There’s a storm brewing in San Jose, and it’s not tech or traffic—it’s Collected Pieces, the blisteringly personal and sonically ambitious debut album from Aluminum Boys. Released on March 28, 2025, the 10-track record is a tightly spun patchwork quilt of heartache, hilarity, memory, and modern American malaise. If you haven’t heard of them yet, that’s about to change. This is indie rock with its sleeves rolled up, teeth bared, and heart wide open.
Aluminum Boys, the brainchild of Wisconsin expats Jared Ottmann and William “Bill” Pence, feels like the sound of a scrapbook being torn up and reassembled with glue made of self-awareness and guitar fuzz. After moving to California and weathering a long stretch of pandemic-induced isolation, the two turned late-night bedroom jam sessions into a therapeutic, collaborative force of nature. They’ve built a record that not only acknowledges loss but weaponizes it into something celebratory and weirdly uplifting. Think The National after three double espressos, or Bright Eyes if he joined Arcade Fire and wrote a concept album about dying malls and unsent text messages.
But Collected Pieces isn’t just a duo-and-a-laptop project. It’s a community effort. Bringing in the heavyweight production team of Paula Kelly and Aaron Tap—yes, that Aaron Tap from Matt Nathanson and Drop Nineteens—the record is awash with confidence and clarity. Drum virtuoso Sean Hutchinson (you might’ve heard of his side gigs with Lana Del Rey and Taylor Swift) brings rhythmic muscle and warmth. Grammy-winner Kyle Tuttle drops a banjo line on “Lowlands” so slick it almost steals the show.
Despite being stitched together from various bedrooms and remote studios across the country, Collected Pieces has a lived-in, almost old-soul coherence. Maybe that’s because it’s rooted in the real: grief, distance, detachment, longing, the weird absurdity of trying to process collective trauma while also sorting through your own. There’s no pretense here—just poetry, pain, and pop hooks.
Opener “Common Pleas” is a mission statement with ambition. It barrels forward like a hometown parade where everyone’s smiling but crying a little. It’s all high-energy guitars, swirling strings, and sharp lyrics that feel both personal and panoramic. Then there’s “Pocahontas, IL”—a local legend, a tongue-in-cheek slice of Midwest mythology that plays like a John Prine short story as reimagined by The Hold Steady.
By the time you hit “favoritE daYs,” you realize just how multilayered this record really is. Synth lines shimmer around a Cure-like sadness, and the lyrics dive into the kind of emotional specificity that leaves you winded. It’s nostalgic, but it doesn’t pander. It remembers, but it also regrets. If “Stories” is a love letter to miscommunication, then “Green Texts” is the mixtape you make when your crush stops replying.
“October Rose” and “Murphy’s Law” are quieter, but no less affecting. They offer moments of emotional stillness before the album ramps up again. “Sleepless,” the closer, doesn’t just cap things off—it feels like the band stepping into the next chapter with eyes wide open and guitars tuned for liftoff. “I’ve got a head full of tales too tender to tell,” Jared sings, and it lands like a whisper you hear just before the lights go out.
At every turn, the album refuses to sit still. It blends genre, time, tone, and perspective so effortlessly that you forget how complex it really is. There are moments of punk defiance and others of orchestral grace. It’s a collage of sounds—smeared and shifting—but it never feels like a mess. Instead, it feels like a love letter to the in-between moments: half-smiles, awkward silences, those weird thoughts you have during long drives.
Aluminum Boys have managed something rare with Collected Pieces. They’ve made a record that sounds as massive as your emotions and as specific as your hometown. It’s an ode to growing up and growing apart, a sonic scrapbook of everything you meant to say but didn’t. And while its roots are undeniably indie, it reaches far beyond—into chamber pop, alt-country, even spiritual jazz at moments.
This isn’t just an album—it’s a reckoning disguised as a road trip mixtape. It’s sad and joyful, funny and devastating. It’s messy in the best way. So clear your schedule, grab your best headphones, and dig in. You might just find a few pieces of yourself scattered throughout.
