Navigating the Hypnotic Maze of "Half Evil" by Tomato Soup
There is a peculiar kind of engine at the heart of “Half Evil” by Tomato Soup, and it runs not on gasoline but on disorientation. The Denver six-piece calls their sound “Motor-Folk,” and it fits. The track has the chugging, forward-moving momentum of a vehicle, yet it seems to be driving through a landscape seen in a fever dream, where the signposts are all written in an alien, albeit familiar, alphabet.
Here, a crisis of faith is catalogued with the desperate precision of an academic trying to footnote their own nervous breakdown. The lyrics wrestle with “atheologies” and “comparative religion architecture,” trying to intellectually scaffold a self that is spiritually crumbling. This isn’t the wail of a lost soul; it’s the meticulously penned dissertation of one. Listening feels like finding a perfectly preserved insect in amber, an ancient confusion trapped in modern clarity. For a moment, it reminded me of the specific, slightly sweet smell of old library books—that scent of contained knowledge offering zero practical comfort for the heart.
Navigating the Hypnotic Maze of “Half Evil” by Tomato Soup
This state is brilliantly captured in the self-coined phrase “Holy Saturday Cryptomeasia,” a kind of hidden amnesia in the waiting room between what was and what might be. It’s the sound of being a stranger in your own skin, a tourist in your own life. The combined work of Alec Doniger, Adam Cabrera, Ronan Dowling, Riley Merino, Colin Sheehan, and Megan Ellsworth creates a hypnotic, circling current that pulls you into this limbo, making the plea to “find a way back” feel profoundly urgent and deeply ambiguous.
It leaves you with the quiet, unsettling hum of a machine left running in an empty room. After the track ends, you’re left wondering: is there truly a way back, or is the destination just learning how to live inside the maze?
The Neon-Soaked Sorrow of Violet Whimsey’s "PERSEPHONE"
Listening to Violet Whimsey’s new EP, “PERSEPHONE,” is a bit like finding an antique music box that only plays minor chords. You wind it up, expecting a delicate tune, but what emerges is something far more shadowed, intricate, and possessed of a strange, chilling beauty. This is dark pop that doesn’t just brood; it excavates.
The collection is a descent, a guided tour through various chambers of loss. We begin on the outside looking in with “No Stars,” a song that feels like being seen through distorted glass. It’s a hymn for anyone who has had their story rewritten for them by others, a defiant pushback against a world quick to judge the scars it cannot comprehend. Then, the betrayal gets personal. “Sly” chronicles the particular hollowness of watching a friend trade their soul for a seat at the table, their transformation feeling less like a glow-up and more like the dimming of a vital light.
The Neon-Soaked Sorrow of Violet Whimsey’s “PERSEPHONE”
From there, things get wonderfully weird. “Sally” drops us into a kind of cosmic pinball machine, where life is a random game of flashing lights and coin-toss chances. It captures that frantic feeling of shouting into a hurricane, trying to be heard over the relentless clatter of a system that wasn’t built to listen. It smells, oddly, like ozone and cheap arcade coffee. The cinematic synths throughout the EP hum with the specific frequency of a city street after a heavy rain, when the neon signs blur and every reflection seems to hold a secret.
The final stages of the journey are the most intimate. “What Happened To Our Love” picks through the debris of a relationship, not with fury, but with a forensic sorrow, while the closer, “Still Here,” is the EP’s most devastating moment. It’s a quiet declaration of presence that sounds an awful lot like a cage, the sound of waiting for a ghost in a house that is no longer a home.
The Neon-Soaked Sorrow of Violet Whimsey’s “PERSEPHONE”
“PERSEPHONE” is an exercise in finding the dark, jeweled beauty in the wreckage. This is the sound of learning to rule a kingdom you never asked for. But once you have the crown, what do you do with it?
Finding the Light on the Hill in Michellar's "Truth Over Lies".
Listening to the opening of Michellar’s “Truth Over Lies” is like being dropped mid-sentence into a conversation you desperately need to hear. This track, which features Frankie El, doesn’t ease you in; it puts you on the “shaky ground” it sings about, a state of profound vertigo that reminds me of the low, anxious hum an old CRT television used to make just before the picture tube fired up. For an artist to reappear after a 40-year hiatus is one thing, but to then unleash 22 singles in nine months speaks to a creative pressure that has finally, thunderously found its release valve.
The song’s initial spinning chaos is, of course, the whole point. It’s the fog of disorientation that makes the sudden appearance of a “light on the hill” feel so galvanizing. Here, the track’s alternative rock-pop architecture transforms from something hazy into something forged. A determined, unifying pulse takes over, building a sound not for quiet contemplation but for bodies in motion. It’s music that marches, and you find your own feet keeping time, an unconscious solidarity with a cause you’ve just been handed.
Finding the Light on the Hill in Michellar’s “Truth Over Lies”.
This isn’t a polite request for change; it’s a full-throated summons. The lyrical journey from isolated confusion to collective power has the strange, sudden cohesion of a starling murmuration, that breathtaking instant when thousands of disparate points become one fluid, undeniable shape against a darkening sky. Michellar weaponizes rhythm to rally the scattered, turning individual frustration into a shared cadence that pushes back against the noise.
So, what happens when a voice, dormant for four decades, finally decides it has something vital to add? You get this. You get a reckoning set to a beat.
Inside the Mystical Space of TaniA Kyllikki’s “I PROMISE”
Listening to TaniA Kyllikki’s new single, “I PROMISE (I’ll Wait For You)”, is like stumbling upon a vow carved into the stone of a forgotten chapel. This is an epic power ballad, a genre that too often inflates emotion into melodrama, but Kyllikki, alongside producer Rynellton, constructs something with a different kind of gravity. It is an architectural feat, built from piano chords that land like foundation stones and strings that stretch upwards like vaulted ceilings.
The sound is immense and mystical, sure, but it’s the peculiar quality of the space within the music that holds you. For a moment, it reminded me of the specific, reverent silence inside the Chartres Cathedral labyrinth in France – a quietude defined not by absence, but by profound, patient intention. Kyllikki’s voice moves through this space, and that lauded five-octave range becomes a tool of measurement, scaling the distance between two people and finding it holy.
Here, the promise of the title is treated not as a wistful hope but as an unbreakable, spiritual contract. The devotion is so absolute it feels almost defiant, a stark pledge against the flimsy nature of modern connection. It’s a declaration of such steadfastness that you almost want to look away, as if you’ve overheard something far too private and sacred for your own ears.
Inside the Mystical Space of TaniA Kyllikki’s “I PROMISE”
This is a song that doesn’t just express patience; it embodies it. The composition itself seems to wait, building its layers with an unhurried, almost geological certainty. It leaves you wondering: when a love is this certain of its destination, does the waiting stop feeling like a hardship and simply become part of the love itself?
The Festive Defiance of John Smyths' "Now I'm Wiser".
The moment the jaunty guitar kicks in on John Smyths’ new single, “Now I’m Wiser”, you feel a familiar, comfortable warmth. It’s the sound of a good chair in a bar where the floor is sticky with spilled truths. And then the story starts, a classic yarn of a hard-living past yielding to a peaceful present. Smyths, a Dutch ex-metalhead singing country out of Germany, sounds less like he’s playing a part and more like he’s simply closing a ledger.
The music has that George Strait crispness, but there’s a festive defiance in the rhythm, a touch of The Mavericks winking from the corner. It’s a strange and pleasing cocktail: a sound built for a Saturday night dance hall, carrying a narrative about accepting the quiet of a Tuesday morning. The upbeat instrumentation is a brilliant foil to a tale of aging, loss, and the specter of a final curtain call. It’s not a mournful dirge for a misspent youth; it’s a victory lap run at a leisurely pace.
The Festive Defiance of John Smyths’ “Now I’m Wiser”.
Listening, my mind drifted, bizarrely, to the Dutch vanitas paintings of the 17th century. Those canvases filled with skulls, snuffed-out candles, and ripening fruit weren’t meant to be depressing. They were reminders: time is short, so live with purpose. This song is a musical vanitas. Smyths lays out the guns and the glory of his past not with regret, but as artifacts of a life that had to be lived to get here. The central message seems to be that wisdom isn’t about erasing the past, but about finally understanding its weight and how to set it down gently.
