The name
In aviation and maritime search and rescue, "last known frequency" is the channel a vessel was broadcasting on before contact was lost. It's the frequency you return to when you're trying to find something that's gone quiet. The last coordinate of a signal that faded.
I grew up on a steady diet of 80s synth pop and late-night FM radio. There's something about that world — neon and static, signals bleeding into each other across the dial at 2am — that's always lived in the back of my head. The songs I make come from that place. Not literally, but emotionally. That particular feeling of driving somewhere in the dark with the volume up, trying to hold onto something you can't quite name.
"Last Known Frequency" felt right because that's what music does, at its best. It becomes the last place you heard something true.
Why this exists
I've been releasing quietly for a while. No campaign, no threads, no content calendar. Just put it out and hope it finds the people it's meant for.
That still feels right. But there's stuff that happens around the songs that I've never had anywhere to put — the version that lived in a voice memo for eight months, the line I changed at the last minute and still second-guess, the specific mood a track was trying to capture. None of that fits in a caption.
Transmissions is where it goes. Short, occasional, when something's actually worth saying.