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At the heart of everything Hoarders of Hurt creates is a simple yet profound message:

Your hurt doesn’t define you. It’s part of your story, but it’s not the end of it. You’re stronger than you think, and no matter how dark it feels right now, there’s always a way forward.

Their music is a hand extended in the dark, a reminder that even when life feels overwhelming, there’s hope. And as long as Hoarders of Hurt has a voice, they’ll use it to amplify that hope, turning their own pain into a source of strength for anyone who listens.

For many fans, the masks have become a metaphor for mental health. They represent the barriers people put up to protect themselves, the parts of their lives they feel they can’t share. But in the hands of Hoarders of Hurt, the masks also symbolize transformation.

In one of their most poignant music videos, the masks gradually crack and splinter, revealing not perfection but growth—scars turned into patterns, flaws transformed into beauty. “It’s not about hiding forever,” Sam explained. “It’s about healing at your own pace. And when you’re ready, stepping out into the world as you are.”

One of the reasons Hoarders of Hurt resonates so deeply with their audience is their ability to articulate emotions many struggle to express. Through their music, listeners find words for feelings they’ve carried in silence for years.

“I got a message from a fan once,” Riley shared. “They said one of our songs, Drifting Away, helped them get through the darkest period of their life. They said the line ‘love isn’t always enough, but it’s worth fighting for’ hit them like a lifeline. That’s why we do this.”

By acknowledging the complexities of mental health—the highs and lows, the victories and setbacks—the band creates a space where listeners can feel seen and understood. Their songs don’t sugarcoat the struggle, but they do offer a glimmer of hope: a reminder that no matter how deep the hurt, there’s always a way forward.

For all their haunting melodies and raw, unflinching lyrics, Hoarders of Hurt is, at its core, a band that believes in hope. Their music doesn’t just dwell in the shadows—it reaches for the light, offering listeners a way to confront and overcome their mental struggles.

“We’ve all been there,” Jesse said in a candid interview. “We’ve all felt like we were drowning in our own heads. But music… music has this incredible power to pull you up, to remind you that you’re not alone.”

This belief is woven into every song they release. While their tracks often explore themes of pain, loss, and isolation, there’s always a thread of resilience—a subtle but powerful message that it’s possible to survive, even thrive, in the face of overwhelming odds.

The masks worn by Hoarders of Hurt aren’t just an aesthetic choice—they’re an embodiment of their music and ethos, a way to connect deeply with their listeners while shielding the raw vulnerability behind their creations.

As a studio-only band, the decision to wear masks came early in their journey. It wasn’t about hiding but about focusing. “We wanted the music to be the centerpiece,” Jesse explained in a rare interview. “No distractions. No faces to associate with a sound—just pure emotion, pure art.”

A Statement of Intent

The masks symbolize their mission: to represent universal emotions rather than personal identities. Each design is meticulously crafted to reflect their creative spirit:

• Jesse’s cracked mask speaks of resilience, the way wounds can transform into something beautiful over time.
• Alex’s sleek and angular mask mirrors the precision of their beats, a steady foundation amid chaos.
• Sam’s intricately patterned mask represents the layers of their lyrics, weaving pain, hope, and introspection into every song.
• Riley’s jagged and asymmetrical mask channels their boundary-pushing creativity, always breaking the mold.

The masks, by concealing their physical forms, amplify the universal nature of their music. “It’s not about us,” Sam said. “It’s about the hurt we all hoard—the things we carry that we can’t always express.”

A Digital Presence with Depth

As a studio band, Hoarders of Hurt thrives in the digital realm, where their masked personas have become iconic. Their music videos, often visually striking and deeply symbolic, use the masks to tell stories of transformation, resilience, and the weight of hidden emotions.

In these videos, the masks take on a life of their own—cracking, burning, or changing form to mirror the themes of each song. Fans often dissect these visual cues, finding meaning in every detail. “The masks are like mirrors,” Riley said. “What you see in them depends on what you’re carrying inside.”

A Shared Experience

Despite never performing live, Hoarders of Hurt has fostered a sense of connection that rivals any live act. Fans often share their own interpretations of the masks, crafting fan art and wearing their versions while listening to the music.

For many, the masks are a way to connect to the band’s message. “They remind us that it’s okay to keep some parts of ourselves hidden,” one fan wrote on social media. “But it’s also okay to let those parts inspire something beautiful.”

Beyond the Masks

The masks are powerful, but they’re not the whole story. Hoarders of Hurt focuses on crafting music that resonates deeply, exploring the universal struggles of love, loss, and the relentless push to move forward.

