Discography

It was born on a midsummer night, lying on the sand, when it hit me that some of the stars we were watching no longer exist — and their light is still arriving. Out of that came a love song in a cosmic key: what to do with light that shows up late.

My first rock song, and it's about saying enough. No more settling for almost, for half-truths and part-time affection. Choosing myself, even when it hurts.

A short, quiet song about a moment when nothing happens and yet something settles into place. And you decide that right there is where you want to stay.

A duet with Gemma Isasi about the least epic thing in the world: an ordinary day done together. A note on the fridge that reads 'today's plan', the shopping at the corner store, and the idea that loving someone well is, mostly, the same old things — but together.

Sixth song with Gemma Isasi, the words and the voice hers: a love that burned in secret and left the moment she asked for the truth. Three winters on, what she's reaching for isn't him anymore, but the love she deserves to find.

A song I wrote for my father when he was no longer here to hear it. It isn't a goodbye. It's saying out loud what I didn't always say in time.

A Christmas song that actually tells a story: someone who, on Christmas Eve, works up the nerve to knock on the door of the person they love, not knowing if it'll open. Words and voice by Gemma Isasi; the music is mine.

Fourth song with Gemma Isasi, and the most present-day of them: it's about falling in love through a screen. A photo, a midnight kiss, and the doubt of whether the person on the other side feels the same.

Third song with Gemma Isasi, and the most naked of the three. The words and the voice are hers, and they're about living with anxiety. It isn't looking for comfort or solutions. Being listened to is enough.

I'd just come off a record of ballads and I felt like going out dancing, and doing it at home. A nu-disco in Valencian about a summer night in Gandia, where the city and a person end up being the same thing.

An album that explores love, memory, and the passage of time through an intimate and emotional perspective.

The second song I've made with Gemma Isasi, and once again the words and the voice are hers. A love that only exists with your eyes closed, and a sea that's there to let it go.

This song isn't entirely mine: the words and the voice are Gemma Isasi's, a tribute to a sister who left far too soon. I put the music around her words.

A song for my mother. Deep down it's just a thank you, the kind that takes years to say out loud.

This isn't a song about disappearing, it's about becoming part of something that keeps existing. Here, dying isn't the opposite of going on.

The title says it already: something that burns but doesn't weigh anything. This is one of those songs where I try to explain why the gentlest thing is sometimes what stays the longest.

This isn't about missing someone who's far away — it's about still loving someone who can't call you back anymore. Here, eternal isn't a figure of speech.

This isn't about carols or snow — it's about one look. All the Christmas this song needs fits inside a hug that isn't ready to let go yet.

Ten pieces that don't take you from one place to another — they take you further in. It's the first full album I dared to think of as a single journey instead of separate songs.

An instrumental piece for floating awake for a while. It doesn't ask you to follow along, just to let yourself drift.

My first release, and it's instrumental on purpose. I didn't want to tell anything yet, just leave a bit of calm for whoever needs it.