Paper Mountains Maps the Human Heart on "An Olive Tree and a Warm Breeze"
There is a strangely magnetic pull to Paper Mountains’ released debut album, “An Olive Tree and a Warm Breeze.” Toby Lloyd, the music producer, songwriter, and frontman steering this solo project, has stepped away from the background of crafting sounds for others to finally map out his own mind. Leaning into the soul and folk-pop sensibilities of Iron and Wine and Sam Cooke, Lloyd delivers a deeply personal concept record that chronicles the very real arc of a transformative romance. It starts in the sun, plunges into the dark, and somehow claws its way back.
Love makes us beautifully unhinged, and Lloyd captures that early rush without a drop of pretense. The title track, “An Olive Tree and a Warm Breeze,” kicks things off with sweeping, sun-soaked chords, radiating the euphoria of finding your person. He doubles down on that comfort with “When I’m With You,” wrapping profound devotion inside a bright, airy indie-folk melody. You get cozy. You feel entirely safe.
Paper Mountains Maps the Human Heart on “An Olive Tree and a Warm Breeze”
But emotional safety rarely lasts uninterrupted. The album documents the relationship’s gradual collapse by brilliantly disguising heartbreak as toe-tapping pop. Listen to “Every Little Good Thing,” which uses a catchy, bouncy folk chord progression to deliver the stomach-dropping realization that affection is quietly deteriorating. It’s a bitter pill coated in sugar.
Then the floor caves in. The record’s mid-section actively rebels against quiet grief. The fast-paced pop-punk of “All At Once” crashes through with heavily distorted guitars and reckless liquid courage, tossing aside adulthood for chaotic defiance. When that crash subsides, “I Still Want To Live” builds an intense, urgent alt-rock wall of sound. It captures the dark, dramatic desperation of merely trying to survive the night inside your own head.
Paper Mountains Maps the Human Heart on “An Olive Tree and a Warm Breeze”
Yet, Paper Mountains leaves the door open for healing. Gorgeous lofi hip hop instrumentals like “Shipwrecked” and “Epilogue” drop in precisely when you need a breath of quiet, grounded air. By the time we arrive at the expansive acoustics of “I Need My Girl,” that frantic earlier devotion has morphed into a steady, tested reverence. Reconciliation is taking root. Finally, “Lost In The Clouds” wraps up the journey in warm, unconditional support.
We spend so much time running from the wreckage of a broken bond, but what if true endurance is simply having the nerve to rebuild the foundation with the same person after the walls have already collapsed?
Cathal Fitz Faces Hard Truths On A Rock And A Hard Place
When a person reaches the absolute limit of their endurance, the resulting sound is rarely a scream.
More often, it is a steady, unadorned admission of truth. This quiet breaking point has been documented by writers and painters for centuries, capturing the exact moment when the façade drops and reality sets in.
It is within this precise emotional coordinate that Cork-born singer-songwriter Cathal Fitz positions his latest single, “A Rock and a Hard Place.”
Written in a multi-story car park in Dublin following a relentless run of performances, the track is a direct transmission from a mind caught between exhaustion and sudden, sharp clarity.
Fitz has been rapidly ascending within the Irish music scene, transitioning from a full-time job to a full-time musical career in 2024. His trajectory has been marked by a sold-out hometown show and significant support from national broadcasters.
Yet, “A Rock and a Hard Place” strips away the momentum of a rising star to reveal the vulnerable core of his artistry. The song serves as the emotional centrepiece of his debut EP, Concise Waffle, and it operates as a profound examination of addiction, self-awareness, and the fundamental desire for human connection.
The production of this single is a masterclass in restraint. Recorded live in a single take, the arrangement relies entirely on the interplay between Fitz’s vocal delivery, Emily O’Donoghue’s mandolin, and Kealan Kenny’s violin.
There is no studio gloss to hide behind. The acoustic storytelling is immediate and unpolished, allowing the listener to hear the physical effort in the performance.
The mandolin provides a fragile, rhythmic skeleton, while the violin traces the emotional contours of the narrative, swelling and retreating with careful precision.
This live recording approach mirrors the song’s narrative focus on authenticity above everything else.
Vocally, Fitz delivers a performance that is both tender and resilient.
His tone carries the grit of lived experience, resonating with a sincerity that feels earned rather than performed. When he sings, he is not simply reciting lyrics; he is recounting a personal history.
The lyrical narrative grapples with the complexities of sobriety and the quiet courage required to face one’s own reflections.
It is a song about being trapped in difficult circumstances and finding the strength to articulate that struggle without demanding an immediate resolution.
Cathal Fitz Faces Hard Truths On “A Rock And A Hard Place”
Placing Fitz within the broader context of modern pop-folk reveals an artist who understands the lineage of the genre while actively pushing against its boundaries.
His work shares the narrative focus of traditional Irish folk, yet it is infused with a contemporary sensibility that makes it accessible to a wider audience.
“A Rock and a Hard Place” is not a nostalgic exercise. It is a present-tense document of personal transformation, capturing the tension between the desire to escape and the necessity of staying grounded.
As the release date for Concise Waffle approaches, this single stands as a bold statement of intent. Fitz is not merely introducing himself; he is demanding to be heard on his own terms.
The raw honesty of the track will resonate deeply with anyone who has found themselves navigating the difficult space between two unyielding realities.
What remains to be seen is how this uncompromising approach to songwriting will shape the next chapter of his career, and if the vulnerability displayed here will become the defining characteristic of his artistic legacy.
"The Wires Out": THROES NYC Master the Art of Sonic Friction
When childhood friends Courtney Leo (vocalist) and Michael Bozzo (multi-instrumentalist and producer) formed THROES NYC, they seemingly tapped directly into a mainline of late-night Queens static to forge their new EP, “The Wires Out”. Calling their self-described “altriphop” sound a simple blend of trip-hop and electronic alt-pop feels too sterile for a release this brilliantly frayed.
These tracks revel in the messy circuitry of human intimacy, leaning hard into the gritty underground atmosphere of turn-of-the-millennium New York to dissect how romantic tension easily bleeds into full-blown obsession.
Take “Always, Baby.” The track opens up like a sudden, dizzying rush of blood to the head. A thick wall of fuzzy, reverberating harmonic layers creates a hazy trance, while an energetic, driving pulse keeps the melodic chaos tethered. Hovering delicately above this dense shoegaze euphoria, Leo sings of a steadfast, wildly optimistic dependency. It wraps around the listener warmly, balancing a slight melancholic vulnerability with absolute romantic certainty.
“The Wires Out”: THROES NYC Master the Art of Sonic Friction
Then the mood fractures entirely on “Something Chemical.” Here, the duo plunges into brooding alternative metal dread. Quiet, eerie tension explodes into aggressive bursts of heavy, reverberating distortion. A grinding low-end rhythm violently anchors the high-pitched, ethereal vocal melodies, perfectly capturing the primal panic of surrendering to a dangerously visceral attraction. You embrace the chaos of the bond because the noise practically insists on it.
Throughout the record, THROES NYC navigates the friction of miscommunication, turning broken connections into captivating cinematic textures. Are we actually connecting with each other, or are we simply addicted to the glorious noise our crossed wires create?
Desperate Electric, the genre-defying power disco duo out of Butte, Montana, dive headfirst into an intoxicating cocktail of rhythm and human vulnerability on their new studio album, “News Flash!”. Kayti Korte and Ben Morris are tapping into a bizarre yet flawless universe where late-night romantic nostalgia meets a relentlessly confident dance-pop bounce. The entire record is an exploration of sexual liberation and escapism that feels remarkably alive. They invite us into a sweaty room blending the soul-drenched warmth of Marvin Gaye with the mechanical pulse of Daft Punk, asking everyone to drop their emotional baggage entirely at the heavy velvet doors.
This release thrives on tension specifically, the pull between seizing absolute control of your carnal impulses and letting everything simply crash down around you. You hear that slick swagger dripping from “I Control The Vibe,” an energetic slice of deep house where nocturnal escapism turns into hypnotic, club-ready dominance. It practically pulls you onto the floor by your collar. Yet, they effortlessly strip the bravado away on the contemporary R&B groove of “Sexy $hit.” Here, the pacing slows to a sultry crawl. It zeroes in on the raw, deeply romantic process of tearing your emotional walls apart in private. You discover a totally different sort of connection, far away from the glittering crowd, which eventually spills into the hazy, flirtatious chillwave of “Yours or Mine?”.
Credit: Arianna Skoog
Working alongside collaborators Emmet Ore, Tanner Fruit, and Nathan Crawford, the duo constructs these towering, highly danceable atmospheres without abandoning their messy core. You get pure, unabashed nightlife royalty on the electro-funk bounce of “Disco Daddy,” where playful arrogance commands the room. What genuinely fascinates me, however, is the severe sonic left turn of “Long Way Down.” Nestled among euphoric modern funk cuts like “Good Direction” and the chaotic, rumor-fueled theatricality of the electro-pop title track, “News Flash!”, we sink into a heavy, distorted descent of alt-rock shoegaze. It fully embraces the inevitable breakdown of fake social personas, swelling into a beautifully cynic wall of sound. The illusion shatters, completely resetting your palate before the intense synth-pop fatalism of “Wildfire – Extended Version” hits.
Credit: Arianna Skoog
These eleven tracks perpetually push the momentum forward, challenging you to sweat out the heavy panic of modern existence. The music captures that distinctly bittersweet thrill of chasing pleasure while your daily worries burn quietly in the background. Are we actually achieving liberation beneath all these flashing strobe lights, or simply finding a beautifully constructed place to hide?
Are You Brave Enough for Love? Aurealis Asks on "How I Feel"
The masked, studio-bound artist Aurealis absolutely detonates our collective romantic defenses with the euphorically vulnerable new single, “How I Feel”.
There is a delightful contradiction here. A faceless, secretive electronic musician has somehow crafted the most beautifully unguarded slice of dance pop of the year. The track surges on a deep, pulsing low-end groove, dragging a bouncy, wildly rhythmic hook alongside it.
It hits your bloodstream like pure adrenaline.
Are You Brave Enough for Love? Aurealis Asks on “How I Feel”
Have you ever looked at someone and realized, with a terrifying jolt of clarity, that you’re now entirely dependent on their existence? That is the specific emotional real estate Aurealis explores today. Under the cinematic sheen and steady, thumping beat lies a desperate, driving optimism. We instinctively hesitate when faced with true romantic risk. We fear blowing a rare opportunity at a lasting, profound connection. Aurealis ignores that fear, pushing every single emotional chip to the center of the table. The soaring melody swells and drops in tandem with the infectious tempo, perfectly translating the breathless panic of sudden love into a celebratory, passionate frenzy.
When the atmospheric synths finally fade out, you have to ask yourself: are you actually brave enough to let yourself be this hopelessly, recklessly happy?
KahMenCents Delivers The West Coast High On Like A Villain
Sometimes you hit play on a track and your shoulders immediately drop two inches. You stop clenching your jaw, the traffic outside feels a little less aggressive, and suddenly, the day’s chaotic energy is replaced by a smooth, unbothered frequency.
That instant atmospheric shift is exactly what Tulsa, Oklahoma’s KahMenCents has engineered with his new single, “Like A Villain.” Billed as “musical cannabis” by the artist himself, this track delivers a contact high of pure, unfiltered optimism without requiring a single light-up.
It is a musical mood ring that forces everything back to a cool, manageable blue.
KahMenCents, widely known in his local scene as “The VibeMaster,” is building a serious reputation for himself across venues like The Rabbit Hole and Frequency Lounge.
His approach to hip-hop is a fascinating cultural crossover; he anchors his sound in his Texas roots while fully embracing the sun-drenched, rolling aesthetics of classic West Coast rap.
Heavy influences from legends like Ice Cube are baked into his DNA. With “Like A Villain,” he is not trying to reinvent the wheel; he is trying to make sure the ride is as smooth and healing as humanly possible.
The origin story of this release feels like a movie scene waiting to be filmed. While digging through BeatStars, KahMenCents stumbled across a Wayne Brain instrumental that instantly transported him back to a deeply cinematic conversation he had with a California woman about life, growth, and survival.
It was his own personal “It Was A Good Day” moment, and he took that exact feeling into The Vibe Lab DFW with producer Al-B to lay it down permanently. The resulting production is a masterclass in restraint.
The beat catches you immediately, locking you into a steady, rhythmic sway that perfectly supports the vocal delivery.
When KahMenCents steps to the mic, his performance is the definition of effortless confidence. He does not shout to be heard; his flow is conversational, relaxed, and deeply reassuring.
The lyrics serve as a reminder that the rain we constantly complain about is actually the exact thing required for growth.
KahMenCents Delivers The West Coast High On Like A Villain
He is preaching faith in a higher plan, but he does it with such a laid-back swagger that it feels like advice from your coolest friend rather than a lecture. The title itself is a brilliant nod to his grandfather, a CB radio legend known as “The Dream Master,” who always claimed he was “chilling like a villain.”
This single review highlights exactly why KahMenCents is an artist to watch. “Like A Villain” thrives because it refuses to be complicated.
In a music culture obsessed with dark, brooding aesthetics and hyper-complex production, dropping a straightforward, feel-good anthem is surprisingly rebellious.
It is a track built for cruising with the windows down, for shaking off a bad shift at work, and for reminding yourself that bad vibes simply cannot touch you when you are operating on this frequency.
KahMenCents has crafted a certified mood-elevator, and honestly, we could all use a dose of what he is prescribing.
A.E.R.O. FLYNN Brings Summer Heat with "Gunz Blazin"
A.E.R.O. FLYNN’s ‘Gunz Blazin’ is a feel-good track that tells of loyalty, devotion and romance in an R&B fashion that is not as rough and tumble as the genre has become. A fusion of classic G-Funk and a contemporary flair, the song provides an easy vibe for summer drives and late night cruises, or simple evenings.
The song, created by A.E.R.O. FLYNN and Xavier Bryant, starts off with a nice groove and is accentuated by sharp drums and lively arrangements and a laid-back rhythm. The classic West Coast R&B production that still sounds like a new song for today’s listening. A catchy hook makes things fun but it doesn’t diminish the song’s genuine heart.
