Cud Eastbound www.LostWarren.com "I met cud about four years ago in halifax. he was sitting in the corner of my kitchen, looking slightly odd & playing a tiny guitar. he weirded me out. he didn't say much. several years later, he still weirds me out, but I really love him now. I'm glad his spaceship crashed on this planet." The following is a draft-telling of the making of a lost boy who wasn't really lost at all. It was before becoming Eastbound that Cud sunk into music in a place where sound met wave and courage met constraint. Like most who are exceptional and disproportionally vibrant, the suburbs stifled his heart. Though he would never leave behind his love for purity and sylvan contemplation, Cud needed first to face the intraurban poison, following its stench which seeped even deep within holy ground at the borders of the forest. As the world learned of Cud, so did he of the world, in a city full of people and disease. But the sadness parted for the friends he made and loves today still, some of which he gutted to better crawl inside and suck out the marrow of their crushed bones. Not really, though. An inherited hand for string, Cud found the guitar to construct for us daydream fantasies he had been living through in the wild of the woods where he was raised, not likely by wolves. His words express immediacy in the fragile living of interpersonal exploration. His music is raw, honest, and unapologetically mirthful, yet pervasively rousing and tectonic, as though Cud had sought to salvage the discarded, preferring “when it’s old, run-down, and rusty,” and breathing zeal into dirt, and burnish into rust. Cud has traveled the northern continent several times and even settled a commune in the Canadian West. A brief stop in Japan and two months in Australia. First it was futile, then, when it fell, it started. It was the Atlantic Provinces that finally got to keep him, with faithful beasts around him to share his burden of land and happiness. Through it all, Cud has displayed a contagious and enviable resilience to the commonplace sorrows of orthogonal imaginings. Cud has the voice of a lively young dreamer with earthly sagacity and artistic ingenuity, with which all his endeavours are replete. He has been led and inspired by the whispers of a rabbit and the whiskers of unconditional loyalty, making the world, that had already emerged around him into song, accessible and salubrious, to be consumed freely, carefree. Now he is distributed across the land and everywhere on the Internet and can even be scrobbled. And in a making of seventeen months, he is a tolerant and patient friend, with indefatigable fervour and grit. Cud is as incompressible as osmium and just a soft, scratched up and scarred, but unwaveringly and unrelentingly doubleplusawesome.