“Whether or not we wear the masks doesn’t change what we create,” Alex said. “They’re part of our journey, but the music—that’s what truly matters.”

And for a band that thrives in the shadows, the masks are both a symbol and a promise: to turn their hurt into something extraordinary, one song at a time.

Today, Hoarders of Hurt stands for crafting songs that hit like a gut punch and linger like an old scar. Their sound has evolved far beyond the rough beginnings at The Howling Pint. What started as a chaotic collision of raw emotion and half-formed ideas has grown into a finely tuned machine, delivering music that’s as complex and layered as the lives they’ve lived.

Their songs still carry the weight of pain and struggle, but there’s a depth now—a sense of perspective that only comes with time. They’ve moved past simply screaming into the void; their music explores what happens after the scream, after the chaos, when the dust settles and you’re left standing in the wreckage, searching for meaning.

Jesse’s voice, once a blunt instrument of unrefined power, has become a masterful tool for storytelling. Whether it’s a tender falsetto on a ballad about unspoken goodbyes or a guttural roar on an anthem of defiance, Jesse’s voice pulls listeners into the heart of the song, making every word feel like it’s meant just for them.

Alex’s drumming anchors the band, a steady heartbeat beneath the chaos. Their rhythms have grown intricate, weaving in syncopation and unexpected flourishes that keep even the heaviest tracks alive with movement. “I don’t just play the drums anymore,” Alex once said in an interview. “I tell my part of the story with every beat.”

Sam’s basslines provide a dark undercurrent, threading through every track with a brooding energy that ties everything together. Sam’s lyrics, too, have matured. They’re no longer just words to fill a melody but poetry that cuts straight to the bone, speaking to the fears and hopes we all carry.

Riley’s guitar work is where the band’s experimental edge shines. His playing is as unpredictable as it is brilliant, blending jagged riffs with soaring, ethereal melodies. Riley has a knack for creating textures that feel like landscapes—barren deserts of isolation or lush forests of hope, depending on the track.

One standout track, “Drifting Away,” is a stark yet beautiful meditation on love—not the idealized version, but the messy, complicated reality of it. Jesse’s voice aches with vulnerability, while Riley’s guitar weaves a melody that feels like a conversation between longing and acceptance.

In contrast, “The Reckoning” is pure fire—a rallying cry against betrayal and the weight of past mistakes. Alex’s thunderous drumming drives the track, with Sam’s bass adding a relentless pulse that feels like a racing heartbeat. Riley’s solo adds the icing on the cake.

For Hoarders of Hurt, the music they make today isn’t just about creating songs—it’s about leaving a piece of themselves in every note, every lyric, every performance. It’s about taking the pain they’ve hoarded and transforming it into something bigger than themselves—something that resonates with anyone who’s ever felt broken but kept going anyway.

“It’s not about where we started,” Jesse said in a recent interview. “It’s about where we’re going. And as long as we’ve got music, we’ll keep going.”

The band may not fully believe the myth of their origin, but they believe in what they’ve built together: a sound, a story, and a connection that’s as raw and real as the city they call home.

Years later, the band would sit backstage at a sold-out gig in Sydney’s Enmore Theatre, laughing over a shared memory of how it all began. Or, more accurately, how nobody could agree on what really happened that night at The Howling Pint.

“I’m telling you,” Jesse said, leaning back in their chair and nursing a can of Solo, “it went down exactly like that. I got up, belted my heart out, and Alex here practically begged to drum for me.”

“Begged?” Alex scoffed, their laughter cutting through the room. “I was doing you a favor, mate. Your timing was all over the shop.”

Sam shook their head, pulling out their ever-present notebook. “Nah, nah, nah. If I hadn’t stepped in with some proper lyrics, you lot would’ve been singing about ‘feelings’ and ‘stuff.’”

“Oh, please.” Riley leaned against the wall, smirking as they tuned their guitar. “If it weren’t for me, we’d still be called ‘Drop Bear Riot.’ Remember that disaster of a name?”

“Disaster?” Jesse shot back. “That was gold.”

The band burst into laughter, the easy kind that comes from years of shared success and inside jokes.

The truth, of course, was far murkier than the polished story they told interviewers and fans. Jesse had shown up at The Howling Pint that night, sure, but only because a mate had dared them to. They’d been three schooners deep and barely remembered half the lyrics they sang.

Alex? They hadn’t tapped a rhythm out of admiration; they’d been annoyed by Jesse’s dodgy tempo and were trying to drown it out. When they approached after the set, it wasn’t with a casual swagger but more of a half-sloshed stumble.