The classic West Coast R&B production that still sounds like a new song for today’s listening
Overall, “Gunz Blazin” is a basic but sincere message of dedication and support for the woman one has committed to. The honesty adds a lot of depth to the track, and his vocals are smooth and easy to listen to. Some aspects of Trey Songz, Smokey Robinson and Chris Brown can be heard but it is definitely his.
Gunz Blazin” was written and recorded in just one day at Epic Glyph Studios in Harrisburg, PA. Easy listening, romantic and smooth groove makes it easy and enjoyable summer listening.
Ellijai’s "Skinny Boyfriend" Embraces The Messy Muse
Sometimes the worst idea in the room is also the most magnetic. You know the type: the person who looks like they slept in their clothes, communicates entirely in smirks, and somehow makes sheer apathy look like high art.
They are a walking red flag wrapped in a vintage leather jacket, and against all logical judgment, you are completely obsessed.
Glasgow’s eighteen-year-old rising star Ellijai has taken that exact, maddening rush of attraction and turned it into pure audio adrenaline with her new single, “Skinny Boyfriend”.
Dropping as her fourth release of 2026, this track is a massive, confident flex from an artist who is clearly finding her ultimate groove. If her previous BBC Introducing-backed singles like Stupid Sometimes hinted at her potential, “Skinny Boyfriend” kicks the door wide open.
It is a sharp, synth-heavy indie-rock banger that feels designed to be screamed back at the stage in a packed, sweaty venue.
The energy here is immediate and undeniable. Produced by Ewan Macfarlane, the track hits the ground running with driving, punchy guitars and synths that feel like they are vibrating right out of the speakers.
It is a sonic sugar rush, capturing the chaotic, breathless feeling of a crush that you know is probably going to end in disaster but is too fun to ignore.
It channels the same unapologetic, guitar-driven pop energy that made the mid-2000s indie sleaze era so iconic, but filtered through the sharp, self-aware lens of a Gen Z artist.
Think of the confident swagger of Olivia Rodrigo meeting the stadium-ready grit of Paramore. Ellijai’s vocal delivery is the absolute standout. She flips between a conversational, almost eye rolling delivery in the verses to a massive, fearless belt in the chorus.
When she sings, “My skinny boyfriend he’s all bones and attitude / My skinny boyfriend loves that fact that I’m no good,” you can practically hear the smirk in her voice.
She is not playing the victim of a bad romance; she is a willing participant in the chaos, fully aware of the absurdity and loving every second of it.
The lyrics are packed with sharp little details, like the guy going to bed with his guitar, painting a perfect picture of the kind of effortless “rock and roll superstar” that ruins your life for a few months.
Ellijai’s “Skinny Boyfriend” Embraces The Messy Muse
This is the kind of single that demands to be put on your pre-game playlist immediately. It is flirtatious, loud, and incredibly fun.
With a debut album slated for summer 2027, Ellijai is proving she has the chops, the attitude, and the undeniable hooks to be a major problem in the indie pop scene.
“Skinny Boyfriend” is proof that sometimes leaning into the mess is exactly what you
need to do.
Press play, turn the volume up until the speakers rattle, and let the chaos take over.
Adam Michael O’Shea Hits The Road On "One More for the Road"
There is a profound ache inherent in the act of leaving, a weight that settles into the bones when standing on the threshold of a new chapter.
It is the quiet realisation that stepping forward requires leaving something essential behind. We think of moving away as a singular event, a date circled on a calendar, but the reality is gradual. It is a slow untethering from the streets that raised us and the faces that defined our early years.
Waterford native and London-trained vocalist Adam Michael O’Shea captures this exact, suspended moment in his latest single, “One More for the Road.”
Following the charitable success of his previous release, “Christmas in Galway,” this new track sees O’Shea turning his gaze inward, mapping the emotional geography of departure and the enduring pull of one’s roots.
This contemporary folk-pop single operates as an intimate character study of transition. O’Shea understands that leaving home is rarely a clean break.
His perspective is informed by his own extensive background as an international touring artist and his time on stage in acclaimed productions like Kinky Boots.
He has spent years travelling, performing across Europe and North America as a lead vocalist with The Celtic Harps, constantly moving between different cities and stages.
That lived experience of perpetual motion informs every line of this release. It is, instead of a simple goodbye, a complex negotiation between the desire for independence and the gravity of shared history. The song does not present escape as a triumph, but rather as a necessary, complicated progression.
The arrangement of “One More for the Road” mirrors this thematic tension with careful precision. The track opens with an acoustic vulnerability, sparse and immediate, centering the expressive tenor vocals that O’Shea has honed over years of theatrical performance.
The production choices here are deliberate, allowing the narrative weight of the lyrics to breathe without distraction. As the song progresses, the arrangement swells, layering organic instrumentation to build a cinematic, anthemic climax.
This structural evolution reflects the physical act of leaving, moving from the quiet, introspective moments of decision in a small bedroom to the expansive, sweeping reality of stepping out into the wider environment.
It sits comfortably alongside the work of contemporary Irish acts like Amble and Kingfishr, yet O’Shea maintains a distinct narrative voice that feels entirely his own.
The lyrical composition of the track is where his storytelling truly shines. He focuses on the granular details of transition, the late-night conversations with lifelong friends, and the unspoken understandings between family members.
These are not grand, sweeping declarations, but rather the quiet, monumental moments that define human connection. He sings about the
vibrant energy shared in a crowded room on a final night out, and a poignant look of knowing between a father and son.
An atmospheric spoken-word bridge further grounds the track, adding a layer of documentary realism to the emotional narrative. It is in these specific, observed moments that the song finds its universal resonance.
This approach is reminiscent of the Irish literary tradition of Dinnseanchas, the lore of places, where identity is inextricably linked to the land and the people who inhabit it.
James Joyce famously wrote about Dublin with such exactness because he understood that exile only sharpens the memory of home. O’Shea operates in a similar vein, suggesting that forging a new path does not sever these ties; it simply stretches them across new distances.
We carry our origins with us, allowing them to inform the people we become in new cities and foreign countries.
The emotional depth of this track cannot be overstated. O’Shea manages to articulate the unspoken anxieties of an entire generation of young people navigating the complexities of modern migration.
Adam Michael O’Shea Hits The Road On “One More for the Road”
For the Irish diaspora, the act of leaving is practically a rite of passage, a shared cultural memory that spans generations. This single review highlights how effectively O’Shea taps into that collective feeling.
It is a song that asks us to reflect on our own origins and the sacrifices required to build a life on our own terms. The careful balance of intimate acoustic moments with soaring, anthemic choruses creates a listening experience that is deeply personal and universally resonant.
“One More for the Road” is a carefully constructed piece of modern nostalgic songwriting. It balances the driving acoustic grit of indie folk with a polished, contemporary production sensibility.
O’Shea has crafted a single that respects the traditions of Irish storytelling while pushing the boundaries of his own artistic expression. He proves that a powerful voice and a genuine story are the most compelling instruments an artist can possess.
As the final notes fade, one is left to consider the nature of their own departures, and the invisible threads that continue to bind them to the places they have left behind.
Where do we truly belong when we are constantly in motion?
The first song of “Poser” is a welcome new start to BLØSMM with the first sample of the upcoming concept album Archer and Ego. The song is all about loss, identity, transformation and self-discovery, a season when questions abound, and a drive to rise above what is expected. For Jordan, “Poser” was a reflection of the years she had been looking for where she fits in creatively and personally, and eventually began working with Brian Dellis to create BLØSMM.
BLØSMM is the result of the duo beginning to explore new creative ground after over a decade of jam sessions together in Jane N’ The Jungle, without having to leave their past behind. They draw on the influences of artists such as Kate Bush and Sinéad O’Connor and Joan Jett, to construct a sound that combines the heaviest of modern rock, the most cinematic of production, the most haunting of melodies and the most raw and emotional of honesty.
Made by Andy Gerold and Jim Louvau, mixed by Sean Beavan, “Poser” is a natural product of a true collaboration and creative risk-taking. Archer and Ego is about the struggle that exists within us between those things that keep us back and those that will fight for more. This interview explores what BLØSMM hope the fans can learn about themselves as they discover their authenticity, grow and learn, and are vulnerable in the process.
“Poser” opens the story of BLØSMM’s upcoming concept album, Archer and Ego. What inspired you to begin this new chapter with a song centered on loss, identity, and finding your way back to yourself? Jordan: I think Poser had to be the beginning because, in a strange way, the song came before we fully understood what BLØSMM was going to become. At the time, I was questioning a lot creatively. I had spent so many years building one identity as an artist, and suddenly I felt pulled toward something different that I hadn’t fully discovered in myself before.
The song became about that feeling of looking at yourself and wondering, somewhere along the way, How did I get here? Who am I supposed to be? It’s about losing your sense of identity, feeling completely stripped down, and reaching a point where you have nothing left to lose. Sometimes when you hit that kind of rock bottom, the only thing left to do is fight, even if you’re terrified of failing.
Looking back, it makes sense that Poser became the first chapter. Before you can become a stronger or more authentic version of yourself, you sometimes have to confront the version you’ve become and ask whether it’s really who you are.
The song explores the pressure of living under other people’s expectations. Was there a particular moment in your own journey that made this theme especially important to you? Jordan: I don’t think it was one single moment. It was more the accumulation of years of trying to figure out where I belonged, both personally and creatively.
When you’ve spent a long time chasing a dream, you naturally start listening to a lot of outside voices. People have opinions about what you should sound like, what you should look like, what direction you should go, and sometimes even who they think you are. At some point, you can start making decisions based on expectations instead of instinct.
For me, creating BLØSMM came during a time when I was trying to strip some of that away. I wanted to get back to asking myself, What actually excites me? What haven’t I explored yet? What would I create if I wasn’t so worried about whether people understood it?
That’s really where the emotional core of Poser came from.
“Poser” is described as a song about personal transformation and artistic evolution. How has creating BLØSMM allowed you to express parts of yourselves that may have remained unexplored before? Jordan: BLØSMM gave us permission to stop asking what we were supposed to sound like and start exploring what we actually wanted to create.
During the early development of the project, I was part of Wendy Parr’s Compass artist development program. One of the exercises involved looking back at your earliest influences and the artists who first made you feel something. That process brought me back to artists like Kate Bush, Sinéad O’Connor, and Joan Jett.
What connected me to those women was their individuality. They had this raw attitude and fearlessness, but they were also completely different from one another. They created their own worlds.
I realized I wanted to find that within myself, to tap into something rawer, stranger, heavier, more vulnerable, and maybe even a little uncomfortable. BLØSMM has allowed both Brian and me to explore that without feeling like we have to fit inside the boundaries of something we’ve already built.
Brian: After working together for so long, it’s also exciting to surprise yourself again. You can spend years developing a creative language together, but then you walk into a room with no expectations, no finished ideas, and suddenly discover another side of that partnership that you didn’t know was there.
What connected me to those women was their individuality. They had this raw attitude and fearlessness, but they were also completely different from one another.
The music combines cinematic production, heavy guitars, haunting melodies, and emotionally charged storytelling. How did you develop the sonic identity you wanted BLØSMM to have? Jordan: Honestly, it started very organically. We didn’t walk into the studio saying, This is exactly what BLØSMM has to sound like.
When we first met with Andy Gerold and Jim Louvau, the advice was actually not to bring anything in prepared. We wanted to see what happened naturally if we all walked into the room with no expectations.
That first day, Poser came out of that process.
From there, we started realizing that we were drawn toward this combination of heavy modern rock, cinematic production, haunting melodies, and emotional vulnerability. I have a huge love for ’90s alternative and grunge, while at the same time being inspired by newer artists who aren’t afraid to push heavy music into unexpected places.
The goal was never to recreate another band’s sound. We wanted to take inspiration from different eras and create a world that felt familiar emotionally but new for us.
After more than a decade of working together in Jane N’ The Jungle, what made this the right time for you and Brian Dellis to begin a new creative chapter as BLØSMM? Jordan: I don’t know if there is ever a perfect time to start something new, but creatively it felt like the ideas were demanding their own space.
Jane N’ The Jungle is still a huge part of who we are. It’s where Brian and I built our creative partnership, where we learned how to write and perform together, and where so much of our history lives. BLØSMM isn’t about replacing that or walking away from it.
Sometimes, though, a song or an idea simply belongs in a different world.
After more than a decade of creating together, we found ourselves excited by the idea of exploring another side of ourselves artistically. BLØSMM gave us the freedom to do that. Instead of seeing it as starting over, I see it more as expanding.
We’re still the same people who built Jane N’ The Jungle. We’re just continuing to discover new places to go.
The idea of shedding expectations and becoming yourself again is central to “Poser.” What does authenticity mean to both of you at this stage of your artistic journey? Jordan: I think authenticity means being willing to disappoint the version of yourself you thought you had to be.
That’s something I’m still learning. For a long time, I thought growth meant becoming a completely different person or leaving old versions of yourself behind. Now I think it’s more complicated than that.
Every version of you got you here.
Authenticity, to me, is being honest enough to acknowledge what no longer serves you while still having compassion for the person you were when you needed it. It’s being willing to change your mind, take a risk, evolve, and create something that might not make sense to everyone.
Brian: I think it’s also about trusting your instincts. After working in music for a long time, you can easily become aware of what people expect from you. At this point, authenticity means letting the song tell us where it belongs instead of trying to force it into a box.
Archer and Ego is presented as a concept album, with “Poser” serving as its opening chapter. How important is it for listeners to experience the songs as part of a larger story? Jordan: The songs can absolutely stand on their own, and I hope people connect with them in whatever way they need to. But the larger story is very important to us.
Archer and Ego is built around the battle between the parts of ourselves that keep us stuck and the part of us that is willing to fight for something better.
The Ego represents the fears, wounds, habits, and survival mechanisms that can convince us to stay the same. The Archer represents the fighter within, the part of you willing to take aim at the things that no longer serve you.
Each song explores a different part of that internal battle. So while you don’t have to experience the album in one sitting to understand a song, I think hearing the entire story reveals a much bigger picture.
Each song explores a different part of that internal battle.
Andy Gerold and Jim Louvau produced the track, while Sean Beavan handled the mix. What did each of these collaborators bring to “Poser” that helped shape its final sound? Jordan: The beautiful thing about Poser is that it really began as a collaboration from the start.
