"Working Class Weirdo" is the 11th full-length album by I Am Hologram, released on May 5, 2023. Serving as a sequel to the 2016 acoustic album "Idiot Savant," this record continues the artist's exploration of unconventional soundscapes and introspective themes.

The album comprises 14 tracks, blending fully realized songs with experimental noise pieces, bass solos, and even a satirical commercial interlude. This eclectic mix creates a "psychedelic acoustic experience" intended to be absorbed in a single sitting, reflecting the artist's penchant for defying musical norms.

"Laureitta", a standout track, is a poignant tribute to the artist's grandmother, Laureitta "Peggy" Tudor. The lyrics convey a deep sense of loss and remembrance, with lines like "I've been walking through walls pretending you're in the next room" and "I failed to see the way you let the light in," highlighting the emotional depth of the composition.

Another notable song, "There's A Light Out In Waco," showcases the artist's surreal storytelling. The lyrics weave a narrative involving "a sneak attack from Mars" and "extraordinary plans to save the moon from little green men," blending whimsical imagery with underlying social commentary.

The album's production is as diverse as its content, with recordings spanning various locations across the United States over two years. Notably, the main guitar parts were recorded in the artist's mother's kitchen on Long Island, New York, while vocals were laid down in a friend's basement studio in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania.

"Working Class Weirdo" exemplifies I Am Hologram's commitment to pushing artistic boundaries, offering listeners a multifaceted auditory journey that challenges conventional genre classifications.

A Working Class Weirdo’s Anthem: A Review by Ishmael Nihil

The album Working Class Weirdo by I Am Hologram is a love letter to imperfection, scrawled in the margins of a life most people wouldn’t dare live. it’s a pocket full of smudged napkins scrawled with the half-mad musings of a man standing too close to the sun. The artist invites you into the smoky haze of his memories, each track a cigarette burned down to the filter. It’s not pretty. It’s not meant to be.

Take Laureitta, for example—a whispered confession to a ghost that’s still too real to let go of. The lyrics hang heavy, not like chains but like well-worn clothes, weighed down with the scent of old regrets and an unspoken gratitude for the light she brought. He sings like he’s pressing his forehead against a frosted window, willing her to answer.

And then there’s There’s A Light Out In Waco, a surreal fever dream where little green men plot their cosmic graffiti. It’s a slow waltz with absurdity, a hymn to the impossibility of escaping the strange orbit of your own mind. The humor here isn’t light; it’s jagged and dry, like laughing while picking glass shards out of your palm.

But this isn’t just a poet playing with metaphors; it’s a craftsman chiseling jagged truths out of raw experience. You hear it in the production—the hiss of rooms too quiet, the guitar strings that buzz just a little too loud. It’s a sound so honest it hurts, like finding an old mixtape you made for someone who doesn’t remember you anymore.

Working Class Weirdo is the soundtrack to the kind of freedom that’s only found on the edge of failure. It’s the courage to stare at your own reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror and still write a love song. The bass solos, the noise experiments, the commercial interlude—they’re not mistakes; they’re the artist’s way of saying, “This is me. All of it.”

The album ends, but it doesn’t let you go. It lingers like the last echo of a conversation you wish you’d said more in. I Am Hologram doesn’t ask for your approval. He doesn’t even ask for your understanding. He just offers you a chance to see the world through his eyes, to hear it through the strings of his guitar, and to feel it in the space between the notes.

Working Class Weirdo is a living, breathing thing. It’s the sound of a soul refusing to be neatly packaged or easily understood. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re all working-class weirdos, just trying to make sense of the mess we’re born into.

Listen closely. It might be your anthem, too.