I Don’t Believe the Gallows
It all begins with an idea.
Marty Black never set out to make a record that felt like confession, but “I Don’t Believe The Gallows” carries the weight of years spent between kitchen lines, quiet highways, and late-night porch lights. Before music took the front seat, Marty was a chef, moving through kitchens and dusty backroads with the same stubbornness that seeps into every note of this album.
The songs came slowly—first as scribbles between shifts, then as melodies hummed into the dark. When the noise of ambition quieted, music became the one place he could speak plainly. “I Don’t Believe The Gallows” isn’t about polished narratives or easy redemption. It’s a record built on the edges of real life: the kind of losses that don’t make headlines, the love that stays lodged in the chest, and the hard truth that faith doesn’t always come with answers.
Each track is stripped down to its bones. The production leans on warmth, not gloss, letting his voice sit in the same space as a steel string or a creaking floorboard. The record moves like a slow river—steady, deliberate, and honest. It’s less about performance than presence.
Marty Black brings the world of the Lone Star State into focus—not as myth, but as a lived-in landscape. His Texas isn’t romanticized; it’s restless, dusty, and stubbornly alive yet somehow hopeful. In that space, “I Don’t Believe The Gallows” stands as both a reckoning and a quiet refusal to give in.