Jim was actually the person who connected us with Andy. We were talking about this new direction I wanted to explore, and he immediately thought Andy could be the right person to help bring that idea to life.
Andy brought this incredible instinct for modern production and wasn’t afraid to let the song become something unexpected. The process was very organic. We didn’t walk in with a blueprint for what Poser was supposed to be.
Jim brought a huge amount of creative perspective to the project and helped create the environment where we felt comfortable taking risks and following the song wherever it wanted to go.
Then Andy sent the early version to Sean Beavan, who felt there was something worth pursuing. Sean brought another layer to the song through the mix and really helped shape the weight, atmosphere, and emotional intensity of the final version.
Having all three involved helped us create something that felt bigger than any one person’s original idea.
BLØSMM’s music carries a strong sense of vulnerability and resilience. How do you balance exposing personal emotions through your music while still creating something listeners can connect with on their own terms? Jordan: I think the more specific and honest you are, the more universal something can become.
The songs often begin from personal experiences, fears, or questions, but once we release them, they don’t belong only to us anymore. Everyone brings their own story to the music.
I never want to tell someone exactly what they’re supposed to feel when they hear one of our songs. If someone hears Poser and connects it to something completely different from what inspired me, that’s beautiful. It means the song found another purpose.
The vulnerability comes from being honest enough to put the real emotion into the music. The connection happens when you leave enough space for someone else to find themselves inside it.
“Poser” marks the beginning of a significant new chapter for BLØSMM. As listeners enter the world of Archer and Ego, what do you hope they discover about themselves through the story you are telling? Jordan: I hope they realize they aren’t the enemy simply because they’re struggling.
One of the ideas at the heart of Archer and Ego is learning to look at yourself with both honesty and compassion. Sometimes the parts of us we’re most ashamed of are actually wounds trying to protect themselves.
That doesn’t mean we don’t have to take responsibility or change. It means maybe the answer isn’t always to hate yourself into becoming better.
I hope people listening to this record feel encouraged to confront the things that no longer serve them, to fight the battles in their own minds, and to believe that they can become something stronger without erasing who they’ve been.
You can be wounded and still be a fighter. You can feel lost and still keep moving forward. You can be the underdog and still live to tell your story.
That’s the world of Archer and Ego.
And hopefully, somewhere in that story, people find a little more compassion, and a little more courage, for their own.
When a significant relationship ends without warning, it leaves a void that demands to be filled with answers that may never arrive.
The mind scrambles to make sense of the sudden silence, replaying memories like a damaged film reel, searching for the exact moment the script changed.
It is a specific kind of grief, one that forces a person to exist in the uncomfortable space between profound loss and lingering resentment.
This emotional purgatory is the exact territory Toronto-based artist Kylo explores on her new single “Nimble.”
Moving away from the polished electro-pop that defined her earlier releases, she strips her sound down to its barest elements, allowing her voice and lyrics to carry the full weight of an unfinished goodbye.
Kylo has spent the last few years building a reputation in the Toronto music scene with her forward-thinking, synth-driven pop.
Her previous work thrived on infectious melodies and experimental production, earning her spots at notable venues like the Danforth Music Hall and The Drake.
However, “Nimble” marks a deliberate and striking departure from that identity. As the first glimpse into her upcoming full-length album, The Space in Between, the track signals a pivot toward a more organic, vulnerable artistry.
By trading synthesizers for acoustic instrumentation, she exposes the raw nerve of her songwriting, proving that she does not need heavy production to create something deeply compelling.
The core message of “Nimble” is the chaotic aftermath of someone leaving before you are ready to let them go. It captures the exhausting whiplash of missing a person while simultaneously being furious at their sudden exit.
This duality is a common human experience, yet it is notoriously difficult to articulate without falling into cliché. Kylo avoids the usual pitfalls of heartbreak anthems by focusing on the physical and emotional disorientation of the experience.
Her lyrics do not simply mourn the loss; they interrogate the suddenness of it, asking how a connection that felt so solid could evaporate so quickly.
In terms of instrumentation, the single leans heavily into indie folk and singer-songwriter traditions, with subtle nods to country americana. The production is intentionally restrained, creating an intimate atmosphere that feels like a private confession.
The acoustic guitar work provides a steady, grounding rhythm, while the subtle instrumentation swells and recedes in tandem with the emotional arc of the narrative.
This stripped-back approach places Kylo’s vocal performance squarely in the spotlight. Her delivery is nuanced and controlled, conveying a deep sense of longing without ever tipping into melodrama.
She sings with the weary clarity of someone who has spent too many sleepless nights turning the situation over in their head.
The transition from electro-pop to indie folk is a bold move, but it is one that makes perfect sense for the story Kylo is telling. Electronic music, with its precise beats and synthesized layers, often implies a sense of control and forward momentum.
Folk music, by comparison, is inherently tied to storytelling, vulnerability, and the imperfections of the human experience. By choosing the latter for “Nimble,” Kylo aligns her chosen style with the messy, unresolved nature of her subject matter.
Kylo Can’t Quite Say Goodbye On Nimble
It recalls the way visual artists sometimes abandon vibrant oils for simple charcoal sketches when they need to capture the raw essence of a subject without distraction.
As the lead single for The Space in Between, “Nimble” sets a high bar for the upcoming album. It suggests a project that will prioritize emotional honesty over catchy hooks, and intimate storytelling over dancefloor appeal.
For listeners who have followed Kylo’s career, this new direction offers a fascinating evolution of her sound. For those hearing her for the first time, it serves as a powerful introduction to a songwriter capable of capturing complex emotions with striking clarity.
The single succeeds because it does not try to offer a neat resolution to the pain it describes. There is no triumphant moment of moving on, no final realization that makes the heartbreak worthwhile.
Instead, Kylo simply acknowledges the difficulty of existing in the space between what was and what is. She holds up a mirror to the messy, contradictory feelings that accompany a sudden ending, offering solace to anyone who has ever found themselves waiting for an apology they know will never come.
How long must we carry the weight of an unresolved ending before it finally becomes a part of our history?
Tre Nash & Jenesis Dig Into The Roots Of Love On "In Tandem"
When two people occupy the same creative and domestic space for an extended period, the lines between their shared life and their artistic output begin to blur.
It is a phenomenon akin to the way climbing vines eventually become indistinguishable from the structure they grow upon. Columbus, Ohio-based husband and wife duo Tre Nash & Jenesis have spent the better part of five years cultivating such an intertwined existence.
Their new ten-track album, “In Tandem“, serves as an auditory record of this period. It is an intricate examination of partnership that avoids the saccharine pitfalls often associated with romantic collaborations, choosing instead to map the full, complicated geography of human connection.
The history of marital musical partnerships is fraught with tension and public unravelling. Think of the legendary, often turbulent collaborations that have defined classic rock and soul.
Tre Nash & Jenesis, however, approach their craft with a sense of deliberate construction. Written across three different home studios, In Tandem is a monument to their patience and shared vision.
They have recorded an album and built a sanctuary for their evolving relationship. By taking full control of the production and performing nearly every instrument themselves, they have guaranteed that their narrative remains uncompromised by outside interpretation.
Aesthetically, the album is a rich amalgamation of influences that reflects their diverse backgrounds. Tre Nash brings an appreciation for the structural integrity of 1970s rock, while Jenesis anchors the sound with her natural affinity for R&B and jazz undertones.
The result is a contemporary pop record that feels grounded in a deeper musical lineage. Echoes of Aaliyah’s smooth phrasing and OutKast’s genre-defying experimentation are present, yet the duo never sounds derivative.
They have synthesized these inspirations into a cohesive language of their own.
The core of “In Tandem” lies in its honest appraisal of love’s shifting phases. It is not a static portrait of romance. The tracks traverse the difficult terrain of apology, the ache of longing, and the profound struggle to articulate complex emotions.
On “Mmm Mmm, Good,” the only track to feature outside contribution, Columbus musician K-Life delivers a guest synth solo that adds a layer of unexpected texture, highlighting the duo’s willingness to invite carefully chosen voices into their intimate space.
Their vocal performances are equally compelling. Jenesis possesses a voice that can convey vulnerability and strength in equal measure, moving through the melodic lines with precision and emotional intelligence.
Tre Nash provides a sturdy counterpoint, his delivery grounding the more ethereal moments of the record. Together, they create a dialogue that feels genuinely conversational, capturing the subtle push and pull of a long-term relationship.
Tre Nash & Jenesis Dig Into The Roots Of Love On In Tandem
The production choices, from the placement of the percussion to the warmth of the basslines, are designed to support this central narrative.
“In Tandem” is a significant addition to independent R&B. It demonstrates the power of self-reliance and the artistic rewards of vulnerability. Tre Nash & Jenesis have created a work that is deeply personal and universally resonant.
They have shown that a relationship, much like a piece of music, requires constant tuning, careful listening, and a willingness to embrace harmony and dissonance alike.
As the final notes of the album fade, one is left to consider the nature of long-term collaboration.
How do two distinct voices maintain their individuality while singing the same song?
Tre Nash & Jenesis offer no easy answers, but their work suggests that the beauty lies in the ongoing attempt to find out.
Two Decades Of Survival Fuel Brendan Ranney's "Slightly"
When a voice goes quiet for nearly two decades, the silence that follows takes on a shape of its own.
It fills the spaces where expression used to live, hardening into routine and survival. Breaking that quiet requires a specific kind of catalyst, something powerful enough to make the act of speaking feel necessary again.
For Southern California indie singer-songwriter Brendan Ranney, that catalyst arrived in a box of his late father’s poetry, unearthed in 2022. Finding those words reignited a creative instinct that had been dormant since the early 2000s, prompting him to pick up a guitar and write his debut solo album, “Slightly Out of Focus“.
The resulting record is an examination of time lost and time reclaimed, built on the foundations of 1980s alternative rock and introspective folk.
It forces the listener to consider what happens to art when it is suppressed for so long, and how it eventually forces its way back to the surface.
To understand the emotional gravity of Slightly Out of Focus, one must look at the history that precedes it. Raised in Claremont, California, Ranney grew up in a creative environment but struggled to find his own artistic outlet.
His early songwriting in the 1990s served as a refuge from the isolating effects of depersonalisation and derealisation disorder, conditions that shaped his intensely personal approach to lyrics.
He cut his teeth in the Fort Wayne, Indiana scene with his band Lurid before returning to Claremont to play with The Dregs. However, the sudden passing of his father and the birth of his first daughter shifted his priorities entirely.
He stepped away from the stage to focus on family and survival, packing away his instruments for almost twenty years. This album represents his return to the creative fold, carrying the weight of those intervening years in every chord progression and vocal take.
The record leans heavily into the darker, more atmospheric corners of indie rock, establishing a mood that is both claustrophobic and oddly comforting.
Tracks like “My Existence (No Not Today)” and “Second Son” feature brooding guitar lines that recall the signature style of The Cure. Ranney’s vocal delivery is subdued and melancholic, perfectly suited to the introspective lyrics that define the project.
Yet, the album is not entirely enveloped in shadow. “Where I’ve Been” introduces a lighter, folk-influenced texture, with intricate guitar work and an airy vocal performance that draws comparisons to Elliott Smith.
The production across the record is consistently polished, allowing the instrumentation to breathe while keeping the emotional core front and centre.
This balance of light and dark keeps the record from feeling overly oppressive, offering moments of genuine hope amidst the reflection.
At its core, Slightly Out of Focus grapples with longing, fear, and the search for belonging. The lyrics are honest and deeply personal, reflecting the vulnerability that has always defined Ranney’s writing.
The inclusion of string arrangements on “I Don’t Want To Go” adds a cinematic quality to his storytelling, elevating the emotional stakes and providing one of the album’s most powerful moments.
Two Decades Of Survival Fuel Brendan Ranney’s “Slightly”
This approach to songwriting mirrors the confessional poetry of the mid-twentieth century, where writers like Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell turned their inner turmoil into art.
Ranney achieves a similar effect here, using his art to process the complexities of his own life, turning his private struggles into a public offering.
This album speaks to a broader human experience of loss and resilience. It suggests that creativity is never truly extinguished, even when it is buried under the demands of daily life.
For listeners drawn to the thoughtful songwriting of Pedro the Lion or the raw energy of the early 90s alternative scene, this record offers a compelling narrative of return. It is a reminder that the most profound art often comes from the places we are most afraid to revisit.
Ranney has done more than return to form; he has arrived with a sharper perspective, proving that sometimes, stepping away is the only way to truly find your voice.
What happens to the songs that remain unwritten during a long absence, and do they eventually find their way back into the light?
After love ends, language behaves strangely. The words that once carried a shared future become objects to turn over in private, each one suddenly heavy with implication.
A person can know that departure is necessary and still have no usable grammar for the next day. That suspended state gives Astian’s new single “How” its force.
Presented as a playful yet pared-back pop/R&B record, the song does not rush to turn pain into a victory speech. It stays at the point where the answer has not arrived, allowing the uncertainty itself to become the subject of this single review.
Astian’s career makes that restraint feel earned rather than ornamental. The Swedish artist first found recognition through P3 Osignat and has worked independently since 2019, building a catalogue that, according to his release material, has passed three million streams while drawing national radio attention.
The same material notes a P4 Nästa win, placing “How” within a gradual, self-directed rise rather than a sudden bid for attention. P3 Osignat’s own public playlist is devoted to unsigned artists, a fitting backdrop for someone whose work has grown through persistence, radio exposure, and a clear pop instinct.
“How” follows “Low Low,” which Astian’s press release reports has exceeded 600,000 streams. But the useful context here is not a scoreboard.
It is the artist’s stated commitment to vulnerability at a time when masculine poise is still frequently confused with emotional distance. On this Swedish independent pop single, he makes a different case: confusion can be articulated without being dramatized beyond recognition.
The result places him near a strain of contemporary pop/R&B that values close detail, a direct emotional premise, and a hook capable of carrying private thought into public memory.
Written and produced with Rasmus Viberg, the track is described as using modern pop melody, understated R&B color, and a minimalist arrangement.
Astian recalls Viberg recording the verse riff while he stepped away, then returning with a completed chorus within roughly ten minutes. The first vocal take was kept for the finished version.