It all settles into a feeling of profound contentment, a state achieved not by avoiding life’s battles, but by surviving them. The track leaves you with an odd, reflective calm. When you’ve made peace with all your former, more reckless selves, what are you supposed to do with all the quiet?
Inochka Captures a Sunbeam of Loss in "Intertwined"
Inochka’s new single, “Intertwined,” is the auditory equivalent of noticing the dust motes dancing in a single ray of late-afternoon sun, realizing an entire day has passed you by. This is music that occupies a space, filling the quiet corners of a room with a kind of beautiful, bruised resignation. The track drifts in on a bed of lo-fi atmosphere and gentle guitar, carrying a melody that feels less composed and more remembered, like a half-recalled tune from a dream.
The central metaphor, a love that has “shattered like sugar,” is disarmingly perfect. It stopped me cold. It made me think of the extravagant sugar sculptures—the trionfi di tavola—of Renaissance feasts: intricate, magnificent structures built with the complete understanding that they would be destroyed. A fleeting spectacle of sweetness. Inochka captures that very essence—the building of something glorious that was perhaps always destined to dissolve, its memory leaving a sticky, complicated residue on everything that comes after, in the “mundane haze” of now.
Inochka Captures a Sunbeam of Loss in “Intertwined”
The strength here is in the quiet devastation. Her vocal performance is stunning in its restraint; there’s no pyrotechnic grief, only the heavy sigh of acceptance. You can almost feel the air grow still around the speakers. The whole construction feels fragile, a temporary shelter from a loss that is permanent. They were once “like oceans steady,” but the song lives in the bewildering quiet after the tide has gone out for good, leaving strange things scattered on the shore.
What do you do with the blueprint of a life that was never meant to be built? “Intertwined” doesn’t answer; it just lets you sit with the question.
"Evil Person": KAYTIE's Chilling Document of Deceit
KAYTIE’s new single “Evil Person” arrives with the pristine, deliberate clarity of a single ice cube cracking in a silent room. For a piano-driven ballad, there is a surprising amount of sharp edges here. Kaytie Kear, the 20-year-old singer and songwriter behind the name, doesn’t just perform a song of heartbreak; she presents evidence. This is the autopsy of a connection so personal and intense it could be a romance or a friendship so close it draws its own kind of blood.
The true horror at the core of the track isn’t the eventual fallout, but the gut-punch realization of its artifice. KAYTIE’s vocals move from bruised reflection to accusation, unspooling the story of being told you were “perfect,” only to later discover that same line being fed to someone new. It reminds me of the strange phenomenon of lithophanes—those porcelain panels that only reveal a detailed image when backlit. In the dark, it’s just a blank slab. This song is the moment the light switches on, revealing the intricate, pre-fabricated nature of what felt so uniquely real. You weren’t the subject of a masterpiece; you were just the latest person to hold the light source.
“Evil Person”: KAYTIE’s Chilling Document of Deceit
The song’s architecture perfectly mirrors this dawning fury. What starts on the piano with a quiet, sorrowful introspection steadily accumulates tension. The chords get heavier, the space between them prickles. Then comes the key change, a classic pop trick that feels entirely earned. It’s no mere gear shift for a soaring chorus. It’s the sound of the dam of polite sadness breaking. It is the moment questioning (“what about when you said…”) becomes condemnation. The label “evil person” isn’t thrown lightly; it’s the only word left after all the beautiful, hollow ones have been exposed as fraudulent.
What an unsettling little document of deceit. It makes you wonder—is it worse to be lied to with original material, or to be the unknowing recipient of someone else’s recycled devotion?
A Quiet Confrontation: Blind Man's Daughter's "Harbor Boulevard"
Blind Man’s Daughter has constructed something peculiar with the single “Harbor Boulevard,” a song that feels less like a piece of music and more like discovering a perfectly preserved room from a house that no longer exists. Ashley Wolfe’s project here builds a world with the clean, approachable architecture of country-pop, yet there’s a strange dust mote shimmer in the air—those cinematic flourishes—that catches the light and reveals the deep, complex grain of the story.
The whole thing sent my mind sideways for a moment, thinking about the Piri Reis map from 1513, that strange and beautiful chart of the world that was somehow both astonishingly accurate and fantastically wrong. This song is a map like that. It charts a real place, a father’s enduring love, with such precision. But it also traces the coastlines of memory that are actively eroding, the shoreline changing even as the ink dries. It’s a cartography of the heart, drawn against the relentless tide of Alzheimer’s.
A Quiet Confrontation: Blind Man’s Daughter’s “Harbor Boulevard”
Here, gratitude isn’t a simple, sunny sentiment. It’s a load-bearing wall. It’s the foundational anchor holding steady while the landscape of recollection shifts and blurs. Wolfe’s voice doesn’t just narrate; it occupies the space, finding a way to convey the simultaneous weight of a cherished past and the hollow ache of its potential absence. The comparison to Swift or Musgraves holds up in its narrative clarity, but the emotional atmosphere here is different—it’s heavier, more fragile, like holding a spun-sugar sculpture in a rainstorm.
It’s a tribute, yes, but it’s also a quiet confrontation with the nature of our own internal architecture. When the person who taught you how to build your world begins to forget the blueprints, what part of you remains standing?
The Bleak Barter of Rusty Reid's "Piece of the Action"
There’s a specific kind of bleak bartering that happens at 2 AM, and Rusty Reid’s single “Piece of the Action” builds a whole four-minute economy around it. This isn’t a song about the sweeping grandeur of romance; it’s a clinical look at turning “dissatisfaction” into “a transaction of love.” The language is deliberate, almost like a contract being signed on a napkin under a dim light, stripping the act of any pretense other than a desperate, primal exchange.
The song’s devastating thesis arrives with a line that stopped me cold: “I have found through endless searching, you can’t get closer when you’re touching.” Suddenly I wasn’t thinking about music, but about those high-school physics diagrams where atoms are revealed to be 99.9% empty space. Two hands clasp, but what is actually meeting? A universe of nothing, pushing against another universe of nothing. That is the profound, aching loneliness Reid captures here—physicality as a confirmation of distance, not a bridge across it.
The Bleak Barter of Rusty Reid’s “Piece of the Action”
What’s clever is how the song clothes this existential hollowness. The sound is pure rock and roll bravado—a muscular, hip-swinging strut that feels like it should be soundtracking a confident conquest. Instead, it underscores a great and tragic performance. The music swaggers, but the lyrics confess the swagger is a lie, a temporary balm for an internal wound that physical contact only irritates further. The satisfaction achieved is momentary and only serves to highlight the emotional deficit.
It’s the sound of a bruise forming in real-time, but does the ache ever teach the lesson?
"Still Sick": Thain is Allergic to the Bullshit of Fame
There is a certain engine-knock honesty to Thain’s new single “Still Sick”, a sound that feels less produced and more… excavated. It’s a defiant piece of Midwest air, thick with the collaborative energy of Hippy K’s verses and the raw, tangible world built by producer Audio Paradolia. This isn’t the slick, polished chrome of mainstream ambition; it’s the hum of a workshop where something real is being assembled from parts that have seen a life.
The entire track pivots on that brilliant, obstinate hook: “sick when I feel like it / drop hits and they still biting.” It’s a statement of controlled chaos, of talent as a faculty you can turn on, not a performance you must maintain. For some reason, it makes me think of the peculiar smell of petrichor—that scent of rain hitting dry earth. You can’t bottle it. You can’t schedule it. It happens when the conditions are just right, and its effect is total and immediate. That’s the power being claimed here, a creative force unleashed on its own unapologetic terms.
“Still Sick”: Thain is Allergic to the Bullshit of Fame
Against the live instrumentation provided by Steven Shields, the lyrics dismantle the empty posturing of rivals who only “pretend to get real quiet” after the noise. Thain lays bare a history forged in struggle, a place where integrity was a survival mechanism long before it was a brand. The track doesn’t just reject the “bullshit it takes to be famous”; it seems fundamentally allergic to it, as if its presence might cause the entire thing to short-circuit.
It leaves you with a question that hangs in the air long after the beat fades. In a world desperate for the genuine article, what is the true cost of never, ever faking it?
AratheJay Drops "Put Am On God" Video As "The Odyssey" Reaches #2 On Apple Music
AratheJay has officially released the music video for “Put Am On God,” the lead single off his debut LP, “The Odyssey”. The visual arrives on the back of the project’s remarkable success since its release on October 24.
