Seth Patrick Digs Deep Into the Wreckage With Unflinching Debut ‘Hell and Heartbreak’

There are breakup albums—and then there’s Hell and Heartbreak, the debut project from Seth Patrick that doesn’t just mourn a relationship, but every belief that once gave him purpose. It’s not here to soothe you. It’s here to stare you in the face while everything you used to believe burns behind you.

Hailing from Cleveland but creatively forged in Los Angeles, Patrick’s sound sits somewhere between grunge ruin, alt-rock grit, and the stark vulnerability of a man who's long past pretending he’s okay. His voice is ragged but alive, filled with the kind of bruised honesty that doesn’t chase perfection—it chases truth. And the truth hurts.

From the opening track “Death Grip”, it’s clear Patrick didn’t come to play nice. This isn’t just about a broken heart—it’s about the collapse of identity. The spiritual reckoning. The moment when even the gods you used to pray to feel silent.

There’s no fairytale ending waiting on this record. On songs like “Frostbite” and “Heartbreak Fever,” Patrick explores pain not as something to be cured, but something to be lived through. You can almost feel the self-inflicted wounds as he leans into the kind of love that hurts more than it heals. And the wildest part? He knows it. He keeps showing up to bleed anyway.

The production, entirely self-driven, mirrors the emotional rawness of the lyrics. With only bassist Sean Hurley and drummer Matt Graff joining him, the sonic palette remains sharp, sparse, and focused. His guitar riffs feel like open wounds—slow and deliberate or jagged and impulsive, depending on the emotion he’s dragging to the surface.

There’s a brutal standout in “Original Sin”—a track that pulls no punches in examining gender dynamics, control, and the roles we play in our own undoing. It’s not about shock value. It’s about laying bare the uncomfortable truths that most would rather silence.

And yet, for all the darkness, Hell and Heartbreak never falls into self-pity. It’s not looking for your sympathy. It’s not begging to be understood. It simply exists—raw, vulnerable, and bracingly honest. A snapshot of a man sifting through the ashes of faith, love, and ego, wondering what, if anything, is still worth keeping.

The album's vinyl packaging features a Bible-style lyric book—not as a gimmick, but as a relic from a belief system that once defined him. There’s no redemption arc here, only reckoning. And it hits like scripture rewritten in blood.

With Resurrection on the horizon, we’re promised a continuation—but whether it brings closure or just a new kind of ruin remains to be seen.

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