That decision matters. A first take may hold slight roughness, breath, or phrasing that later passes can smooth away. Viberg’s public profile identifies him as a Swedish pop topliner with experience across dance and pop releases, which gives the collaboration a believable frame without asking the song to advertise its craft too loudly.
The title is simple, almost blunt, but it names the track’s central difficulty with unusual precision. Astian has said that “How” turns on the questions that follow the loss of someone thought to be “the one,” questions that rarely produce neat replies.
There is a useful parallel in a charcoal study, where the artist often leaves a line visible rather than correcting it into polish. The line does not signal failure. It keeps the viewer close to the moment of searching.
“How” appears to apply that ethic to breakup pop: the feeling is not repaired for the listener’s comfort, and the absence of a clean answer becomes part of the record’s shape.
Its playful note is equally important. The press material links Astian’s childhood listening to late-1990s and early-2000s pop/R&B, and identifies the outro as a nod to the buoyant melodic feeling of Hanson’s “MMMBop.”
Astian’s ‘How’ Dances With Breakup Doubt
That reference could easily have become a costume, yet the stated aim is affection rather than imitation. Playfulness, in this setting, works as emotional counterweight.
It keeps the track from sinking under its own question and hints at a modest truth about recovery: a difficult thought can arrive beside a bright melody, and neither cancels the other.
There is also a measured risk in keeping the production light. Listeners who expect a breakup record to build toward a large, obvious release may want a sharper turn or a heavier final gesture.
Yet the restraint appears aligned with the premise. “How” is not trying to resolve grief in three minutes. It tries to show a mind circling the point at which resolve has not caught up with feeling.
For an artist whose public message favors emotional openness, that choice gives the record a coherence that is easy to respect.
Astian’s “How” finds drama in the hesitation before a person knows what to say next. It offers a carefully limited canvas, a candid emotional center, and a pop memory that briefly lifts the air around its doubt.
If moving forward begins by admitting that no map is available, how many listeners will hear their own unfinished sentence in the space Astian leaves open?
Joe Rian Keeps Love Rough Around The Edges On "Think Yer In Luv"
A late summer drive has its own grammar. Joe Rian’s “Think Yer In Luv” enters that space as the lead single from his forthcoming album of the same name, due on 2 October 2026 through Rian Records.
The Chicago artist frames the record as an up-tempo, rock-and-roll-leaning blues cut, while its title points toward affection with less ceremony than commitment.
Love arrives through traffic, after work, and with room to laugh.
Rian’s background gives this compact release a convincing social setting. He grew up in Rock Falls, Illinois, before becoming part of Chicago’s club and art-loft life.
His official biography places him at Buddy Guy’s Legends and Moosehead Bar, where exposure to working performers sharpened his sense of what a room asks of a band.
The Additives came before his present role leading The A.M. Drinkers, while 2019’s Switchyard Sessions marked his solo return. His 2023 double EP Midwest Boy then reached No. 2 on the Alternative Country chart for seven weeks, according to his official site.
That position matters for an artist now presenting a 2026 Chicago alt-country single. Americana UK previously located Rian’s work around roots rock, country, folk and electric blues, and noted his own preference for songs enjoyed in a local tavern.
“Think Yer In Luv” makes that setting feel less like a costume than a working method. Its reported rock-and-roll push gives it radio and live-set potential, particularly for listeners who like roots music with an active pulse rather than a porch-bound hush.
The production credit puts a careful frame around that directness. Gavin Lurssen mastered the single, and the Recording Academy lists his award work on O Brother, Where Art Thou? and Raising Sand.
His involvement does not turn Rian’s proposition into a prestige exercise. It signals an attempt to give rough-edged, band-first material a finish that can travel beyond the room in which it began.
The available description emphasizes speed and blues pressure, which makes the title’s plainspoken spelling feel apt. A phrase that might have drifted into sentiment is instead given a sturdy, moving chassis.
The accompanying stop-motion film deepens the point. Rian drew, cut and shot each character himself across a summer, using watercolour paper, markers and a borrowed camera.
That labour recalls the patience of early cut-paper animation, where movement depended on repeated physical adjustment rather than frictionless automation.
The comparison suits a song about ordinary attachment. A relationship, like a handmade sequence, accumulates through small acts that appear modest alone but acquire force in succession.
The video therefore reads as part of the single’s argument, not decoration attached after the fact. Its materials keep the project close to the hands that made it.
There is also a quietly contemporary appeal in that choice. Platforms often reward the instant hook, but Rian answers speed with evidence of time spent.
The promised result pairs a quick-moving alt-country track with a visual process built slowly, an appealing tension for roots-rock listeners who still want an image to carry into a feed or a live-room conversation.
Joe Rian Keeps Love Rough Around The Edges On “Think Yer In Luv”
It also grants the release a clear identity in the crowded new-music cycle. The video can invite a second kind of attention, one directed at the work inside the work.
For all the directness implied by the title, “Think Yer In Luv” has a useful grain of doubt. It does not promise a polished romance or an easy verdict.
It suggests the moment before certainty, when companionship has begun to matter and the road ahead still has miles left. That ambiguity fits an artist whose catalogue has drawn on factory towns, bars and family life, settings where feeling often arrives in action before it finds language.
The single’s greatest appeal may lie there, in its refusal to dress everyday affection in borrowed grandeur.
As a pre-album statement, this Joe Rian single review finds “Think Yer In Luv” strongest as an invitation to value pace, craft and human-scale feeling together.
The 2 October album will show how far that invitation reaches. Until then, can a hand-drawn burst of tavern-rock momentum make the familiar act of riding home feel newly worth noticing?
Ghanaian alternative R&B singer and songwriter Tower has been nominated for the AFRIMMA Rising Star Award at the African Muzik Magazine Awards (AFRIMMA). This places her among eight artists shortlisted from across Africa and the diaspora for this year’s category.
The nomination was announced ahead of the AFRIMMA Musicfest, set to take place September 12, 2026, at Annette Strauss Square, AT&T Performing Arts Center, in Dallas, Texas.
Tower is nominated alongside Florito (Angola), Shoday (Nigeria), Rebo Tchulo (DR Congo), 2wentysixx (Kenya), Ameka Zrai (Côte d’Ivoire), No 11 (Nigeria), and Ciza (South Africa), a lineup that spans West, East, Central, and Southern Africa and reflects how widely AFRIMMA is casting its net for new talent this cycle.
For Tower, the nod arrives a few months into her recording career. The Ghanaian talent debuted in February 2026 with her single “Green”, an introspective offering that set the tone for her sound. Then followed through with “Wildflower,” a more emotionally direct record that further defined her as an artist unafraid to explore vulnerability in her writing. Together, the two singles have given listeners a clear sense of an artist working in the alternative R&B space with a distinct, unhurried voice.
The singer is signed to KhuJenga Management., the Ghanaian talent management outfit backing her early run. A nomination of this scale, coming this early, marks a notable moment for both Tower and her team, and adds Ghana to the map of countries represented in this year’s Rising Star category alongside Nigeria’s double nomination and entries from Angola, DR Congo, Kenya, Côte d’Ivoire, and South Africa.
Public voting for the AFRIMMA Rising Star Award, along with other categories, is open ahead of the Musicfest weekend, with the winner set to be recognized as part of the festival’s program in Dallas.
DEHUSSLAR MUSIC: Bringing the Festival Energy to Life
Dehusslar Music is a producer who hails from Mangere in South Auckland, and adds his own vitality, determination and life experience to all his tracks. The first single from the upcoming album Watermelon And Dick, The Festival Album, is the noisily heavy bass-dubbed “II VII V DUB” and is already making a splash from the get-go, with its crushing bassline, changing melodies and “final boss mode” type attitude.
This track is also the first time I’ve gotten into 140 BPM bass music and it just fell into place and I was able to finish it in 40 minutes. The house is built since leaving the city in search of more freedom and fresh ideas and it overlooks a lake. That switch of scenery was definitely worth it!
It took months to get the album over the finish line and finally, DEHUSSLAR MUSIC is ready to send it out, one track at a time. The entire project covers the genre Dubstep, Trap, Drum and Bass, Afro Beats, Progressive House and Experimental Bass and tries to represent the whole run of a real electronic music festival in one album.
The momentum just keeps on building with the next single, “Mouth 2 Mouth” dropping Aug. 28th. This is a journey to be followed very closely.
“II VII V DUB” is your debut single from the forthcoming album Watermelon And Dick, The Festival Album. What made this track the right choice to introduce the project to listeners?
It just felt right, its the ideal foundation to build off when introducing a festival vibe, phat heavy bass lines with unique sounds and changing melodies.
You describe the track as capturing “final boss mode” confidence. What does that mindset mean to you, and how did you translate it into the sound of the record? Its a mindset that has always been there, from playing sports representing Mangere East Hawks, you always had that final boss energy that you are cant be defeated. I’ve also trained alot of fighters over the years and that mentality is a must in that environment. So it was very natural to produce this mentality into electronic music especially at 140bpm.
Growing up in Mangere, South Auckland, you were surrounded by helicopters, sirens, and an intense environment. How did those experiences influence your identity as a producer and the music you create today? It basically made me enjoy it when i could actually sleep without hearing any sirens or 3am circling helicopters. I was born and raised in Mangere and this is just a everyday situation. The struggle is real. But we grow and we grind, we hustle and keep it moving. You only have you to make it happen. That mentality is in my music.
It basically made me enjoy it when i could actually sleep without hearing any sirens or 3am circling helicopters.
The track is built around the energy of walking through a massive festival crowd. What were you hoping listeners would feel when they first hear “II VII V DUB”?
Just that its the beginning of the festival music, you hear it from the gates and as you approach the first stage you embrace this sound and moment. that’s the vibe for II VII V DUB.
This release marks your first time creating a 140 BPM bass track. What attracted you to that sound, and what did you discover about your production style while making it? I discovered it to be easier then I thought. I’ve been lucky enough to be able to produce most of the album tracks in under 2 hours, this took me like 40 mins. I just felt like i knew this sound and feel so well. It was surprising.
You recorded the track at your home studio overlooking a lake that reminded you of a festival setting. How did that environment influence the creative process? I basically moved to the middle of no where and once i did, the universe or something just started to provide new life situations and opportunities for me.
I literally only started making electronic music like 2 years ago. The current place I’m so grateful to be living at, just has the perfect surroundings for me to grow into this producer. Creatively I couldn’t be in a better place. I didn’t want to go to a studio and leave this amazing energy. So just made my place a multiply hustle environment.
As an independent producer, how important is it for you to have complete creative control over your music, and how does that freedom shape the sound of DEHUSSLAR MUSIC?
I hide away for 6 to 11 months and did nothing but make music with a plan to finish this album. Messed up sleeping patterns as creatively I just got up and kept creating any idea i had or could create at any time of the day or night. I didn’t stop till it was complete. Reason was, I knew I was independent and had to grind daily to know I was for real about this and I am about this life. I had to keep that energy while i had it and I didn’t want the pressure of only having 6 songs and then a label dude says make another 6 in 1 week.
II VII V DUB” establishes what you describe as the sonic blueprint for Watermelon And Dick, The Festival Album. What can listeners expect from the album based on what you’ve created with this first single?
Honestly BASS, the best way I can describe the album, is when you walk around a electronic music festival, every track and sound you will hear at a festival is on this album. Dubstep, Trap, Drum and Bass, Afro Beats, Progressive house, Liquid Drum and Bass, Experimental Bass, Future Bass etc. Its all on here. That’s why its The Festival Album.
With “II VII V DUB” now out and the next single already being planned, what are you most excited about as you continue building this project and your journey as an artist? I’m dropping every month, The next Single, “Mouth 2 Mouth” drops August 28th and is a 170 bpm Drum and Bass Banger. It is low key crazy to see this becoming a reality, I literally packed up my tent at a festival 2 years ago, pause, took a big look around and said to myself ok I’m gonna make a festival album called Watermelon and Dick, The Festival Album and haven’t stopped since.
I am excited to show momentum and just keep dropping every month till October as that’s when ill drop the Album. As an artist, I cant wait for my music to be appreciated in a lot of festival settings. Playing Festivals around the world is the ultimate goal.
Now the newest release from A Project Called Love “Chicago” is an unexpected inspiration that’s grown out of a chance meeting in Chicago. The days you have spent in another country became unforgettable, eventually it became a personal experience and ultimately an exciting, energetic and emotional song. The theme of the track is that of “meeting someone you instantly connect with, and never forget”.
The song was originally written for an acoustic project but slowly expanded into a larger, more energetic project, with the incorporation of ska, punk, rock, grunge and indie pop. The song’s influences are as varied as Nirvana, Mighty Mighty Bosstones and the memories of the ‘90s, all while not putting music in a box.
The song was recorded in Cologne, with Julian as the producer, and shows how A Project Called Love works with its hands—nearly every instrument is played by the artist. In this interview, we discuss the actual story behind “Chicago,” the creative freedom of the music, coming back to Cologne to record, and how one release becomes the next with A Project Called Love.
“Chicago” was inspired by meeting someone special during a short stay in the city and unexpectedly falling hard. What was it about that experience that made you want to turn it into a song? It was one of the most special personal experiences of my life—meeting someone you immediately connect with, who changes your life forever, completely out of the blue during a few short days in a foreign town. I mean, she told me she stole her first car and was tracked down by police helicopters when she was 14. No wonder I fell in love with her! That kind of wild, instant spark just demanded to be written into a song.
There is a strong sense of excitement and spontaneity behind “Chicago.” How did you capture those feelings in the songwriting and overall sound of the track? I can’t remember if I wrote the lyrics or the music first; I think they happened simultaneously. There was this hook, “sparks on the dance floor,” which became the anchor for the chorus, and I just let my emotions flow from there.
For about a year, the song only existed as an acoustic version. When it came time to record, I added the bass line and drum beats, but I always envisioned a triumphant trumpet or brass section. I don’t play brass myself, but I got incredibly lucky. My producer, Julian, is an excellent trumpeter and easily tracked exactly what I had in my head. We even found a sax player to make the final sound feel truly epic.
You describe A Project Called Love as having “No boundaries. No genres. Just music straight from the heart.” How does that philosophy shape the way you approach creating music? I’ve always listened to a massive range of music: from skate punk and hardcore to grunge, metal, pop, jazz, reggae, ska, and electronic music. I refuse to limit my songwriting to a specific box. Instead, I draw from whatever musical direction feels right for the song.