“The Odyssey“ has not simply charted but also rewritten the record books for debut projects in the Ghanaian music. The 17-track epic, which serves as the core narrative of AratheJay’s expansive “Finding Nimo Series,” achieved the biggest opening day streams on Spotify for a Ghanaian male debut album in 2025.
Similarly, the project set an unprecedented domestic record by becoming the first Ghanaian debut album to have all 17 tracks debut simultaneously on the Ghana Apple Music chart. The commercial success is underscored by the album’s strong critical reception, which currently has it ranked #2 on the overall Apple Music Albums chart.
The newly unveiled music video for “Put Am On God” provides a compelling visual interpretation of the track’s theme. The single, already a fan favourite for its heartfelt conviction, essentially captures the heart of “The Odyssey”, faith, perseverance, and self-belief. The song reflects AratheJay’s core message, finding strength through conviction and resilience amid doubt. The video brings that message to life, presenting a visual narrative that mirrors his journey of endurance and growth.
With momentum building, AratheJay is preparing to take “The Odyssey” to the stage. His first headline European tour begins this November, with confirmed shows in Hamburg (November 19), Amsterdam (November 21), and London (November 22).
Watch “Put Am On God” now and stream “The Odyssey“ on all platforms.
Drawing a Line in the Sand with Martin Yates's "Now or Never"
Martin Yates’s new single, “Now or Never”, doesn’t ask for your time; it issues a three-minute summons. This is the sound of someone pushing their chair back from the table, the scrape of the legs on the floor echoing a decision that’s been brewing for years. Channeling the wounded pride of 1960s soul legends, Yates builds a monument to the moment the heart finally overrules the head. It’s a gorgeous, gut-wrenching ultimatum.
There’s a texture to his voice here that’s particularly arresting. When he sings of feeling like a “fool,” the note frays just so at the edges. For some reason, it brings to mind the specific scent of rain hitting hot pavement—that sudden, earthy perfume of a storm finally breaking. It’s the smell of release, of a long-held tension snapping. He isn’t just recounting the cycle of a toxic affair; he’s letting you feel the atmospheric pressure drop just before the downpour.
Drawing a Line in the Sand with Martin Yates’s “Now or Never”
The pop-soul arrangement swells and recedes with a kind of pained patience, a musical enactment of the very emotional tides that trap the song’s narrator. The drums keep a steady, almost stubborn beat while the melody aches around it, mirroring that feeling of standing still while your world spins in a dizzying, destructive loop.
As the first taste of an EP slated for 2026, it’s a powerful, almost confrontational, opening statement. No gentle easing-in here.
Yates has drawn a definitive line for a lover, but the song leaves its mark on the listener, too. It makes you wonder: what unspoken ultimatums are rattling around in your own quiet moments?
Riax Delivers Floor-Shaking Catharsis on "saved my life"
Listening to Riax’s new single, “Saved My Life,” feels like receiving a thank-you note from the future while standing in the middle of a lightning storm. Here is the furious, floor-shaking kick drum of Euphoric Hardstyle, a sound designed for packed crowds and laser-split darkness, yet it’s delivering an intensely private message of self-reconciliation. It’s a baffling, brilliant collision. The beat wants to obliterate your ribcage while the vocals gently try to mend a fractured spirit.
The track is an intimate monologue directed at a younger, struggling self. There’s no ambiguity here; Riax lays out the theme of gratitude for the one who endured “the highs the lows the uphill climb.” And that’s where the peculiar magic happens. The soaring synth melody doesn’t feel like a simple celebration; it has the same strange, artificial brightness as the fluorescent lights in an all-night diner. It’s the color of survival, not just happiness—a man-made light holding back an immense darkness. You get the sense this isn’t about forgetting the pain, but about building a fortress around the memory with a pounding 4/4 beat.
Riax Delivers Floor-Shaking Catharsis on “saved my life”
Most music about healing is gentle, acoustic, and soft. Riax discards that entire playbook. “Saved my life” posits that catharsis can also be violent, ecstatic, and loud. The track reframes survival not as a quiet process of stitching oneself back together, but as a triumphant, defiant stomp on the very ground that once threatened to swallow you whole. It’s the musical equivalent of looking at an old wound and, instead of hiding it, turning it into a spectacular tattoo.
Does a song truly have power if you can’t dance and weep to it at the same time?
The arrival of Puck’s debut single, “Caricature,” feels less like a release and more like a jailbreak. From the opening crackle, this is a song that’s been chewing on its own chains for some time. Galway’s five-piece racket-makers have bottled a very specific kind of frenetic energy, the kind you get from too much coffee and staring at a flickering screen until society starts to look like a poorly drawn cartoon. The dual vocal attack from Rua Grassi and Narz Hession is an immediate standout, creating a call-and-response between a rattled inner psyche and a defiant outer snarl.
There’s a grubby, exhilarating texture here, born of its self-recorded origins. You can almost feel the damp Galway air clinging to Hubert Rudy’s scuzzy guitar lines and Nora Staunton’s tightly wound drumming. The song’s chant about “creatures imposing… papers on the throne” brought on a strange, fleeting memory of a college history textbook—some bleak Francisco Goya print of contorted officials signing away people’s lives with a flourish of a quill. That’s what this sounds like: the furious scribbling of a pen scratching through the parchment of power.
Puck Breaks Free on Debut Single “Caricature”
As Daniel Marron’s bass rumbles underneath, the track documents a frantic clambering out of a mental cage. It starts with the wobbling vulnerability of being a “big boy” and ends in a glorious, anarchic sprint into the dark. It doesn’t offer easy answers or polished resolutions; it offers the frantic catharsis of finally bolting.
Puck leaves you with the wind in your ears and the sound of sirens fading behind you. What do you do with freedom once you’ve violently taken it back?
A Song That Breathes Honesty: NBP Human’s “You Know Me”
Balazs Janky, which is the real name of singer-songwriter NBP Human, has already recorded a new song, which he calls You Know Me. It is an indie-rock ballad, written in the most sincere and natural way of love. Single was released on October 9, 2025.
You Know Me is traditional and vibrantly authentic. The song recalls such artists as Leonard Cohen and Bruce Springsteen but still possesses their own recognizable features and sound.
The virtue of You Know Me is its simple nature. The song begins with gentle acoustic guitar and natural and warm vocals. It starts out with a low-key and intimate moment, almost like a personal discussion. Interestingly, NBP Human preferred to use the first vocal recording that was recorded using an iPhone headset. This decision introduces a flawed element which, in fact, enhances the sense of emotion of this song.
As the song moves on, it develops into a higher grunge-inspired climax. NBP Human makes vulnerability a source of power and a line of such lyrics as Yeah, you know me, and I know you does not transform into a soft piece of comfort but a powerful one about togetherness and perseverance.
There is also the music video of the song which contributes to the entire experience. The video was filmed by Balázs who was the one who would fix the colors. The cinematographer was Lóránt Hollay, and visual work was done by the son of Balázs, Milán Janky. The warmth and sincerity of the music are seen in the video.
You Know Me is not another single. It is a significant assertion in regard to sincerity and humanity. NBP Human demonstrates through his insightful writing and his emotional integrity that love has nothing to do with perfection. Rather, it has to do with being actually perceived, comprehended as well as embraced just as we are. The song is sensitive, fervent, and unforgettable.
Adai Song Bridges East and West with Grammy-Nominated Album 'The Bloom Project'
Adai Song is establishing the links between the cultures in her music. This is a Beijing-born artist, producer, and DJ who has released a radical new album known as The Bloom Project, and his new release is based in New York. The album has been nominated under Grammy Awards in the Best Global Music Album category.
The Bloom Project is inspired by such a musical style of the 1930s Shanghai, one shidaiqu that combined Chinese folk music and Western jazz. Adai takes this old-fashioned sound into the current day in a feminist and progressive manner.
The album comprises eight songs that mix traditional musical instruments of the Chinese such as guzheng, erhu, and pipa with contemporary electronic music such as EDM and trap. It is music to the glory of the past and also a music that was to be absolutely new. It is soft and powerful at the same time making listeners experience something emotional.
Making Way and Carmen 2025, among others, turn the classical tunes into proclamations of self-esteem and personal power. The other song, River Run, states the messages of grace and liberty.