Sam might’ve had a notebook full of lyrics, but the words they offered that night weren’t poetic gold—they were half-finished scribbles that barely rhymed. And Riley? They’d arrived late, sure, but only because they’d been kicked out of another bar earlier in the evening. That legendary riff Riley played? It wasn’t a spontaneous jam but a snippet of a song they’d stolen from their old band’s setlist.

The band would never admit these details to anyone outside their inner circle. After all, the story of four strangers coming together over shared pain and music was so much better.

“You reckon anyone believes the whole ‘hot chips on the curb’ bit?” Sam asked one night as they lounged in their tour van.

“Nah,” Jesse said with a grin, adjusting their sunglasses even though it was well past sundown. “But that’s the beauty of it, innit? Every band needs a myth. Ours just happens to involve chips and bad timing.”

Alex chuckled, tossing a drumstick from hand to hand. “Honestly, I can’t even remember what actually happened that night. Maybe it did go down like we say.”

“Or maybe it didn’t,” Riley said, strumming a lazy chord. “Who cares? All that matters is the music.”

And that, perhaps, was the real truth of Hoarders of Hurt: their origin didn’t matter nearly as much as what they made of it. The stories they told might have been a little blurry around the edges, but the music? That was sharper and more real than anything else.

It all started at The Howling Pint, a dingy little bar tucked away in Sydney’s Newtown. The joint was the perfect mix of gritty charm and cheap pints, where dreams were either made or drowned in a schooner of VB. It was a Wednesday night—open mic night—and the small crowd was already a few drinks in, their cheers teetering on the edge of heckling.

Jesse, the future lead singer, took the stage like they were stepping into a prizefight. With nothing but a battered acoustic guitar and a voice that sounded like heartbreak set on fire, Jesse launched into a ballad so raw it practically bled. The lyrics weren’t polished, and the guitar was a bit dodgy, but you couldn’t look away. It was a gutsy performance that had most of the room too stunned to heckle.

Except for Alex, who sat in the corner nursing a middy of beer. Alex, a drummer with a permanent case of restless hands, started tapping out a rhythm on the sticky table halfway through Jesse’s set. When the song ended and Jesse stepped offstage, red-faced and sweating, Alex wandered over, casual as anything.

“Not bad,” Alex said, raising their beer. “Bit rough around the edges, though. Ever thought about throwing in a proper beat?”

Jesse snorted, half amused, half offended. “You reckon you could do better?”

“Mate,” Alex replied with a smirk, “I don’t reckon—I know.”

At a booth near the back, Sam, the future bassist, was busy scribbling song lyrics in a notebook stained with coffee and who knows what else. Sam had come to The Howling Pint for inspiration, and Jesse’s set hit like a bolt of lightning. It was messy and unfiltered, but it felt real.

Sam moseyed over, notebook in hand, and said, “Oi, I’ve got some words that might go with that sound of yours.” They plonked their bass case onto the table, the offer clear without needing more words.

Then came Riley, the guitarist, making an entrance as chaotic as their playing style. Riley burst through the doors with their guitar strapped across their back like they were ready for a showdown. Riley had just been booted from yet another band, accused of being “too out there,” whatever that meant. Spotting Jesse, Alex, and Sam huddled together, Riley made a beeline for the group.

“What’s this, a pity party?” Riley teased, dropping into the seat next to them. “Got room for one more misfit?”

Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Can you keep up?”

Riley didn’t say a word. They pulled out their guitar and ripped into a riff so good that it shut everyone up for a solid minute.

“Yeah, alright,” Jesse said, trying not to look too impressed.

The night spiraled into chaos the way only a Sydney open mic night can. The four of them grabbed borrowed instruments and started jamming onstage like they’d been playing together for years. The crowd—half cut but fully vibing—started cheering louder with each makeshift song.

When they finally stumbled offstage, sweaty and buzzing, they found themselves sitting outside on the curb, passing around a bag of hot chips from the local servo.

“We need a name,” Jesse declared, squinting into the night.

After a round of absolutely terrible suggestions (“Vegemite Vendetta,” “Drop Bear Riot”), Jesse groaned and said, “We’ve all got our pain. Let’s hoard it and make something out of it.”

Riley pointed a chip at them. “Oi, that’s it! Hoarders of Hurt.”

They all laughed, but the name stuck.

From that night on, Hoarders of Hurt was more than just a band—it was a crew, a family, and a damn good excuse to turn life’s chaos into music that hit harder than a magpie in spring.