Often, that direction reveals itself later in the process. I write most tracks on an acoustic guitar and play them for months until a feeling hits me—like, “maybe this needs a mix of reggae and grunge,” or “this feels like Pixies-style indie rock.” Once that vision clicks, I just chase it down and make it a reality.
“Chicago” brings together ska, punk, rock, grunge, and indie pop. What attracts you to combining styles that might not traditionally be placed together? To be honest, the styles reflected in “Chicago” are simply amongst my favorite genres of music. Because of that, combining them felt entirely natural and effortless—I wasn’t consciously trying to force them together. I firmly believe music should never be confined to a specific grid or vibe. Real creativity thrives on total freedom.
To be honest, the styles reflected in “Chicago” are simply amongst my favorite genres of music
You mention influences such as Nirvana and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. How did those artists influence the sound or energy you wanted to bring to “Chicago”? By the time I was 13, I already knew I wanted to make music like Nirvana. They were my ultimate role models. Their combination of pure energy, anger, and power mixed with Beatles-like melodies and pop structures still fascinates me today.
The Mighty Mighty Bosstones are also an incredible band and a huge influence. What both of those bands share is completely unfiltered energy and raw emotion. That explosive, honest energy is exactly what I hoped to capture in “Chicago.”
The song has been compared to the nostalgic feel of a ’90s classic like “Breakfast At Tiffany’s.” What do you think makes music from that era continue to connect with listeners today? I guess during this era there were tons and tons of great bands present who created great music. I was a teenager back then, deep in my punk phase—picture long hair on one side of my head and a total buzz cut on the other! Back then, I would never have admitted in public that I listened to pop anthems like “Breakfast At Tiffany’s,” but it is just a phenomenal song. People can still feel that era’s vibe today. Fortunately, I’m grown up enough now to publicly admit that I love it!
You recorded “Chicago” in Cologne, your hometown, despite being based in Venice, California. What was it like returning to Cologne to create a song inspired by your experience in Chicago? I still spend a lot of time traveling back and forth, so Cologne always feels like home. The recording process there was magical because I found an incredible producer, Julian. Not only is he one of the nicest guys you’ll meet, but he truly helped bring my dreams to life.
Most of the tracks I brought him were just rough ideas on tape; the final wall-of-sound only existed inside my head. Julian completely understood the assignment and pulled those ideas out of my head into reality. Finding him was just as unexpected as my encounter in Chicago—though it took a few more nights to record the songs!
As a multi-instrumentalist, you performed almost everything on the recording apart from the drums and brass section. How involved are you in shaping each instrumental part, and what does that hands-on approach bring to your music? I am incredibly hands-on with every single instrumental part. It requires an immense amount of work and responsibility, but it gives me the absolute creative freedom I need to execute my vision. When it came time to collaborate, watching the musicians and Julian take the arrangement that lived in my head and bring it to life in the room was pure magic.
“Chicago” is your third release as A Project Called Love. Looking back at your first two releases, what have you learned about your sound and yourself as an artist? With every single release, I feel I gain a little more confidence in my musical approach. It is a deeply intimidating process to put your own voice, your guitar playing, your bass lines, and your raw songwriting out into the world. But it is incredibly rewarding when it connects and doesn’t end in a total failure. I’m so genuinely grateful for every piece of encouraging feedback I receive. I love every single person who takes the time to listen to my music.
At its heart, “Chicago” is about an unexpected connection that happened quickly and left a lasting impression. What do you hope listeners feel when they hear the song, and where do you see A Project Called Love going from here? More than anything, I hope people can relate to the emotion and just have fun listening to it. I want them to feel whatever the track stirs up in them. Looking ahead, I hope some of those listeners turn into fans and join A Project Called Love on this journey. We’re just getting started, and there is a lot more music on the horizon!
Yesterday’s Future: Reimagining the Sound of Tomorrow
Magdi Aboul-Kheir’s Yesterday’s Future is a joyful trip back to the future people once imagined. Inspired by the sounds and ideas of the 1980s, the album brings together synthesizers, drum machines, soaring guitars, and rich string arrangements, giving these familiar elements a fresh, modern feel. Rather than recreating the decade exactly, Aboul-Kheir treats its musical language as a creative playground, letting curiosity, freedom, and emotion guide the process.
The album also reflects his fascination with time and how yesterday, today, and tomorrow connect. Through its melodies, rhythms, and atmosphere, Yesterday’s Future explores energy, optimism, momentum, contemplation, and the sense that everything is always changing. Influences from 1980s films and television, including Knight Rider and Blade Runner, help shape its neon-lit, futuristic mood.
With a musical journey spanning orchestral, chamber, ambient, jazz-inspired, and vintage electronic styles, Aboul-Kheir keeps exploring new creative worlds without being boxed in by genre.
In this interview, he discusses the inspiration behind Yesterday’s Future, his connection to 1980s music, the importance of melody and emotion, and his hopes for where his music will go next.
Congratulations on the release of Yesterday’s Future. The album feels like a celebration of the future people once imagined. What sparked the idea behind this concept, and what inspired you to bring it to life? Thank you! The idea was simply to have fun. From a musical perspective, the influence of the 1980s is still very much alive today, especially in electronic music. I was fascinated by the idea of taking the sounds, patterns, and musical ideas of that era and transforming them into something fresh with curiosity and joy—not as a purist exercise, but as a creative reinterpretation.
On a more philosophical level, I’m endlessly fascinated by the nature of time. How do we look back at the past? How consciously do we experience the present? And how do we imagine the future? What endures, what changes, and what disappears? Exploring these questions through music felt like a natural extension of the album’s concept. And, in the end, it was tremendous fun to create.’
Yesterday’s Future is filled with the sounds of ’80s synthesizers, drum machines, soaring guitars, and rich string arrangements. How did you blend these classic elements while making the music feel fresh for today’s listeners?
I approached it by not trying to be a purist. Instead, I treated the musical language of the 1980s as a creative playground. Rather than recreating the era exactly as it was, I wanted to take its sounds and aesthetics and shape them into something that speaks to today’s listeners. In that sense, it’s a journey through time—but one that ultimately arrives in the present.
The album captures a sense of fun, nostalgia, and energy from beginning to end. How important was it for you to balance those retro influences with your own musical identity? It was important, but it also happened quite naturally. I never saw it as a challenge or a contradiction. The musical influences of the 1980s—when I first developed my musical voice—have simply become part of my vocabulary. They’re woven into the way I write music, so in many ways they are already an essential part of my musical identity.
I never saw it as a challenge or a contradiction
Your work spans many styles, from orchestral and chamber music to ambient, jazz-inspired instrumentals, and vintage electro. How has exploring such different genres influenced the way you approached Yesterday’s Future? It gives me the freedom and the courage to play with musical elements without any preconceived boundaries, using whatever inspires me and whatever feels right for the music.
As a pianist and composer, you often say that emotion guides your creative process as much as technique. How did that philosophy shape the melodies and atmosphere of this album? Together with the sounds and rhythms, the melodies are meant to express what lies at the very heart of the album: the flow of time and the connection between yesterday, today, and tomorrow. They reflect energy, momentum, and optimism, but also moments of contemplation and a sense of transience.
Yesterday’s Future builds on the retro direction you introduced with Into the Retroverse. In what ways do you feel this new release expands or refines that musical journey? I felt even freer in the way I approached the musical material. And I hope that this freedom is reflected in the flow of the music—that it feels even more natural and effortless.
Your recent releases have explored very different musical worlds, from the peaceful soundscapes of Nubes Sonorae to the intimacy of Slow Heat and the romantic orchestral writing of The Garden of Make Believe. How does Yesterday’s Future reflect another side of your creativity?
Every album expands my musical spectrum and teaches me something new. With Yesterday’s Future, I had the opportunity to revisit and reflect on a musical world that was especially meaningful and formative for me as a young person: the synthesizer sounds of the 1980s.
The album paints vivid images of neon lights, robots, and futuristic adventures that many people grew up imagining. Were there any particular memories, films, or cultural moments that helped shape its atmosphere?
I hope it’s not the fashion I wore back then that inspired it! Seriously though, many images from the TV series and films of that era came back to me: the fast cuts, the neon colors, and the science-fiction visions. In a way, it was everything from Knight Rider to Blade Runner.
Your music is known for being expressive and highly melodic, no matter the genre. Why is melody such an important part of your songwriting, and how does it help you connect with listeners? I believe that a strong melody can carry and communicate the very essence of what I want to express. And when that connection works, it gives the listener a way to engage with the music on an emotional level.
With Yesterday’s Future now out in the world, what do you hope listeners take away from the experience, and where do you see your musical journey heading after revisiting the future of the past?
I simply hope that people enjoy listening to the album and have fun with it. Moving forward, I want to continue exploring different genres—discovering new musical worlds while still staying true to myself.
A Roadside Story of Love, Risk and Temptation By Green Eyed Angel
“Green Eyed Angel” is a song built around attraction, temptation, and the hard choices people sometimes make when they know something might not last. Set at a roadside bar outside Amarillo, the song introduces two people who share a real connection, even though the woman is honest from the start that she can’t promise forever. Rather than framing the relationship as simply right or wrong, the story explores the very human decision to take a chance, even knowing there could be consequences.
With its Texas Country roots, classic country feel, and modern production, “Green Eyed Angel” leans hard into storytelling. Its cinematic quality comes from vivid details of neon lights, back roads, pickups, and the wide-open atmosphere of the Texas Panhandle, while still leaving room for listeners to imagine the rest of the story for themselves.
In this interview, the songwriter talks about the inspiration behind “Green Eyed Angel,” why the Texas setting matters so much, working with producer Austin Biel, and how songwriting has become his way of making sense of life’s messier moments. He also looks back on his musical journey, his independent success, and the kind of legacy he hopes his songs will leave behind.
“Green Eyed Angel” tells the story of an attraction that comes with a clear warning that it may not last. What inspired you to explore that kind of complicated relationship? I’ve always been interested in writing about relationships that aren’t quite as simple as a traditional love song makes them out to be. Real people are complicated, and sometimes two people can have a very real connection even when they both know it probably isn’t going to last.
That was really the idea behind “Green Eyed Angel.” She isn’t misleading him. In fact, she’s probably more honest with him than a lot of people would be. She tells him right up front not to expect promises or forever. The complication is that knowing something and feeling something are two very different things.
I think those imperfect relationships make interesting songs because there isn’t necessarily a good guy or a bad guy. Sometimes it’s just two people meeting at a particular moment in their lives, knowing it may have an expiration date, and deciding the time they do have together might still be worth it.
The woman in the song is honest about not making any promises, yet the narrator chooses to move forward anyway. What do you want listeners to understand about his decision? I think he understands the warning perfectly well. He just decides that knowing how something might end doesn’t necessarily mean you shouldn’t experience it.
There are times in life when your head is telling you one thing and your heart is telling you something completely different. He knows she isn’t promising forever, and he knows there’s a pretty good chance he could end up getting hurt. But there’s something about her, and about that moment, that makes him willing to take the chance anyway.
I don’t think the song is saying that’s necessarily the smart decision. 😂 It’s just a very human one. Sometimes we knowingly walk into things that may leave a mark because, at that particular moment in our lives, the possibility of what we might experience feels worth the risk.
There is a strong cinematic quality to “Green Eyed Angel,” almost as if the listener is watching the encounter unfold. How did you approach creating those vivid scenes through your songwriting? I tend to see songs in my head almost like little movies. Once I have the basic idea, I start seeing the people, where they are, what’s around them, and how the story moves from one scene to the next. Then I try to build an arc that takes the listener through that story without having to explain every little detail.
With “Green Eyed Angel,” I wanted you to be able to picture the encounter as it happens. I think leaving some space for the listener’s imagination is important too. Give them enough detail to put them in the room, but don’t tell them what every chair looks like. 😂
I also have to give a lot of credit to my producer, Austin Biel. I bring him the vision in my head and the pretty rough acoustic draft I play for him, then I explain what I’m seeing and what I want the song to feel like. One of the things Austin does incredibly well is take all of that and translate it into music. Sometimes I’m describing things in terms that probably only make sense to me, but somehow he gets it.
I think that partnership between the story, that rough acoustic starting point, and what Austin builds around it is a big reason “Green Eyed Angel” feels as cinematic as it does. The man’s a genius at that stuff.
How important was the Texas setting to the story and overall character of the song? I don’t think I ever sat down and consciously decided, “I need to make this a Texas song.” Texas is just naturally the backdrop I see when I write. It’s where I live, it’s what I know, and it’s where most of the pictures in my head come from.
“Green Eyed Angel” starts outside Amarillo in a roadside bar off I-40, and that setting was important to me. There’s something about I-40 that has always stirred my imagination. It runs right through the Texas Panhandle and then just keeps going, through Oklahoma and Arkansas and eventually Tennessee. There’s a whole lot of country, stories and lives connected by that highway. For some reason that always gave me a little bit of a Turnpike Troubadours feeling, where real places and roads become part of the story rather than just scenery.
When I see stories like this, I see little bars, back roads, neon, pickups in the parking lot, and people whose lives aren’t particularly polished or perfect. Those things aren’t props I add afterward to make a song sound more country. They’re part of the world I know.
At the same time, I never want the Texas setting to limit the story. The place gives the song its character, but the emotions have to travel. Attraction, temptation, knowing better and doing it anyway, those things happen everywhere. If somebody in London or Italy can hear a song set outside Amarillo and recognize something from their own life in it, then I think the song has done what it’s supposed to do.
For some reason that always gave me a little bit of a Turnpike Troubadours feeling, where real places and roads become part of the story rather than just scenery.
As a songwriter, you often draw inspiration from characters, places, working people, and real-life relationships. Was there a particular person, experience, or moment that helped shape “Green Eyed Angel”?
Like a lot of my songs, there isn’t necessarily one person you could point to and say, “That’s the Green Eyed Angel.” She’s more of a character built from pieces of people, experiences, observations, and probably a little imagination.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become much more of an observational writer. You meet people who have clearly lived some life. You can sometimes see it before they ever tell you their story. That was important with her. The “don’t-push-your-luck look” and those green eyes flashing “like Panhandle thunder” tell you pretty quickly that this woman has a history. Life has changed her, and she isn’t apologizing for who she is now.