Adai is a professor at Berklee and a producer of music that breaks the traditional isms and glorifies cultural identity. The Bloom Project is not only a bunch of songs. It demonstrates how the traditional music may evolve and develop instead of falling into extinction. Adai through this work shows that music can pay tribute to the past and look at the future.
The Bloom Project — the title alone sparks curiosity! What inspired this beautiful name? A theater producer friend actually gave me this name! I knew from the beginning that I wanted the word “Bloom” in it, because blooming represents resilience through difficulty, and positivity through conquering. It’s the moment when something delicate breaks through the soil toward the light. For me, that movement mirrors the creative and emotional process behind this album — growth, persistence, and beauty born out of struggle.
Your new album feels like a fresh journey. How would you describe the vibe and energy of The Bloom Project? It’s cinematic, feminine, and electric, full of motion and contrast. The album moves between nostalgic melodies and hard-hitting beats, between softness and strength. There’s a kind of emotional rhythm to it. You’ll dance, you’ll reflect, you’ll drift into memory, and then wake up in something futuristic.
What emotions and stories did you pour into this album that you’re most excited to share with your fans?
I poured a lot of “becoming” into this album by stepping into my power as a woman producer and rewriting narratives I grew up with. Historically, shidaiqu songs from 1920s Shanghai were often written by men, even when sung from a woman’s perspective. The lyrics revolved around beauty, desire, or waiting for love. But as a woman in this century, I wanted to tell a different story about self-worth, ambition, and joy.
The creative process was intense and deeply personal. For A Lost Singer, I actually got an ear infection right after recording the erhu for 3 hours straight. There were definitely mental breakdowns when I spent hours trying what felt like a million different shakuhachi solo sounds for “Wild Thorny Molihua.” But there were also breakthrough moments, like when I was making “River Run” and had this awakening when I applied an altered melody from a southern China folk song to a metallic synth stack. That moment felt like everything clicked.
But there were also breakthrough moments, like when I was making “River Run” and had this awakening
Were there any unexpected moments or surprises during the making of this album? “Wuxi Tune”, the last song we finished on this album, almost didn’t happen. I received stems from Siyi Chen’s jazz-inspired arrangement of the famous Chinese folk tune that has almost a version in every region. It’s such a famous tune, and I really didn’t want to screw this up. What my co-producer Yuanming Zhang and I ended up doing was deconstructing those stems — chopping, flipping, and re-processing the tracks, weaving UK garage beats into the arrangement.
I reassigned notes across instruments, sometimes slicing a melody so the first few notes went to saxophone, the next to piano, and then to guzheng. That’s how the track became this intricate collage, choppy, yet fluid.
Sometimes, the spark comes from a single iconic sound I’ve imagined for years. Take “Carmen.” Growing up, I was obsessed with the melody of Carmen’s “Habanera,” and I always wondered how it would sound on a guzheng. When I began this album, I already knew that had to be the centerpiece — the guzheng carrying that famous tune. I built the bass line around it. Then, for the solo, I didn’t want a simple reproduction of the original melody. I wanted something wild, almost “unplayable” — a version that stretches the instrument beyond its tuning limits. That’s why the sampled guzheng plug-in became so crucial. It let me imagine what the real instrument couldn’t physically do.
How does The Bloom Project reflect your evolution as an artist? My journey really began after The Force competition in Beijing, which opened the door for me to sign my first record deal with an indie label under Tencent Music Entertainment. That was my introduction to the professional world — touring, performing at large-scale festivals, and having my songs synced in TV and film. Through Tencent’s network, I was also invited to songwriting camps hosted by Sony ATV, UMG, and Warner Chappell. Those were incredibly formative.
You walk into a room with total strangers, talk for ten minutes, and then start writing a song together — it’s fast, collaborative, and industrially precise. That environment taught me how to communicate creative ideas efficiently, and how to balance artistic instinct with professional workflow.
My debut album Cyan Black became the turning point where I started to bridge those two worlds.
Working closely with producer Tian Liang, I learned the language of production: how arrangement, sound design, and small sonic choices could completely transform a song’s emotional impact — and of course, I voiced my opinions. At the end of the production process, he told me, “You’ve got a producer in you. You should make your next album yourself.” That line stayed with me.
After Cyan Black, I decided to study songwriting and production systematically at Berklee NYC and ended up teaching there as well. The New York experience shaped my identity as a producer. Being surrounded by global sounds, electronic experimentation, and creative people who constantly blurred boundaries. Over the years, through producing singles, EPs, and collaborations, I gradually developed my own production style, one that blends East Asian aesthetics with electronic textures and emotional songwriting.
The Bloom Project is the result of that entire evolution. It’s where everything I’ve learned — from industry discipline to artistic authorship — finally converges into one coherent voice.
The world is buzzing about your sound—what influences fueled the creation of this album? It’s a blend of everything I’ve lived and loved — shidaiqu and Shanghai jazz, modern EDM, UK garage, and traditional Chinese folk melodies. Growing up in Beijing, I was surrounded by Peking Opera and folk tunes at home, while Billboard hits and club remixes played on the radio. Later, living in New York exposed me to underground electronic scenes and global pop experimentation.
I think The Bloom Project came from living between those sound worlds — East and West, old and new, acoustic and digital — and realizing they can all exist in one body of work without contradiction. The album is proof that you don’t have to choose between your heritage and your evolution — you can honor both simultaneously.
Can you pick a track from the album that you think will instantly captivate listeners? What makes it stand out? Well, I can’t speak for all listeners since they each come from different backgrounds, but based on feedback so far, Carmen 2025 seems to captivate them the most because of familiarity. Everyone knows that iconic “Habanera” melody, but hearing it reimagined through a guzheng with trap-influenced beats creates this immediate recognition followed by delightful surprise.
River Run also gets great feedback, even from people who haven’t heard of the original folk tune, but they heard the energy! There’s something about how the traditional melody crashes into those heavy electronic elements that just makes people move. It’s like watching two different musical worlds collide and create something completely new.
For me, both tracks work because they take something familiar—whether it’s a world-famous opera aria or the feeling of folk music—and push it into unexpected sonic territory. They’re bridges between worlds, and I think that’s what makes them instantly engaging.
What message or feeling do you hope will bloom in the hearts of those who listen?
At its core, The Bloom Project is about coexistence, about showing that different worlds can live in harmony within the same sound. East and West, old and new, softness and strength, femininity and technology. They don’t have to be opposites.
They can complement and expand one another.
Because I’ve lived in both China and the U.S., I’ve always heard music through multiple lenses. I might hear a traditional Chinese melody and immediately imagine how it would fit with an electronic bassline or house rhythm. That kind of cross-cultural imagination is what keeps me inspired. It’s where the bridges start to form.
So if there’s one feeling I hope listeners walk away with, it’s possibility, the idea that culture is not a border but a dialogue. When we let sounds, traditions, and perspectives truly meet, something new blooms that belongs to all of us.
So if there’s one feeling I hope listeners walk away with, it’s possibility, the idea that culture is not a border but a dialogue
Were there any collaborations or creative partnerships that brought something unique to The Bloom Project? 😉
Every collaborator brought something vital. I only invite people whose sound I know will resonate with the track.
For example, SHI is a guzheng player and synthwave producer —perfect for blending organic plucks with electronic textures. Jack Choi brings his incredible EDM and K-pop sensibilities. Electron is a powerhouse in synthwave and electropop. Yuanming Zhang is a well-rounded sonic genius who also handled my spatial audio mixing. Siyi Chen brings jazz and acoustic nuance. Some contributors were first-time collaborations, but some are contributors I had already worked with on previous projects, like Malcolm Welles, who has, amongst other things, extensive experience in producing electronic music.
I give all the instrumentalists and mixing/mastering engineers complete creative freedom as well.
If anything, I’d say I’m really good at choosing the right person for the right job! I build the framework based on my vision, then bring in people who could expand it in ways I wouldn’t expect. The album is richer because of that exchange.
What exciting plans do you have to celebrate and promote this album? Tours, videos, or surprise releases? 😉
I’m planning to bring The Bloom Project to live stages soon —I’m envisioning hybrid sets that merge DJing, live vocals, and visuals inspired by Shanghai’s golden era and modern club culture.
