Some songs reach out with a hand and walk beside in life. “Vending Machines” is one of those songs.
Built on a catchy melody and relatable story, this track doesn’t shout. It relates. Written in the vernacular of the overlooked, parking lots, vending machines, and late-night jobsite drop-offs, the lyrics trace a quietly unraveling life with startling emotional precision. This is not the country of stadium hooks or barstool anthems. It’s the country of gravel shoulders and empty corners, of what happens after the work whistle stops and the heart keeps punching in.
The lyrics capture the bittersweet tedium of survival through plainspoken poetry: “It’s always the choice between another round / or staring at a colour TV.” It’s not just a decision between drinking or distraction; it’s a thesis on disillusionment. With every verse, we descend further into the grey space of a life once hopeful, now held together by habit, memory, and a reluctant sense of duty not to “worry my mother.”
From a songwriting standpoint, “Vending Machines” stands out in its avoidance of over-explanation. The language is suggestive, not didactic. Lines like “The distant glowing embers of working men / in their rotten mouths, are turning grey to red” immediately conjure Marlboros and resignation, without needing to say so outright. That’s craft. That’s trust in the listener.
Structurally, the song follows a verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus form, but the dynamism comes from the cumulative weight of the words. Each return to the chorus isn’t just repetition; it’s a deepening of the story. The phrase “I don’t want to worry my mother” hits harder with each refrain, as we come to realize it may be the only tether holding the narrator back from total collapse.
Forming the country atmosphere is a strong band that recorded at Chateau Noir in Nashville under the attentive production of Jarrad K. Mariel Buckley’s acoustic guitar and lead vocal anchor the track with unvarnished sincerity—her voice creased with just enough wear to hold the weight of the story. Ryan Funk adds electric guitar, additional acoustic textures, pedal steel, and ghostly background vocals that float like afterthoughts—beautifully blurred into the mix. Luke Breiteneder’s drum kit and percussion are gentle but insistent, more felt than heard, while Reid Thiel’s bass guitar keeps the track grounded, its restraint carrying a heavy emotional undertow. Joao Carvalho’s mastering allows the mix to breathe, preserving every ounce of atmosphere. This isn’t a song that reaches for radio gloss; it leans into raw intimacy.
“Vending Machines” is a song with a narrative songwriting style. It doesn’t require spectacle. Instead, it offers texture, space, and the kind of quiet engagement that lingers. “Vending Machines” reminds us there’s still an audience for songs that let people feel seen in their music.
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