What interested me wasn’t explaining everything that happened to her before she walked into that roadside bar. I actually like that we don’t know. I wanted to meet her at the same moment the narrator does and let the listener fill in some of those blanks for themselves.
Now, I will say my Bride is an Oklahoma girl, from Miami, and she has some pretty green eyes of her own. I’ve seen them flash a time or two. 😂 So maybe there’s a little inspiration closer to home than I’m willing to admit.
Musically, the song combines your Texas Country roots with a classic country feel and modern production. How did you balance those traditional and contemporary elements in the recording?
I don’t think Austin and I ever sit down and say, “Okay, this needs to be 60 percent traditional country and 40 percent modern.” 😂 I bring him the song, usually in a pretty rough acoustic form, we talk about what I’m hearing in my head, and then we start figuring out what serves the story.
I’m a big believer in real instruments and letting musicians actually play. That’s part of the country music I grew up loving, and I never want to lose that. But I also don’t believe traditional country storytelling means the production has to sound like it came out of another decade. You can respect where the music came from and still make a record that sounds alive right now.
With “Green Eyed Angel,” the story has this dusty roadside-bar quality to it, but there’s also tension, attraction and a little danger underneath everything. Austin did a great job of letting those classic country roots stay visible while building a bigger, more contemporary atmosphere around them. We weren’t trying to make something old or something modern. We were trying to make the song sound like the story felt.
“Green Eyed Angel” explores the idea of knowing something may end badly but choosing to experience it anyway. Has songwriting helped you make sense of similar moments in your own life? Absolutely. I’ve said before that writing is my therapy. It’s one of the ways I make sense of life, although I probably understand that more now than I did when I was younger.
You live long enough and you realize some of the decisions that make the least sense on paper become part of the experiences that shape you the most. Relationships, chances you took, things you probably should have walked away from, and maybe a few things you wish you’d held onto a little longer. Sometimes you don’t really understand what something meant until years later.
That’s one of the gifts of getting older as a songwriter. At twenty, I probably would have written about what happened. Now I’m much more interested in why somebody did it, what it cost them, and what they carried away from it afterward.
Songwriting doesn’t necessarily give me all the answers, but it gives me a place to work through the questions. I can take something I’ve experienced, something I’ve observed, or even just an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on and turn it into a story. Sometimes by the time I’ve finished the song, I understand it a little better myself.
So yeah, writing is definitely therapy for me. I used to joke that it was cheaper than an expensive couch, but after production and marketing costs, I’m not so sure anymore. 😂 At least this way I occasionally get a pretty good song out of it.
You have built a growing catalog that moves between Texas dancehall, traditional country, Americana, rockabilly, and roots influences. Where do you feel “Green Eyed Angel” fits within your musical journey? I think “Green Eyed Angel” is actually a pretty good example of where I am as a songwriter right now. I’ve stopped worrying very much about whether every song fits neatly into exactly the same musical box.
“Hot Fiddle Player” can take you into a Texas dancehall. “HANDful of Pills” has that rockabilly energy. “Done My 40” comes from a working-man, rootsier place. “Dive Bar Love Story” is much more reflective and character-driven. They sound different because the stories are different.
“Green Eyed Angel” sits somewhere in the middle of a lot of those influences. It has the storytelling and real-world setting that run through most of what I write, a strong Texas Country foundation, some classic country DNA, and then this darker, more cinematic atmosphere around it.
I think I’m becoming more comfortable letting the song tell me what it wants to be instead of deciding what genre it’s supposed to fit before I write it. The common thread isn’t necessarily the sound. It’s the storytelling. As long as the song still sounds like something I would say and tells a story I believe, I’m comfortable following it wherever it wants to go.
Your independent releases have received radio support in Texas, across the U.S., the UK, and Europe. How has that response influenced your confidence and direction as an independent artist? It’s been incredibly encouraging, and honestly, a little surprising. I’m a songwriter sitting down here in Waller, Texas, making music independently with a small group of incredibly talented people. Then one day you find out somebody is playing one of your songs on the radio in Texas, and the next you’re hearing from a DJ in the UK, Italy or somewhere else in Europe. I don’t think that feeling will ever get old.
I’ve started saying that every spin is a blessing, and I really mean that. Somewhere, somebody decided that out of all the music they could play, they were going to give three or four minutes of their airtime to a song I wrote. I don’t ever want to become so concerned with numbers and charts that I forget how damn cool that really is.
The response has also given me confidence to trust what we’re doing. I don’t have to chase whatever happens to be popular at the moment or try to turn myself into something I’m not. If a song rooted in my life and this little corner of Texas can connect with somebody thousands of miles away, that’s pretty powerful validation that a good story can travel.
I think about legacy more these days too. My mom was my first fan, long before anybody else cared about a song I had written. She’s gone now, and I really wish she could hear what we’re creating today and see where some of these songs are going. I think she’d get a kick out of hearing that something I wrote down here in Texas was being played on the other side of the world.
And then I look in the other direction. Part of what I’m doing now is creating something that will hopefully outlast me. I love the thought that years from now, maybe long after I’m gone, one of my grandkids might unexpectedly hear one of my songs somewhere. Maybe it comes on the radio, turns up in a movie, or somebody discovers it through whatever replaces Spotify by then. 😂 They’ll get to hear my voice, hear one of my stories, and know that Grandpa made that.
That means more to me than chasing fame ever could. The radio support and the people I’ve met along the way have given me confidence to keep making these songs, but they’ve also reminded me why I’m making them in the first place.
As listeners spend time with “Green Eyed Angel,” what do you hope stays with them most—the story, the emotion, the character, or the feeling of stepping into something you already know might not last? Probably a little bit of all of it, but if I had to choose one, I’d say the story.
I want somebody to hear “Green Eyed Angel” and feel like they spent a few minutes in that roadside bar outside Amarillo. I want them to see her green eyes flash, understand immediately that this woman has lived some life, and know exactly why this guy should probably turn around and walk out the door. And then I want them to understand why he doesn’t. 😂
There’s almost a proverbial train-wreck quality to it. You can see what’s about to happen. Part of you wants to look away, but you can’t. You have to see how it plays out. The narrator sees it too. He knows better. She’s even warned him. But by then he’s already crossing that line.
To me, that’s what a good song can do. In three or four minutes it can introduce you to people you’ve never met, put you somewhere you’ve never been, and somehow make you recognize a feeling you’ve had in your own life.
But I also hope we leave a few unanswered questions. Who is she? What happened to her before that night? What happens between them afterward? Does he eventually regret crossing that line, or would he do the whole damn thing again?
I know what I see when I play the movie in my head, but I don’t necessarily want to tell the listener what happens after the song ends.
Though he’s just starting his musical career, Mathias SB’s songwriting and storytelling on Echoes of Us has been thoughtful. It’s his debut EP and it’s about the various stages of a relationship, past a typical heartbreak story to a happiness, uncertainty, contemplation, compromise and resilience. Each song has a different point of view and a thread that unfolds into a story that is grounded, real, and relatable.
In addition, the EP demonstrates Mathias SB’s willingness to experiment. Spanning from the beat-heavy fun of Let’s Raise a Glass to the film noir vibe of The Dragons Are Gone and the introspective final track Turbulence, Echoes of Us is a collection of sounds that don’t stray out of focus from the importance of storytelling. En route, Mathias worked with great collaborators, picked up some inspiration from song writing camps such as Rena Song Fest and Song Farm Fresh, even introducing bits of his music production process to his final products.
Mathias is also continuing to develop as a songwriter, producer and singer by focusing on learning, discovering new avenues to create and enjoying making music.
He explains in this interview where his ideas for Echoes of Us came from, how he created it and what his experiences are that are informing the next chapter of his career.
“Echoes of Us” follows the emotional journey of a relationship instead of focusing only on heartbreak. What inspired you to tell the story from that perspective, and why was it important to you?
It was important to me because a relationship always goes through different stages. When I originally wrote the songs individually, I started to realize that the entire EP could be understood as a love story told from different perspectives. That was why I decided to present the EP in that way, because lyrically, it fits very well.
At the beginning, you are happy. Along the way, you start questioning things, and by the end, you are left with a choice and a moment of reflection. Do you break up, or can you learn to live with your partner’s flaws? Nobody is perfect, and in a relationship, there will always have to be some give and take.
The EP opens with the uplifting energy of “Let’s Raise a Glass” before taking listeners into much more experimental territory. How did you approach creating that emotional and musical progression? For me, it ultimately comes down to making songs that I enjoy. Interestingly, “Let’s Raise a Glass” was originally intended to be a trance track. However, the producer felt that the topline and lyrics were much better suited to pop, so we decided to take it in that direction instead.
“Let’s Raise a Glass” was co-written with Wanja Hamre after meeting at Rena Song Fest. What was it like collaborating together, and how did Wanja’s ideas help shape the song?
Wanja contributed significantly to the creation of the song. She is very talented. She actually has a record deal with a small label here in Norway, and she has even been featured by NRK, Norway’s national public broadcaster, in an online article about her.
I was also given the opportunity to record the vocals for “Let’s Raise a Glass” at her record label’s studio. That was actually a pretty big moment for me!
For me, it ultimately comes down to making songs that I enjoy.
“The Dragons Are Gone” stands out for its bold electronic production and the use of sounds inspired by the traditional Chinese pipa. What sparked the idea for this unique combination, and what story were you hoping listeners would imagine? You know, I have always enjoyed making little demos for myself. Apart from singing and playing guitar and piano, that was really how I first got into the production side of music. I often make musical demos in GarageBand on my iPhone, where I like to experiment with different sounds and ideas.
After I brought my demo to the producer and he developed it into a finished instrumental, I wrote the lyrics. With the song, I hope people can imagine themselves travelling back in time to medieval China. The idea is almost like being able to travel through time, which is also reflected in the “time machine” section of the production.
But underneath all of that, the song is really about having a sense of adventure within a relationship. I would say that is the hidden message behind it.
You also co-produced “The Dragons Are Gone.” How involved were you in building its sound, and what did you learn about yourself as a producer during the process?
The producer based much of the final production on my original demo, which gave me a real sense of achievement, I have to say. I created the pipa part in GarageBand and later sent him the stems. The bass and chord progression are also based on my original ideas, although he was the one who completed the final production, as well as mixing and mastering the track, of course.
The process taught me that I am actually capable of producing some good demos. It was also really exciting to have a musical element that I had produced myself become part of a professionally finished song for once.
Including an instrumental version of “The Dragons Are Gone” gives listeners a chance to focus purely on the production. What details do you hope people discover when they experience the track without the vocals?
The production is definitely the main focus of the instrumental version. Even though I was not responsible for the final production, as I mentioned, I contributed quite a lot to it. In a way, you can hear a part of me through the instrumental, if that makes sense.
In the instrumental version specifically, the pipa really takes centre stage. I sometimes like to say that “the pipa sings.” The bridge also comes through much more clearly without the vocals, so I hope people pay attention to that as well.
“Turbulence” ends the EP on a thoughtful note, exploring relationships that survive difficult moments rather than ending because of them. Why did you want resilience, rather than heartbreak, to be the final message?
There are already so many songs about heartbreak, so I wanted to write about a relationship that has complications without necessarily ending because of them. You know, even if around 50% of marriages end in divorce, there are still the other 50% that stay together.
It is almost impossible to imagine that a relationship lasting for many years would go completely smoothly the entire time. I wanted to tell a more realistic story about that. In my own opinion, I actually think “Turbulence” is the best set of lyrics I have written so far.
Throughout “Echoes of Us,” you move between accessible pop, cinematic electronic music, and guitar-led songwriting. How do you balance experimenting with new sounds while still creating music that feels authentic to you?
“Echoes of Us” was intended to be something of an experiment. I wanted to explore what resonated most with listeners and then use that experience to help figure out which musical direction I wanted to pursue. It was also the first time I had written songs in English.
At the moment, I am mainly focusing on EDM and dance-oriented pop in Norwegian, which is my native language. But I never want to lock myself completely into one genre or style, because the most important thing for me is to make music that I genuinely enjoy – songs that I would actually want to listen to myself.
Around the release of the EP, you were also expanding your international songwriting network, including participating as an official artist at Song Farm Fresh in Sweden. How have those experiences influenced your growth as a songwriter and your vision for future projects? Both Rena Song Fest and Song Farm Fresh are songwriting camps that have given me a lot of valuable experience. They are great opportunities for networking, and I would recommend songwriting camps to musicians at any skill level.
Rena Song Fest is the world’s largest Eurovision songwriting camp, and Eurovision and Norway’s Melodi Grand Prix are major dreams of mine at the moment. “Veien du skal gå” was created at Song Farm Fresh, and shortly afterwards, I released my EP.
“Echoes of Us” introduces listeners to Mathias SB and gives a glimpse into your artistic identity. After this debut release, what do you hope listeners take away from the EP, and where do you see your musical journey heading next?
I released my very first song in 2024, called “Jeg trodde aldri.” It was the first song lyric I had ever written myself, and I decided to release it. The following year, I released my debut EP, “Echoes of Us.”
I hope listeners come away understanding the vision behind the EP and what I was trying to achieve by creating this kind of project.
Looking ahead, I plan to keep focusing on music. This autumn, I am going back to folk high school in Norway to study music again. My journey from here is really about continuing to experiment, making mistakes, learning from them, and releasing more songs. I want to develop further as a songwriter, producer and vocalist.
And maybe, just maybe, one day I will take part in a singing competition such as The Voice, Melodi Grand Prix or even Eurovision.
Memory rarely returns as a complete film. More often, it arrives as a clipped sentence or the sting of a decision that made sense at the time.
Vanessa Moussa chooses that scale for “Vanessa Moussa“, a self-titled debut EP drawn from a decade of material about new love, heartbreak, hope, and regret.
With five tracks and bonus cut “A Little Note To You,” this indie folk EP gives small moments the seriousness they often receive only years later.
A self-titled release can be a bold announcement, but Moussa uses the format as accounting. Her name becomes the folder holding early promise, false turns, and hard lessons after years spent working with others.