There are also some really exciting remixes and collaborations in discussion following the Grammy voting period — artists who connected with the record and want to experiment with cross-genre versions. The goal is to keep pushing boundaries and showing how The Bloom Project songs can live in different musical worlds. Stay tuned!
Empty Pinata Talks Ghosting, Youth, and Bedroom Pop Magic
Empty Pinata is carving his own niche in the alternative pop music world. His new single Tik Tok Girl demonstrates how easily he does it. He has followed up Bonfire and Time Equation with a calming and emotionally rich bedroom pop song after coming back in early 2025. The song looks at how one would feel when he/she falls in love with someone who is always obsessed with social media.
It is a mix of hazy, gentle, and dreamy vocal, lo-fi production. Tik Tok Girl is nostalgic and also relevant to the modern world. It functions as background song on late night drives, the short romantic sentiments and the weird intimacy of digital communication. The song is composed in the perspective of a ghosted person. It embodies the twinge of contemporary relationships with the characteristic mix of sincerity and carefree attitude on the part of Empty Pinata.
The process of recording was strange. Some of the songs were even recorded in areas such as airfields and cars. The song was brought to life with the assistance of producer Daniel Paris and visual artist Min Soo Park. Tik Tok Girl is sincere and appealing. The song is highly personal as well as relatable to a number of individuals. It indicates the befuddlement, the amusement, and the aspiration that accompany becoming a grown-up in an internet-dominated world.
Empty Pinata discusses the creation behind Tik Tok Girl, his interpretation of the song, and his future in this interview.
“TikTok Girl” is such a striking title — what inspired it? I was working on a military base in North Carolina and my foreman and I were talking about girls on social media and how there’s an immense provocative call to action for these girls and i was saying it’s kind of sad. Obviously there’s a financial incentive but beyond that, it’s a character and that to me is always a step(s) removed from the real person and that must be exhausting.
How would you describe the mood or emotion you wanted listeners to feel when hearing this track for the first time? Youthful. Through and through. It’s playful and straight forward. A song for TikTok about TikTok on TikTok lol
The song’s title instantly connects to social media culture — were you trying to explore how platforms like TikTok affect self-expression or identity? I don’t know if i thought that deeply on the topic or subject matter honestly. I’m 30 lol i remember pre social media living and that’s almost what i am striving for when it comes to identity and sense of self and where i try to center my baseline day to day. i don’t know if im the best candidate to speak on the affects hahaha
I don’t know if i thought that deeply on the topic or subject matter honestly. i remember pre social media living and that’s
Were there any unexpected moments in the studio that changed how the song turned out? i made the song on an airfield over looking Bell V-22 Osprey’s and watching the mechanics do their thing which was pretty cathartic actually. I had a shitty laptop and recorded the vocals in my Honda so that for sure when unexpected lol I brought the demo to Gamal who then waved a magic wand over the session and next thing i knew this bastard is having me sing harmonies and he’s playing responses on guitar like it was just a nice song start to finish. no stress or anything in the actual recording and post production side of things
Did you collaborate with any new producers, musicians, or visual artists for this release? Min Soo Park who is a total genius and bad man shot the visuals. I flew him out to my home in South Carolina and he and Gamal just went bananas. I built a small stage in my backyard and we got guitars and keyboards and made a little stage setup which was a fun experience.
Drinking beers and making a stage for the first time. As for the music, Daniel Paris produced the song (shout out Big Dan) he also produced the intro to my upcoming EP and i just think he’s super talented
Do you think “TikTok Girl” reflects something about this generation’s relationship with attention, validation, or connection? Probably
How much of yourself do you see in the story of “TikTok Girl”? Very much so. I don’t exactly relate to it now since I’m an old man with a wife and a daughter and land to tend to hahaha but when i was younger there was definitely a time where i was living this song. multiple girls and multiple different cars. Not TikTok of course because i was soon to be wed when that app came out but Snapchat and Facebook and Instagram for sure.
What do you hope people take away from listening to it? A hope there’s some kid longboarding to a party listening to this. I hope it’s just a little vibe
What’s next for Empty Piñata after this single — any live shows, collaborations, or visuals in the works? One more single than the debut EP.
Finally — describe “TikTok Girl” in three words. Very Mid Music
Amelina's "Step by Step": Finding Gravity in Grit.
There’s a curious sort of old-soul gravity to Amelina’s single, “Step by Step,” one that defies the pop-rock sheen and the artist’s young age. The track opens with a resolute, almost stern, string and piano line that feels less like an invitation to a party and more like the sound of someone tying their shoelaces before a long journey. This is the sound of sheer will. It’s a rhythmic, determined core that persists even as the arrangement swells around it.
That percussive piano immediately brought to mind the uneven, then steady, tapping of a cobbler at a bench, slowly working a single piece of leather into something durable and new. It’s an odd thought, but the song feels handmade in that same way. The verses build with a controlled anxiety—that feeling of the “clock’s against me”—before the chorus doesn’t just arrive; it detonates, a sudden bloom of widescreen optimism. It’s a beautifully simple, and frankly quite clever, dynamic that mirrors the very struggle it describes.
Amelina’s “Step by Step”: Finding Gravity in Grit.
Lyrically, Amelina plays with time like a philosopher twice her age, viewing it as both a relentless antagonist and an eventual ally. The mantra, “step by step I climb the hill,” is refreshingly devoid of empty platitudes. It doesn’t promise a shortcut or a sudden miraculous ascent; it champions the small, grinding victories that actually lead somewhere. Knowing this is fueled by her own cultural and linguistic relocation from Russia to Spain gives the theme a tangible, authentic weight that can’t be faked.
The song doesn’t coddle you. It’s an anthem, but a pragmatic one. It leaves you with a quiet, persistent energy, the kind you feel after solving a stubborn puzzle rather than winning a lottery. It poses a strangely disarming question without ever asking it: which hill are you putting off climbing?
With his new single “Grandmas Kitchen”, Kainine doesn’t so much drop a track as he does release a scent. You hear it immediately—not a sound, but the olfactory ghost of chicken foot soup steaming up a windowpane, a warmth that seeps through the cracks of a brutally cold narrative. The East London artist has built a world here where the ambient comfort of a grandparent’s love coexists with the chilling pragmatism of having to “whip flake” to survive.
Kainine lays his life out like a disjointed map. One street leads to a “broken home,” another to “years on the wing,” and a third dead-ends at the threat to “find your house and burn it down.” It’s a brutal geography. Yet, cutting through it all is this one, unshakeable memory of a kitchen. It’s less a flashback and more of a psychic anchor, a reminder of a life that was once simpler, grounded. For a moment, I stopped thinking about the beat and instead remembered the peculiar, dusty-sweet smell of the inside of my own grandmother’s spice cabinet. It’s an odd detour, but this track inspires them.
Kainine Finds His Anchor in “Grandmas Kitchen”
The delivery is key. There’s a laid-back, almost conversational cadence to Kainine’s flow, which makes the violent, high-stakes storytelling all the more arresting. He’s not shouting his ambition; he’s stating it as a fact born from necessity. He needs a mansion to escape being a “broke savage,” and the music itself—conceived behind bars—feels like the most potent form of that escape. It’s a rebellion waged not with a weapon, but with a memory.
This song doesn’t ask for sympathy; it simply presents its evidence. A life of harsh realities, measured in ounces and prison sentences, all of it underwritten by one unwavering vision. It leaves you wondering what part of your own past still smells like home, even when you’re a world away from the stove.
The Terrible Peace of Myles Sky's "Goodbye Letter"
Myles Sky’s new single, “Goodbye Letter”, plays like a document found in a time capsule you buried for yourself only yesterday. It’s the sound of a very specific, solitary ritual: the final message written not to be sent, but to be known. It’s an act of emotional carbon dating, a way of proving to yourself that you were here, that you felt this, and that you are now moving on.
There’s a peculiar honesty here. This Saltburn-by-the-sea songwriter understands that some dialogues are dead, acknowledging that “some ghosts don’t answer letters.” The purpose, then, isn’t persuasion; it’s an inventory. Sky isn’t trying to win an argument, he’s simply taking stock of “all the versions of me that tried to stay.” This line snagged in my mind, making me think of the concentric rings of a tree, each one a silent record of a different season of survival. The song is an emotional archive, shelving past selves with a quiet, knowing sigh.
