After a year of funk detours, Treis returns to what he does best: tracking the exact distance between two people at the wrong hour. The Orlando singer and producer works in the space where vulnerability becomes a transaction, where need arrives with the specificity of a street name but no address. His songs don’t explain the pattern. They live inside it.
after midnight
“after midnight” isolates the moment the call comes in. The party is over, the lights are on, and someone is either getting drunk or getting sober when they start to dial. Treis sings it flat, observational, like he’s watching himself pick up. The queasiness over caller ID is the giveaway—not anger, not satisfaction, just a stomach turning at a name that still means something. What makes the song stick is the transaction at its center: “Using your nothing to get my all.” He knows the economy is rigged. He answers anyway.
sunday morning
“Sunday morning” takes the same situation and holds it in the light, which makes everything look different. Treis places the narrator in a moment of fleeting intimacy, two people pretending the morning won’t come, and lets the paranoia sit underneath like a bass note that never resolves. The bridge is where it opens: “You could stay if you want, it’s just a little longer ’til the sun comes up.” The band pulls back, the question hangs, and the song ends before anyone answers. Treis doesn’t tell you whether temporary pleasure is worth it. He just leaves you there with the sun about to rise and someone still deciding.