Public profiles place her in Sydney’s folk, indie, and pop circuits, and identify Roadless in 2022 and Unfold in 2025 as earlier markers in a gradually developing catalogue.
Her work as a session vocalist, vocal producer, songwriter, and vocal tutor also speaks to an artist attentive to the detail of a voice.
That history gives the release an unforced sense of arrival. Moussa has performed and co-written across New South Wales, including appearances at Bluesfest and the Tamworth Country Music Festival, while her creative circle includes Electric Sun Records, Paramount Productions, Aimès Music, and Budapest songwriter Adàm Goyla.
Vanessa Moussa follows that collaborative period by turning toward first-person authorship. In a crowded Australian indie folk field, the patient move may appeal to listeners seeking an emerging artist with a considered public history.
The EP pairs the earlier “Rebound” and “Unfold” with “Nothing But Good,” “Come To Be,” and “A Little Note To You.” Its 17-minute running time puts emphasis on selection.
Each title reads like a fragment of conversation retained after the larger exchange has faded. That economy suits an EP concerned with lived experience rather than grand declaration.
Moussa’s stated meeting point of indie folk and alternative blues is useful because it frames this release as an emotional register rather than a genre exercise.
Folk carries confession and close observation. Blues brings the knowledge that disappointment may be named plainly, survived, and even given a rhythmic shape.
An earlier interview about “Rebound” adds a useful precursor: Moussa explained that the song began with voice and acoustic guitar, and that she had been drawn to Robert Cray and The Teskey Brothers while writing it.
That context casts the EP as a continuation of an established writing instinct, one that looks for clarity after romantic misdirection instead of melodrama.
There is a literary kinship here with Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art,” a poem that circles loss through disciplined repetition until composure itself begins to tremble.
Moussa’s record does not claim that lineage, yet its premise carries a related question: how do people keep a record of what hurt without letting hurt become their entire identity?
The EP’s stated movement from new love to regret makes room for hope without pretending that recovery is neat. The title track structure matters too.
A Decade Of Stories Bears The Name Vanessa Moussa
Calling the collection Vanessa Moussa shifts attention away from a single event and toward the person left after several events have passed.
The brief running time is also the record’s most interesting limitation. Listeners looking for elaborate narrative exposition or a fully mapped production thesis may find the format deliberately spare.
Yet that restraint can be part of its appeal. A five-track release asks for return visits, and the bonus cut’s title, “A Little Note To You,” hints at the directness of a message sent without an audience in mind.
Rather than demanding that every feeling be resolved, Moussa allows the EP to function as a series of kept fragments, each one carrying a different temperature.
For Music Arena Gh readers seeking a thoughtful 2026 indie folk EP review, Vanessa Moussa offers a persuasive introduction to an artist whose credentials have already been formed through collaboration, performance, and vocal work.
It may fit reflective folk and alternative blues playlists, while its concise form also leaves room for close attention.
The question lingering after these five songs is not how much of the past should be retained, but which small memory still has the right to speak when the room grows quiet?
A declaration of love can arrive with the force of a plane touching down: dramatic, loud in retrospect, and already carrying the unease of a return ticket.
Natalia James builds her new single, “Fly to LA,” around that unsettled instant. The track belongs to a Mexican American Los Angeles artist who calls her practice Spanglish dream pop.
Its central line, “Fly to LA, tell me that you love me,” turns on itself. It can read as an invitation, then as a stunned replay of a gesture that happened too fast.
James is not measuring romance by its size, but by the aftershock it leaves in the body.
James arrives with a frame of reference that makes instability feel purposeful. Her stated touchstones run from Kate Bush and Cocteau Twins to Latin Mafia, Lorde and Fiona Apple, artists connected by their appetite for interior drama.
On “Fly to LA,” her bilingual writing process is part of how thought changes shape. A phrase offered by a collaborator can acquire another force when carried into Spanish, or brought back again.
The personnel reinforce that sense of conversation. James and Cache Olson began production. Dillon Turnman and Safiyah Hernandez joined the writing; James handled the vocal construction, Ettore Grenci mixed and Ohad Nissim mastered.
Independent coverage places “Fly to LA” in dream pop and indie pop, with cinematic vocal layering. This is a useful entry point for listeners searching for contemporary bilingual dream pop with a sharper emotional edge than its soft surface first suggests.
James presents “Fly to LA” as the first part of work concerned with competing feelings, regret and repetition. Los Angeles is a place in the title, but it also becomes a return address for suspicion.
A visitor travels from Norway, a relationship begins at a Los Angeles music academy, and the memory of that beginning keeps revising itself. The personal story resists generic breakup writing.
It asks how trust behaves after intensity has mistaken itself for certainty.
The arrangement is built as an argument with its own sweetness. James and Olson moved between Pro Tools and FL Studio, and the session used a TR-08.
The chorus toms follow a 5/4 pattern, a pulse that leaves the ground slightly misaligned beneath an apparent pop invitation. It recalls the way a staircase can look regular until one step surprises the foot.
The irregularity gives the title’s request a bodily hesitation.
James has said she recorded over 80 vocal layers during a night in the studio. Here, the number has narrative purpose. One voice asking for proof becomes a group of voices asking the same question, then a crowd that will not settle.
Vocal cuts grow more unruly as the record moves forward, while a choir-like mass presses against the opening tenderness.
James’s delivery carries two positions at once: the person who wants to believe, and the person who has learned to examine every beautiful sentence for its weak seam.
Cinema offers the clearest unexpected comparison. A jump cut does not change the footage itself, it changes the relationship between one moment and the next, making time feel unreliable.
“Fly to LA” works through a similar edit. The same sentence can play first as longing and then as evidence. The listener is not handed a neat before-and-after account; the phrase returns to its speaker with a different charge.
Natalia James Lets Desire Fracture In Fly To LA
It is an agile use of pop repetition, treating distrust as a problem of interpretation rather than a theatrical pose.
James avoids a simple victory over fear. The record holds attraction, embarrassment, anger and self-reproach close together. The density of its vocal design may ask a lot from listeners who prefer a clean emotional line, but that pressure appears tied to the song’s purpose.
Trust loops, interrupts and reopens a conversation that seemed finished. For readers interested in emerging Los Angeles indie pop, James’s approach makes a persuasive case for detail over instant resolution.
“Fly to LA” gives grand romance a difficult second hearing. Natalia James leaves the landing open, with the plane still at the gate and every promise subject to another reading.
When desire is fluent but instinct has been bruised, which voice gets to make the final call?
Millie Mountain Unpacks What We Inherit On "Tools"
When a crowded street settles after dark, the body often keeps a record of the day’s alarms.
A raised voice, an ugly headline, a text that asks too much, each can remain in the ribs after the immediate moment has passed. That residue is the territory Millie Mountain approaches on “Tools“, her three-track EP.
The South London-raised independent artist treats composure as work: a private practice of clearing space, naming harm and refusing to carry another person’s damage as a permanent duty.
Across “Just Breathe (Too Much Smoke),” “Tools” and “Happy Pill,” Mountain builds a compact case for emotional self-possession without pretending that calm comes cheaply.
Mountain arrives with roots across jazz, soul, blues, hip-hop and reggae, according to her official biography.
It also records radio support for earlier work from BBC Radio 6 Music and Jazz FM, as well as live appearances with Still Waters at Moovin Jazz Fest and support slots linked to Sy Smith, Sister Sledge, Soul II Soul and UB40.
That breadth gives “Tools” a fitting frame. Its experimental R&B language borrows from neo-soul, trap soul and Afrobeats, with production credited to Denmark-based Magne Lundgaard Kaeseler and the UK’s Authentic Music.
“Just Breathe (Too Much Smoke)” locates mental overload in a public climate marked by recurring violence and mass shootings.
Mountain’s concern is the exhausted vigilance of people asked to keep functioning while distress arrives through screens, streets and conversation.
In a 2023 interview, she described her writing as shaped by sensitivity to trauma witnessed around her as well as trauma of her own. That earlier statement gives “Tools” a coherent lineage: private feeling is not an escape from public life, it is one place public life leaves its marks.
The title track turns toward a more intimate injury. Its bright, summery surface sits beside a study of toxic masculinity, emotional repression and the patterns by which unprocessed hurt becomes blame or manipulation.
Mountain’s focus is on the damage caused when love becomes a storage unit for pain that belongs elsewhere. “Happy Pill” brings the collection toward happiness and coping, keeping the question open rather than supplying an easy cure.
At three tracks, “Tools” has the logic of a triptych. In medieval and Renaissance altarpieces, neighbouring panels could present separate scenes that gathered force through their proximity.
Mountain uses a similar economy. “Just Breathe (Too Much Smoke)” faces pressure in a troubled public sphere; “Tools” brings that pressure into relationship; “Happy Pill” considers the private effort to find steadiness after the impact.
The sequence turns each piece into part of a larger argument about what people carry. It gives social strain and personal recovery equal weight, rather than using one as mere backdrop for the other.
The press material describes atmospheric production, soulful vocals and direct writing as the thread between the three tracks, while allowing each one its own identity.
Millie Mountain Unpacks What We Inherit On “Tools”
That framing suits Mountain’s subject matter. Her voice is positioned as a human centre within arrangements designed to hold unease and warmth together.
The result, as an artistic proposition, aligns with current UK alternative R&B’s appetite for intimacy that does not shrink from social reality. Mountain’s strength lies in her refusal to pose self-care as polished branding.
Her characters want relief, but they are also alert to the habits and relationships that make relief difficult.
The three tracks raise questions about violence, gendered harm and emotional health that could sustain a longer release. Yet their economy gives “Tools” focus.
Instead of trying to solve every pressure it names, Mountain lets each piece register as a flare of recognition: the fatigue of absorbing bad news, the aftermath of a fraught relationship, the uneasy search for happiness in a culture that sells it as a purchase.
For listeners drawn to emerging UK alternative R&B with reflective writing and a cross-genre pulse, “Tools” offers a purposeful introduction to Mountain’s current chapter.
It is an EP about keeping one’s inner life intact when life keeps making demands upon it. If care begins with deciding what cannot be carried any longer, what might Mountain choose to set down next?
IamSnap And Lydia Caesar Come Out Swinging On Last Round
A bell in an empty gym has an unnerving authority. It does not promise a winner, only another demand to rise from the stool and enter the ring.
That suspended second gives IamSnap’s “Last Round” its governing image. The 2026 hip-hop single, featuring Lydia Caesar, treats depression and anxiety as a recurring opponent rather than a neat plot device.
Its account of procrastination, self-doubt and creative paralysis refuses the pose of self-pity. IamSnap’s hard-edged rap meets Caesar’s soulful release.
Independent coverage likewise frames the pair’s new collaboration as a direct account of mental strain and endurance.
IamSnap enters this record as an Australian hip-hop artist whose work is rooted, according to Sounds of Oz, in Kamilaroi Country and Tamworth.
“Last Round” gives a private conflict an anthem-sized frame, placing a local voice inside a wider rap conversation about pressure and stamina.
The supplied release material describes a career with chart recognition and high-profile collaborators, but this single gains force by narrowing its attention.
It does not arrive as a résumé. It arrives as a person trying to keep his mind from overruling his work.
Caesar’s presence changes the emotional temperature without softening the record’s stakes. Her role is not ornamental: the arrangement needs a second perspective able to turn an internal monologue outward.
The result gives the song a useful tension: IamSnap names the grind of the fight, while Caesar gives the refrain the lift of a collective reply.
That meeting of rap confession and soulful chorus makes the single accessible to listeners who seek emotionally candid hip-hop, while retaining the abrasive edge implied by its title.
The production follows the argument rather than decorating it. Faby Beats and Gore Ocean composed the music, Gore Ocean and IamSnap produced it, and Steve Newton engineered it at enrec studio.
An atmospheric opening reportedly yields to heavyweight hip-hop rhythms and dense production, mirroring the move from a mind under siege toward action. Caesar’s high, open chorus serves as the release point for the track’s pressure.
IamSnap And Lydia Caesar Come Out Swinging On Last Round
IamSnap’s verses carry the denser burden, and the arrangement allows each performer to occupy a clear emotional task rather than compete for attention.
Many songs about mental strain make a premature peace with the problem. “Last Round” appears more interested in the awkward middle, where one can be exhausted and still choose to continue.
Its title carries the drama of a final bout, but the writing described in the release never pretends that anxiety can be dispatched by force of will.
Dark humour matters here because it punctures the theatre of bravery. A joke, placed against fear, can be a way of admitting the fear has not won every inch of the room.
The record calls to mind the gravity of Käthe Kollwitz’s anti-war prints, where human bodies seem pressed by grief rather than arranged for heroic display.
That comparison is not about imitation. It is about posture. IamSnap’s central figure does not appear invincible; he remains recognizable because he is impaired, frustrated and still present.
Caesar’s contribution widens the feeling without erasing its roughness. Her chorus does not solve the problem, it gives the struggle air.
Relief is offered as a momentary opening, not a permanent verdict.
This is where the record earns its value as contemporary Australian hip-hop. It gives public language to stalled hours that rarely fit motivational slogans.
The chorus gives it radio potential, but its strongest appeal lies in its restraint around recovery. It does not make wellness into a trophy. It presents resistance as repetitive work, sometimes ungainly, often tiring, and still worth doing.
That outlook makes “Last Round” a fitting entry for listeners seeking hip-hop that can carry weight without turning pain into decoration.
IamSnap and Lydia Caesar have made a single that measures courage in returns rather than victories. Its promise is not that the opponent disappears, but that a person can re-enter the ring.
After the bell has stopped ringing, what does it mean to keep answering it?
Bechill Puts Creative Paralysis On Trial In “State of Mind”
At 3 a.m., a room can begin to argue with its occupant. A half-finished idea acquires the weight of evidence.
The ceiling seems ready to grade every abandoned plan. That is the emotional chamber in which Bechill’s “State Of Mind” arrives, and it gives her new single an unusually exact sense of pressure.
The 3:24 track presents the Sydney artist at a point where inward-looking hip-hop becomes a means of taking stock rather than retreating.
This is an alternative R&B and alt hip-hop single review concerned with the hard work of speaking back to self-doubt, especially after the creative silence that followed a return from London.
Bechill’s background matters here because she has built her practice around control of the frame. Triple J Unearthed identifies her as a Sydney-based singer, songwriter, and producer whose work brings together R&B, hip-hop, and electronic music.
