a reminder that even when everything around you feels unfair, even when it seems like the odds are stacked against doing the right thing, you have to trust yourself and keep pushing forward. It’s about staying true to your values, no matter how much the world might try to reward those who don’t. 

Stay in My Memories 

"Stay in My Memories" is more than just a song—it’s a deeply personal window into the heartbreak of Alzheimer’s, a disease that has cast its shadow over my life and the lives of my bandmates in profound ways.

I’ve seen its cruel effects up close. My dad fought this illness, passing before it could claim all of his memories. My uncle and grandmother weren’t so lucky, fading slowly into a world where recollections of love and connection were stolen from them piece by piece. My guitarist’s father and my bass player’s mother also succumbed to this merciless disease. But what haunts me most isn’t just what Alzheimer’s takes from the people who love them—it’s what it does to those who live with it.

This song isn’t written from the perspective of a loved one saying goodbye. It’s written from the perspective of the person with Alzheimer’s, trapped in the unrelenting nightmare of losing everything and everyone they’ve ever known. Imagine the horror of waking up each day to a world where the faces around you grow more unfamiliar. Where every moment feels like you’ve lost someone you love to death—again and again—and the grief is fresh and constant.

As their memories fade, they aren’t just losing names and faces—they’re losing their anchors to life. The people they loved most slip away in their minds, and they are left utterly alone, as though they’ve outlived everyone they held dear. That fear, that sorrow, that emptiness—it’s impossible to put into words, but this song tries to capture it.

"Stay in My Memories" is a plea from the depths of that darkness, a desperate hope to hold on to the fragments of love and connection, even as they slip away. It’s about the raw, unthinkable fear of being the last one left, where every memory lost feels like another funeral in their heart.

For all of us who have watched Alzheimer’s take our loved ones, and for those who endure its torment firsthand, this song is a tribute. It’s a call to hold on to love, to honor the memories that remain, and to never forget that even when everything else fades, the essence of those connections lives on—in our hearts, in our stories, and in our music.