The Terrible Peace of Myles Sky’s “Goodbye Letter”
This is a pop song stripped of its flashbangs. Instead, there’s the resolute calm of someone who has finally decided to walk out of a burning building and is clear-eyed enough to vow, “this time I’m not burning again.” It carries the weary strength of someone who has swapped out fury for the more sustainable energy of acceptance. After the unexpected success of his track “overthinking,” this single feels like a deliberate next step, solidifying a voice that finds power in vulnerability ahead of his November 29th album.
It isn’t a song about the drama of the split, but about the profound quiet that comes much, much later. What a terribly peaceful sound it is when someone finally puts down the pen.
Nikiré's "ETERNITY beneath the stars of God": A Philosophy in Sound
One rarely encounters a title as forthright in its ambition as what Nikiré offers with “ETERNITY beneath the stars of God.” This single from Tom Arild Junge’s philosophical project is not something you’d play while sorting the recycling; it demands, and subsequently creates, a specific kind of quiet. The Enya comparison is there, certainly—a female voice gliding over vast, ambient soundscapes—but the effect is different. It’s less like drifting on water and more like floating in the profound silence between Saturn’s rings, the dust motes of the universe slowly catching the light.
The song’s first act is one of gentle demolition. It asks you to let go of heaven and hell, not with a rebellious shout but with a calm, assured guidance. It feels like watching someone meticulously dismantle an ornate, frightening grandfather clock from a nightmare, carefully laying out each gear and spring before deciding the pieces are more beautiful scattered than they ever were as a machine for measuring damnation. In its place, Nikiré posits a cosmos where “relations feed the souls,” a spirituality rooted in connection rather than judgment. It’s an intensely hopeful, if dizzying, proposition.
Nikiré’s “ETERNITY beneath the stars of God”: A Philosophy in Sound
We’re told an AI was used to refine the melody, which is a fact that sits oddly and fascinatingly beside the track’s humanistic core. A ghost in the machine tuning a hymn for a godless eternity? It reminds me, strangely, of medieval monks who used complex geometry to map the divine, finding logic in the infinite. This is the second piece in a larger philosophical suite, building on a foundation of stated values. It’s clear this is a long, deliberate walk into the abstract.
The composition fades, but the emptiness it leaves behind is textured, ringing with possibility. So, once you’ve swept away the celestial architecture of dogma, what do you build in its place?
The Fragile Beauty of GISKE's "The Sound of Birdsong"
GISKE’s “The Sound of Birdsong” doesn’t so much begin as it seeps into the room, like the pale, perpetual twilight of a Norwegian summer night where sleep feels like a theoretical concept. This is a song for the space between the last page of a book and turning off the light; a four-minute float in that strange, conscious stillness when the world is quiet but your mind is not. The trio of Alex Rinde, Rune Berg, and Ronnie MAG Larsen have crafted something that feels less like a performance and more like an overheard private thought.
Rune Berg’s guitars are the key here, tracing patterns that recall the intricate melancholy of Nick Drake while shimmering with a Cocteau Twins-esque gloss. It’s a clean, hypnotic sound, a delicate loop that Ronnie MAG Larsen’s percussion nudges along without ever rushing. Upon this texture, Alex Rinde’s vocals are not a declaration but a confession, mapping out the geography of a shared dream—a sanctuary built of “wondrous places” and “exotic food” that feels infinitely more real than the waking world of “weary eyes.”
The Fragile Beauty of GISKE’s “The Sound of Birdsong”
For some reason, listening to it brings to mind the strange stillness of a meticulously crafted ship-in-a-bottle. The song exists inside its own self-contained atmosphere, beautiful and detailed, but you can sense the fragility of the glass. The “lighthouse of your dreams” isn’t a destination; it’s a slow, sweeping beam that momentarily illuminates the tiny, perfect world inside, reminding its inhabitants that an outside exists.
With their next album still a distant light on the horizon of 2026, the final plea to “please don’t wake me” feels playfully pointed. Are we listeners also being asked to live inside this single, perfect moment, dreaming of what’s to come?
Inside the Stylish Explosion of Pandemonium's Debut, "Dalí"
With the arrival of Pandemonium’s debut single, “Dalí”, it feels as though someone has cracked open a geode on the studio console and let the crystalline chaos spill out. Billed as “pan-dimensional pirates,” the trio of Maffmatix, Claire Ray, and Charlton Banks deliver a sound that feels both ancient and beamed in from a strange future. It’s built on the sturdy spine of boom-bap, a familiar anchor, but everything else is a shimmering, liquid distortion. The beat provides gravity while the soul, funk, and trip-hop elements float freely, like debris after a very stylish explosion.
The track wrestles with an identity so fragmented it could be a mosaic. We get this image of a “centipede,” a self pulled in a hundred directions, and it immediately reminds me of trying to explain a dream to someone—the logic is fluid, the characters change masks, and you are both the protagonist and a baffled spectator. When the line “Jekyll or Hyde?” lands, it isn’t a tired trope; it’s a genuine, exhausted plea. Which self gets to drive today? This is the sound of a mind sifting through its own internal costume box, unsure if it’s dressing for a tragedy, a comedy, or a heist.
Inside the Stylish Explosion of Pandemonium’s Debut, “Dalí”
Of course, with a title like “Dalí,” the surrealism is baked in. The entire composition acts like one of his melting clocks, bending a hard-hitting genre into uncanny new shapes. This isn’t a song seeking validation or a slot on a curated playlist; it’s a tangled, honest broadcast about the messy necessity of creation. It’s a track that accepts the “dissonance” and finds a strange peace in the pendulum’s swing from one extreme to the next.
It leaves you with a feeling, not an answer. With their debut album, Back of the Mind, on the horizon, Pandemonium hasn’t just introduced themselves; they’ve presented a beautiful, perplexing riddle. What truth is found when we stop trying to be just one person?
Stevie Hawkins: "A Song For You," A Raw Confession.
To listen to Stevie Hawkins’ take on “A Song For You” is to have a conversation with a ghost in a dimly lit room after the show has ended. Hawkins, long the rhythmic engine for the song’s originator Leon Russell, steps from behind the drum kit to the microphone, and the space between these two roles compresses decades into four and a half minutes. This isn’t some polished tribute; it’s an exhalation, a debt paid with earned soul and the kind of lived-in weariness that gives a voice its specific gravity.
You can almost feel the house lights dimming as Levi Adelman’s piano lays the initial bricks of the melody. There’s a particular kind of silence that falls after a grand performance, the sound of dust motes dancing in the last remaining spotlight, and this song inhabits that space. As Hawkins’ gravel-and-honey vocals confess a life spent on stages and a love treated unkindly, the instrumentation builds around him—not as a spectacle, but as a support structure. The bass from Rusty Holloway is a steadying hand on the shoulder, while the orchestrations from the Loudermilk Chambers Ensemble rise like a quiet understanding.
Stevie Hawkins: “A Song For You,” A Raw Confession.
The arrangement breathes with the weight of its own history. Hearing Hawkins, a newly minted Blues Hall of Fame legend, sing these words feels less like an interpretation and more like a final diary entry written in someone else’s book. It’s a vulnerable dismantling of the performer’s mask, piece by painful piece, until only the raw, repentant human remains. This is where the song hits its stride, in the uncomfortable, beautiful space between public adulation and private apology.
The performance is over, the confession is delivered. But what sound does forgiveness make when it finally echoes back across an empty room?
With DALE’s new album, “Vertigo,” you don’t press play so much as you unlock a door to a strangely familiar apartment, one where every room is a different state of mind. It’s a work of meticulous interior design, built from the sleek, moody synths that sound less like a tribute to the 80s and more like an artifact from a parallel version of that decade—one imagined in Milano, where the chrome was sleeker and the heartbreak had better lighting. This is synth-pop that feels architectural, constructing spaces for introspection before inviting you to dance in them.
The entire album functions like a psychic progression, a transit from a locked room to an open-air rooftop. It begins with the narrator standing paralyzed at the edge of an emotional ocean in “Waves,” asking the tide for directions because their own compass is spinning. You can almost feel the cold water lapping at the ankles of their indecision. This sense of being stuck, of being haunted by the past’s gravitational pull, is a current running through the initial tracks. In “Break Your Heart,” DALE offers one of the most uncomfortably honest mea culpas I’ve heard in a long time; it’s a memory so sharp it ruins other songs, a past mistake that hasn’t faded but calcified.
