About

Max Lee never really arrived on the scene — he emerged from the haze like a broadcast from a distant star. Somewhere between the hush of dawn and the hum of broken amps, Max stumbled out of a restless sleep one morning, heart pounding with unwritten songs and unfinished thoughts. The band he was tethered to, Calm Mind, was still carving its sound into magnetic tape — but Max had something else humming under his skin. In 2018, with a quiet urgency and a wild glint in his eye, he dropped Colors of Noise, a solo signal flare that lit up the outer edges of the underground.

That album was no debut — it was a declaration. Bleeding with grit, warmth, and spectral charm, Colors of Noise wasn’t just a collection of songs. It was a map. A compass. A warning.

From there, Max caught a gust of wind and drifted into legend with the Airdrifters — a genre-bending crew of sonic outlaws armed with riffs like meteor showers and rhythms that punched like thunder in a dream. They haunted venues from the neon sprawl of NYC to the moonlit quiet of Upstate NY. Places like Bowery Electric, Heaven Can Wait, Cochecton Pump House — stages that now hum with the memory of their audio seances.

Max Lee, always one foot in the shadow, never stopped writing. His guitar work could split atoms or hold a silence like a breath held almost too long. His voice — midnight radio smooth, but edged with something broken — delivered lyrics like postcards from the edge of somewhere beautiful and ruined.

With 2023’s Thought of the Hour, Max and the Airdrifters carved a sonic monolith out of stardust and feedback. Psychedelic punk, astro-R&B, chamber pop filtered through a cracked kaleidoscope — it wasn’t a record, it was a séance. And the light show? Forget it. Each gig became a ritual. Sweat, distortion, emotional exorcism — and always, that glimmer in Max’s eye, like he’d already seen the future and wrote it into a verse.

2024 brought a string of singular, thunderous singles — crystalline, feral, vulnerable — like transmissions from another dimension, crescendoing into the eponymous Ember Scriptures & Eternal Flames released January 3, 2025. And now? Nobody knows exactly what Max Lee is cooking in the static of tomorrow, but the frequencies are shifting. The next wave is coming.

Max Lee isn’t just a songwriter. He’s a late-night evangelist of the unsaid, a wandering satellite in mirrored shades, casting love songs into the void like prayers or spells.

This isn’t music for the algorithm.
This is music for the real ones —
the dreamers, the drifters, the ones still up at 3AM,
waiting for the next broadcast from the other side of the sky.