Unlocking the Self: DALE Ascends with “Vertigo”
Then there’s the title track, “Vertigo.” It’s the feeling you get when you’ve climbed very high on a ladder of self-preservation, presenting a “bulletproof” exterior to the world, only to look down and realize you’re terrified of the fall. The thrumming anxiety beneath the polished production is palpable. It reminds me of those antique phrenology heads, those porcelain maps of the human psyche that tried to locate “sublimity” and “secretiveness” on the skull. DALE is doing something similar here, but his tools are drum machines and reverb tails, and he’s charting the vast, un-locatable territory between who we pretend to be and who we are when nobody’s looking.
But this isn’t an album that languishes in fear. The turn is electric. “Vortex” arrives like a sudden, brilliant clearing in the weather, a dizzying moment of surrender to another person that feels less like a fall and more like flight. From here, the body takes over. The nocturnal, hedonistic pulse of “Moonlight” and the decisive stride of “Shadows” transform the dance floor into a stage for catharsis. It’s the physical manifestation of the mental journey; the limbs finally get to work out the problems the mind has been wrestling with. It’s not about escaping the self, but about fully inhabiting a new, more liberated one.
Unlocking the Self: DALE Ascends with “Vertigo”
Even the quieter confessions shift in tone. If “Break Your Heart” was an apology for the past, “I’m A Mess” is a fragile proposal for the future—a breathtakingly vulnerable act of laying all your chaotic, broken pieces on the table and hoping someone will see a mosaic instead of a pile of shards. And the fight in “Illusion,” a raw severing from the reflection of a despised elder, feels earned. It’s the sound of someone smashing the mirror they’ve been forced to look into their whole life and finally liking what they see in the fragments.
Closing with the wistful memory of “In My Dreams,” a track about an adolescent crush whose face is now a “blur,” is a masterful stroke. After a record of such intense self-examination and confrontation, it ends not with a grand statement, but with the gentle haze of an unresolved memory. The journey of becoming ourselves, DALE seems to suggest, doesn’t erase the sweet, fuzzy ghosts of who we once were. They just don’t have control anymore.
Unlocking the Self: DALE Ascends with “Vertigo”
What, then, does “Vertigo” leave you with once the synths fade? It’s not an answer, but a feeling—the quiet hum of a mind settling after a period of profound upheaval. It asks you to consider your own internal architecture, the hidden anxieties and the dance floors waiting within. Whose blurry face from your own past does this music conjure?
Josiah James Returns With "Made New" After A Decade-Long Wait
Some songs refuse to let go. They sit in the back of your mind, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
For Sacramento singer-songwriter Josiah James, that moment arrived when he finally released “Made New (Josiah’s Version),” a track that has lived with him for over a decade.
First pitched to acclaimed Christian artist Lincoln Brewster years ago, the song now exists in its intended form, produced alongside Grammy-nominated and Dove Award-winning producer Colby Wedgeworth.
The release feels like an act of reclamation. There is something deeply satisfying about an artist returning to a piece of work and presenting it on their own terms.
James has spent years building his craft, performing over 1,500 shows worldwide and releasing six independent projects since 2008. He started writing songs at fourteen, began touring full-time at eighteen, and has shared stages with major artists while cultivating a dedicated following.
Then he stepped back. Family took precedence. The road quieted. “Made New (Josiah’s Version)” marks his return, and it carries the weight of that pause.
The production is cinematic, layering soaring vocals over arrangements that feel both intimate and expansive.
Wedgeworth, who led the 2018 Dove Awards with eight nominations and won Songwriter of the Year that same year, brings a polish that complements James’s raw emotional honesty.
The result is a track that feels lived-in, like a conversation you have been waiting to finish. The theme of transformation runs through the song like a thread. Renewal, healing, rediscovery.
These are not new concepts in music, particularly in the Christian alternative rock and pop rock genres where James operates. But there is a specificity here that makes it resonate. This is not a generic call for change.
It is personal. It speaks to the idea that renewal is not always immediate, that sometimes you have to wait for the right moment, the right collaborators, the right perspective. Think about the Renaissance, when artists revisited classical themes with fresh eyes, or the way jazz musicians take standards and make them their own.
James is doing something similar here, taking a song that has existed in various forms and giving it new life. The title itself, “Made New (Josiah’s Version),” echoes the trend of artists re-recording their work to reclaim ownership, a practice that has gained cultural momentum in recent years.
But this is not about legal battles or industry politics. This is about artistic vision. The production choices are interesting. There is space in the arrangement, moments where the music pulls back and lets the lyrics breathe.
James’s voice, which has matured over years of performing, carries a vulnerability that feels earned. He is not trying to impress you with vocal acrobatics. He is trying to tell you something.
And that restraint, that willingness to let the song speak for itself, is what makes it compelling. It is worth noting that James comes from Cool, California, a small town an hour north of Sacramento with no music scene to speak of.
His parents owned a coffeehouse, and he grew up in an environment where music was part of the fabric of daily life. That background informs his approach. There is a DIY ethos here, a sense that he has built his career piece by piece, show by show, song by song.
“Made New (Josiah’s Version)” is part of that continuum, another chapter in a story that has been unfolding for nearly two decades. The song also benefits from its context within the broader Christian music community.
Lincoln Brewster, the artist to whom James originally pitched the track, is a contemporary Christian musician and Senior Pastor at Bayside Church in Sacramento. Songs from James’s 2014 EP “Identity” were covered by both Brewster and Audio Adrenaline, sometimes leading fans to mistake them for the original versions.
That kind of crossover speaks to the quality of James’s songwriting, his ability to craft melodies and lyrics that resonate beyond his immediate audience. But “Made New (Josiah’s Version)” is not about what other artists might do with it. This is James’s moment.
After years of anticipation, after stepping away from the road to focus on family, after waiting for the right time and the right collaborators, he has delivered a track that feels both fresh and familiar.
It is a song about second chances, about the possibility of starting over, about believing that renewal is always within reach. There is a quiet confidence in the way James approaches this release.
He is not shouting for attention. He is not chasing trends. He is simply offering a piece of himself, a song that has been part of his life for more than a decade, and trusting that it will find its audience.
The collaboration with Wedgeworth adds a layer of credibility. Wedgeworth is not just a producer with impressive credentials. He is someone who understands the nuances of Christian music, the balance between commercial appeal and artistic integrity.
Josiah James Returns With “Made New” After A Decade-Long Wait
His work on “Made New (Josiah’s Version)” reflects that understanding. The production is polished without being sterile, emotional without being manipulative. It serves the song. James has described this release as closing a circle and opening a new one at the same time.
That duality is present in the music itself. There is a sense of completion, of finally bringing a long-gestating project to fruition. But there is also a sense of possibility, of what comes next.
This is not an ending. It is a beginning. The song invites you to reflect on your own experiences with renewal. Have you ever had something in your life that took years to come to fruition?
Have you ever had to wait for the right moment, the right circumstances, the right people? “Made New (Josiah’s Version)” speaks to that experience, to the idea that good things take time, that patience is not passive but active, that waiting can be its own form of work.
As the track fades out, you are left with a sense of hope. Not the saccharine, manufactured kind, but something more grounded, more real.
James has been making music for nearly two decades. He has toured the country, released multiple albums and EPs, stepped away, and come back.
He knows what he is doing. And “Made New (Josiah’s Version)” is proof that sometimes the best work comes from taking your time, from waiting until you are ready, from trusting the process.
The question is not if renewal is possible. The question is when you will be ready to embrace it.
Jeppediinho's "Games of Life": Level Up Your Emotions.
With the release of Jeppediinho’s debut album, “Games of Life”, we are reminded that sometimes the most profound rulebooks are written by those who’ve mastered a different kind of joystick. Jesper Holmgren, a former professional e-sports player, has constructed a thirteen-level odyssey that treats human emotion like a side-scrolling adventure: there are pitfalls, power-ups, and a final boss that turns out to look suspiciously like your own reflection. This is electronic house music that has scraped its knuckles on rock and roll, then stolen the keytar from a passing 80s pop band. The sound has a peculiar texture, like running your hand over cool, brushed steel that happens to be vibrating with a soul.
The game begins on a difficult setting. On “The Wrong Time,” the synths pulse with a nervous, out-of-step energy, the sound of someone winning a prize they have no space for. The anonymous vocalist, one of several international collaborators who serve as spectral guides throughout the album, sings of being “lucky in games” and “lucky in love” but feeling caught in a cosmic administrative error. It’s followed by the claustrophobia of “Lost In My Mind,” a track that builds its walls high and fast. The beat thumps like a frantic heart in a soundproof room, the plea “no one understands me” echoing not as a complaint, but as a statement of geographical fact from a lonely country of one.
Then comes the level where you realize the map you’ve been following was a forgery. “Illusion” shatters the dreamscape with a sharp, crystalline synth and a sense of cold, morning-after clarity. The betrayal here feels less like a tragedy and more like a system update, rebooting the listener’s perspective. It’s this disillusionment that provides the necessary catalyst for the album’s pivotal turn.
Jeppediinho’s “Games of Life”: Level Up Your Emotions.
Suddenly, the music finds its footing. “We Are The Winners” bursts forth not as a gloating celebration, but as the grimly determined chant of a survivor. It has the defiant energy of a crowd pouring out into the streets after a city-wide power outage, finding a new kind of light in the collective darkness. This newfound strength is codified in “Im Unbreakable.” With its claim of having “ice in my veins,” the track doesn’t feel hot-blooded and boastful. It feels geological. It’s the resolute coldness of a glacial core sample, something that has been compressed by immense pressure over time into something solid, pure, and immoveable.
Holmgren then smartly dials back the bravado to explore the necessary mechanics of this transformation. “Real Love” and “Find Myself” are tracks about resource management—gathering the external validation and internal solitude required for the next phase. They are the quiet moments in the game where you retreat to a save point, sorting through your inventory and deciding what to keep. The aural landscape softens, the beats becoming a supportive framework rather than an insistent shove forward. I found myself thinking, oddly, of the Japanese art of kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold lacquer—the journey of “Find Myself” feels like tracing those golden cracks alone in a room.
Jeppediinho’s “Games of Life”: Level Up Your Emotions.
The final act of “Games of Life” is an exhilarating sprint. From the liberated joy of “Feels So Good” to the instructional, almost philosophical clarity of “What’s Your Mentality,” the album sheds its skin of past grievances. “What Are You Waiting For” is pure, kinetic impatience, a track that sounds like it’s vibrating on the launchpad. It all culminates in the final, complex power-up of “The Power Inside,” a track that acknowledges the difficulty and the necessity of personal change, recognizing that activating your own potential often means saying goodbye to the person you were.
Jeppediinho has assembled an album that is narratively cohesive without being sonically monotonous. The anonymous voices he employs are a masterstroke, allowing the intensely personal journey to feel universally applicable, like hearing your own thoughts sung back to you by a helpful stranger. It chronicles the transition from being a pawn in someone else’s game to becoming the architect of your own. The album leaves you not with a high score, but with a mirror. Who, exactly, is the player now?
Lana Crow Walks Us Through A Dreamy Rollercoaster In “No Secret (Remix)”
Lana Crow’s music often feels like a conversation with a close friend, the kind you have on a long drive with the windows down.
Crow, an independent singer-songwriter originally from Kazakhstan and now based in Southern Spain, has a knack for blending indie-pop, rock, and synth-driven sounds with heartfelt storytelling.
Her latest single, a remix of her song “No Secret,” is no exception. This new version takes the introspective honesty of the original and infuses it with a pulsating, danceable energy that’s perfect for a road trip, just as the song’s origin story would suggest.
The original “No Secret” was born from a lucid dream Crow had while on a road trip in Germany. She dreamt of a new song, melody and all, and woke up to record it on her phone.
The remix, she says, was a chance to “breathe new life into the song,” keeping its honesty while giving it “a new energy.” And that’s exactly what it does.
The remix is more emotionally charged, with a groove and energy that makes you want to move.
Her music explores themes of love, loss, and personal growth with a vulnerability that is both relatable and empowering. This remix is a perfect example of her ability to evolve and experiment with her sound while staying true to her artistic vision.
The remix opens with a familiar melody, but it’s quickly joined by a driving beat and shimmering synths. Crow’s emotional vocals are front and center, but they’re surrounded by a new sense of space and movement.
The production is clean and modern, but it still has a rawness that feels authentic to Crow’s style. It’s the kind of song that you can listen to on repeat, finding new things to appreciate with each listen.
One of the most interesting things about Crow’s music is her ability to create a sense of place.
Her songs often feel like they’re set in a specific time and location, and “No Secret (Remix)” is no different. It’s a song for a summer afternoon, for a drive along the coast, for a moment of quiet reflection in a crowded room.
It’s a song that transports you. She’s an artist who is not afraid to be vulnerable, to experiment with her sound, and to tell her own story.
Lana Crow Walks Us Through A Dreamy Rollercoaster In “No Secret (Remix)”
“No Secret (Remix)” is a testament to her talent and her artistic vision. It’s a song that will stay with you long after the music stops.
It is interesting to think about how a dream can be so vivid and so complete. A whole song, with melody and lyrics, appearing in a dream.
It makes you wonder about the power of the subconscious mind and the creative process. It is almost as if the song was already there, waiting to be discovered.
This remix feels like a celebration of that discovery. It’s a celebration of the creative spirit, of the power of dreams, and of the joy of music.
It’s a song that will make you want to dance, to dream, and to hit the open road. And in today’s world, what more could you ask for?
RISE's "Lost For Words": A Lightning Flash of Truth.
RISE’s new single, “Lost For Words,” doesn’t sound like the slow, sad end of a relationship; it sounds like the starting pistol for the next phase of a life. Here is an anthem that throws its shoulders back, propelled by a velocity that feels less like running away and more like accelerating toward something certain. Alex Mahoney’s drumming provides a relentless forward momentum, a frantic heartbeat that has finally decided which direction to go.
The track’s true cleverness lies in its textural friction. You have Brian Petch’s assertive guitar lines tangled up with Paul Kinley’s shimmering synths. The combination shouldn’t work as seamlessly as it does, yet it captures the central conflict perfectly: the grit of a difficult truth meeting the pristine clarity of a decision made.
That moment of epiphany in the lyrics—”my mind is clearing”—is palpable. It has the odd, chemical smell of the air after a thunderstorm, that clean, sharp scent of ozone. It’s not a gentle sunrise of understanding; it is a flash of lightning illuminating everything at once, rendering all the old, murky deceptions obsolete and almost silly in their former power.
RISE’s “Lost For Words”: A Lightning Flash of Truth.
Led by Sam Kinley’s determined vocals, the song transforms a breakup from a passive event into an active choice. The pivot from waiting for honesty (“It’s your move”) to declaring a new path (“this time it’s my way”) is a powerful reclaiming of narrative. It’s a clean break, a cauterized wound.
But it leaves one to wonder: is any ending truly so clean, or is this the sound of someone convincing themselves it must be?
Push Forward with Trueclaw's Propulsive "One Road."
Trueclaw and their new single, “One Road,” arrive with a curious proposition: an anthem for human perseverance co-authored by artificial intelligence. There’s an immediate, propulsive energy here, the steady cadence of a long-distance run translated into pulsing synths and an ever-evolving beat. It is a song that doesn’t shout encouragement from the sidelines; it becomes the rhythmic breath in your lungs, the metronome for putting one foot in front of the other.
The peculiar detail here is the song’s parentage. This is a collaboration between a human heart in Uppsala, Sweden, and the binary logic of tools like SUNO AI. Hearing this, a thought flickered past—it reminds me, strangely, of the old chemical baths for developing Ektachrome slides. There’s a rigid, scientific process at play that somehow, almost alchemically, conjures pure, vivid emotion out of inanimate materials. The track builds with that same sense of controlled magic, its structure unfurling with the cinematic scope of a grand video game score, all components climbing over one another towards a victorious crescendo.
Push Forward with Trueclaw’s Propulsive “One Road.”
Trueclaw has managed to imbue this track with a genuine sense of striving. It’s a clean, polished piece of electronic pop built to push you forward, crafted entirely within the confines of a home studio. It accomplishes its goal with an almost startling efficiency.
But the creation itself leaves a bigger question hanging in the air. When the code for inspiration is written by a ghost in the machine, does that make the resulting human fire burn any less brightly?