“State Of Mind” does not present that range as a résumé. Instead, it asks what happens when a self-directed artist cannot immediately make work, then has to meet the fear that follows.
The song is described the second taste of a debut EP planned for late 2026, so its candour also reads as a statement of method.
The genre language around the single is pleasingly restless. The release material calls it thoughtful yet raw hip-hop, then locates Bechill near electronic pop and alternative R&B while noting reference points in The Kid LAROI, Billie Eilish, and Brent Faiyaz.
Those names offer a useful map, but the stronger proposition lies in Bechill’s refusal to let polish erase discomfort. There is room here for density, for a rap-minded attention to phrasing, and for pop scale without forcing an easy uplift.
For listeners following Australian independent new music, that friction is the draw. It places private unease inside a form built for repetition and return.
The record’s central idea comes from a period of interrupted creativity. Bechill has said that she wrote it soon after returning from London, feeling insecure about herself and her music after being unable to create for a long time.
Her stated aim was to expose insecurities and doubts, reducing their power, then use the process to regain confidence in a new direction.
That account gives the single its moral shape. It does not turn difficulty into decorative drama. It treats the mind as a crowded room, and writing as the act of naming who has been speaking.
A useful artistic parallel appears in Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. Hopper’s figures share a lit room yet remain sealed inside separate thoughts.
Bechill’s approach operates at a different speed, with hip-hop cadence and contemporary pop tension in place of stillness, but the emotional proposition is related: isolation can be visible even when the setting feels busy.
The stated maximalist atmosphere and raw human focus make sense through that lens. “State Of Mind” gives creative blockage physical consequence, then refuses to confuse exposure with defeat.
Bechill Puts Creative Paralysis On Trial In “State of Mind”
There is a minor risk in the song’s wide stylistic reference frame. The pull between alt hip-hop grit, electronic pop sheen, and alternative R&B intimacy can place a heavy burden on a compact single.
Yet Bechill’s subject needs that pressure. A narrow arrangement might make the anxiety seem tidy, and tidy is not the point.
Her strongest move is conceptual rather than cosmetic: insecurity is not presented as a fixed character flaw but as a condition that can be addressed, written through, and redirected.
That stance carries value for late-night listeners who know the difference between having an idea and trusting it enough to finish.
“State Of Mind” is a persuasive signpost toward Bechill’s debut EP because it treats doubt as material rather than a marketing obstacle.
It also makes a quiet case for self-possession within Australian alternative R&B and hip-hop.
If the record begins by documenting a mind caught in its own cross-examination, what might happen once that same voice stops asking permission?
Violet Love Draws A Map Of Belonging On "Airport Road"
At the edge of any city, a road can serve as address, departure point, or private monument. “Airport Road,” Violet Love’s forthcoming original single, takes its name from that humble kind of marker and gives it emotional weight.
The Grand Rapids artist has written the record around a proposal to her fiancé and the warmth of being received by his family, using a site of movement to consider the rare relief of arriving.
Violet Love’s current work carries the mark of an artist who has earned independence through repetition and risk. The supplied release note identifies her as the writer and sole recorder of “Airport Road,” made at home in Grand Rapids.
That practice has a clear precedent. In a 2025 interview, Love discussed recording and mixing an earlier project in a bedroom, speaking frankly about trial, error, self-criticism, and the problem-solving required when major-studio resources are absent.
The artist’s route has also passed through punk groups in Las Vegas and indie folk in Arizona before Michigan became the base for her solo work.
The immediate reference points named for this release are Aries and Quadeca, two artists associated with restless writing and self-directed creative identities.
That pairing does not authorise a neat genre label for “Airport Road,” and none is offered in the assigned material. It does, however, place Love in an independent-pop conversation where diaristic writing and home-studio authorship carry real cultural value.
In this context, the credit line matters. A solo-made release can feel less like a claim to mastery than an account of responsibility: every decision belongs somewhere, and someone has to live with it.
Love has described the release as being about finding a place to belong and refusing to turn back. In an August interview, she made the personal source plain, linking the idea to her proposal and the chance to become part of her fiancé’s family.
The directness is notable. Here, the declared focus is acceptance. There is pleasure in that choice, but also an adult steadiness. Belonging is presented as something recognised, then actively kept.
The title helps this thought take shape. Airport Road suggests motion, gates, arrivals, departures, public signs, and the faintly comic fact that even a sweeping private feeling may attach itself to a very ordinary route.
It recalls the economy of minimalist public art, where a plain form gathers force because it has been placed with care. A road sign is practical first, intimate later.
Love’s stated idea works in a related way. The setting is not a palace or a sweeping cinematic vista. It is a named stretch of road, close enough to daily life to hold a shared future without ornament.
There is also a welcome refusal of the suffering-as-proof habit that can narrow independent songwriting. Love’s earlier public comments have dealt with doubt, trauma, and hard personal reckonings.
“Airport Road” appears to move from that inward pressure toward an open hand. The press material calls it happy, upbeat, and made for summer playlists, yet the deeper value is not seasonal brightness by itself.
The record’s premise gives that brightness a reason. A good summer song does not need to deny difficulty. It can acknowledge that joy carries history, then leave the windows down anyway.
Violet Love Draws A Map Of Belonging On “Airport Road”
Because Love wrote and recorded the release alone, the production credit becomes part of the story. There are no named collaborators, no detailed instrument list, no quoted lyric, and no supplied mix notes.
That absence matters because criticism should not invent a drum pattern merely to sound authoritative. What can be said is that the record’s personal centre and its method of creation are closely aligned.
A song about finding a place in another family comes from an artist who has chosen to make the work from her own room, placing intimacy at the level of process as well as subject.
For listeners looking for emerging independent pop with a sincere human premise, “Airport Road” offers a promising point of entry.
Its stated summer-playlist appeal gives it an accessible frame, while the proposal-and-family context keeps it from drifting into empty seasonal cheer.
The single asks a quieter question than its title might first suggest. If movement is so often celebrated, what happens when the bravest act is deciding that you have arrived?
Don Rello Reckons With Fatherhood And Loss On ‘I Don’t Watch TV III’
At the close of a difficult year, a room can become a ledger. In Norcross, Don Rello used such a room to make ‘I Don’t Watch TV III’, an explicit Hip-Hop/Rap album released through RAPREC.
The seven-track release lasts 24 minutes and 41 seconds, a compact frame for an artist who calls it his sharpest and cleanest work while admitting that its feeling runs deep.
This album review begins with a home studio asked to contain loss and the arrival of a daughter.
‘I Don’t Watch TV III’ is the third instalment of a series that has followed Don Rello across several years. Apple Music lists ‘I Don’t Watch TV II’ in 2018, alongside Only Time Will Tell (2019), Mudweiser (2021), and The Spiraling Conundrum (2022).
The new record reads as a chapter in an ongoing self-portrait. Its title suggests an artist choosing attention over distraction.
Rello became a father, lost a close friend, stayed close to someone he loved who faced persistent struggle, and took a needed trip.
Such events cannot be reduced to a checklist, yet their proximity supplies the album’s emotional premise. This is independent Hip-Hop/Rap informed by private reckoning rather than public spectacle.
Rello offers a slower proposition, patience, revision, and the discipline of sitting with experience until it speaks plainly.
That patience appears in the making. Rello reports roughly a year of testing, mixing and fine-tuning at his home studio, guided by the belief that every part of an album deserves equal care.
Without direct session credits or a bar-by-bar listening record, it would be careless to assign instruments or vocal choices that have not been documented.
The stated method describes a producer-minded approach in which cohesion is planned, not added at the last minute. His label, found through mutual friends, receives credit for helping shape the artistic direction.
The available track titles point toward the questions occupying this phase of Rello’s writing: Drowning Even More, Talking Heads, Is It Worth It?, Went Running To Find, Devil In The Same Dress, Windhitdatreez, Is It Worth It? and Went Running To Find, include Donski, with the spoken words by Donski on the latter.
Their presence gives the record a second human presence at points where the project otherwise remains rooted in personal processing.
A fitting artistic parallel comes from the Dutch vanitas still life, where fruit, flowers, a glass and a reminder of mortality sit in the same small frame.
Rello’s documented year holds a related emotional arrangement. Birth and bereavement occupy the same home, not as opposites that cancel each other but as facts demanding simultaneous attention.
The Norcross studio becomes the equivalent of that table, a working space where happiness, pain and oddness can coexist without being polished into one mood.
It explains why the artist calls this his broadest range of life experience so far.
Don Rello Reckons With Fatherhood And Loss On ‘I Don’t Watch TV III’
Rello’s cited influences widen the frame. He names the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main St., Donny Hathaway’s “You’re Gonna Make It,”Earl Sweatshirt and Uncle Al’s “Your Dying,” and Clipse’s Let God Sort Em Out as recordings that sent him back to reconsider his life in the studio.
The references point toward an ear for pressure, survival, confrontation and form. They do not claim that I Don’t Watch TV III repeats any one source.
They establish a lineage that uses the album for hard questions and close attention to voice.
For readers seeking independent Hip-Hop/Rap album criticism that centres process as much as product, Don Rello’s new release offers a valuable case.
Its significance rests in making a concise record amid irreversible change. Rello also performed in Patrick Zae’s “High Notes on Krog” series last year, an appearance he calls an honour among artists and creators.
That detail places the record beside a local creative community. How many rap albums can hold a home, a grief, a new child and a working practice in the same frame without asking any one of them to disappear?
Julia Appleton Isn’t Ready To Let Go On "Hangin On"
A house is rarely empty when the final box leaves it. Its rooms retain the pressure of footsteps, small arguments, old habits, and the quiet choreography of people who once knew where every cup belonged.
The removal of those things can feel strangely physical, as if the body has been asked to acknowledge a fact the mind has already accepted.
Julia Appleton begins from that unsettled ground on “Hangin On,” an indie-folk and Americana single about the difficult interval between holding close and releasing what cannot be kept.
Written after she helped her boyfriend pack up and sell his childhood home, the song attends to departure without trying to make departure neat.
Appleton now works from North Alabama, near Lake Guntersville, where she is building a homestead with her partner. That present-day act of putting down roots gives “Hangin On” an added ache.
The song treats a home as a container for family memory, private history, and the selves people once were inside its walls.
Appleton’s path has moved through the Johnny Mercer Songwriters Project, whose 2019 participant list included her, and the Alliance Theatre’s Reiser Atlanta Artists Lab.
An ordinary doorway, box, or hand on a rope can carry the weight of a scene in this writer’s care.
The single opens a new chapter in an already layered creative life. Appleton’s materials frame her current work around love, grief, family, resilience, and starting again.
“Hangin On” is not an argument for remaining fixed in place. It admits that moving forward may be right and still hurt. Modern Americana often reaches for open roads and big horizons.
Appleton looks instead at the final afternoon indoors, where change has no grand vista and no easy applause. That close focus carries authority.
The track’s central image, holding a rope until the hands bleed, gives Appleton’s writing a corporeal force. It is a plain metaphor, but it opens into several forms of loss at once: the pull of a familiar place, the fear of becoming disloyal to the past, and the reluctance to admit that a chapter has closed.
Appleton does not romanticise attachment. She lets it look exhausting. That distinction gives the single its dignity. Grief in this rendering is not a grand performance.
It is friction, repetition, and the soreness of refusing to release something that has already begun to leave.
Producer Aaron, also known as aaronn Campbell, surrounds that pressure with warm acoustic textures and a spacious cinematic finish. The work gives the song room around its closely held premise, allowing a domestic story to carry wider weight.
Appleton’s conversational approach suits the material. Instead of a polished speech about closure, she permits uncertainty to remain in the writing.
The result recalls the conversation after the work is done, when the house is bare and no one is ready to turn the key.
There is an instructive kinship with Louise Bourgeois’s Cells, enclosed sculptural rooms made from doors, fabric, metal, and found remnants. Bourgeois made private memory feel architectural, as though emotion could be entered and circled.
Appleton works on a smaller scale, but “Hangin On” shares the instinct for making enclosure expressive. Her house is a pressure chamber in which attachment reveals its cost.
Image Credit: Lily Martin
A pop instinct might rush toward release; Appleton studies the hand clenched a moment too long.
That patience is the release’s strongest quality. It leaves space for listeners who have sold a family house, ended a relationship with care, moved cities, or simply watched a former version of themselves recede.
The single’s restraint may make it especially resonant for people who value narrative detail over instant uplift. It also signals an artist comfortable with ambiguity, a quality that can carry a writing career far beyond one release.
Appleton does not offer closure as a prize for good behaviour. She treats it as a practice, sometimes awkward and often incomplete.
For Music Arena Gh readers interested in contemporary Americana songwriting shaped by memory, place, and emotional candour, “Hangin On” introduces a thoughtful voice at a compelling point of renewal.
The song asks no one to applaud the pain of leaving. It asks us to recognise why the grip existed, and to consider what kind of courage appears when the hand finally opens.
When a room has given us so much of ourselves, how do we leave without pretending it meant less than it did?
The terms used for kinship are supposed to sound safe. They appear in birthday cards, in carefully rehearsed introductions, in the half-spoken belief that proximity must equal care.
Shannon Darcy lets that assumption fray at the edges on “Treasures And Gold“, a single that faces the ache of receiving conditional comfort from a person who ought to have offered steadier ground.
Her title carries its own quiet intelligence: precious things can lose their lustre when disappointment keeps returning to appraise them. That thought lends this alternative pop rock release an unusual gravity.
Darcy does not treat pain as a device for easy drama. She sits with the residue of broken promises and asks what family language means once trust has thinned.
The Essex artist’s recent catalogue already contains a public, unruly side. On her official site, Darcy described January 2026’s “Control Freak” as a sarcastic answer to people who attempted to dictate her choices, while the 2025 EP “Just Worried Because” was presented as a personal sequence with a story running through it.
“Treasures And Gold” does not abandon that self-possession. It changes the angle. The earlier release pushes back; this one takes stock of what resistance costs when the person causing the damage is still held close by family ties.
For an independent British singer-songwriter working across alternative pop, pop rock and pop punk, that turn gives her growing catalogue a clearer emotional range.
“Treasures And Gold” is described as Darcy’s letter to someone she has struggled to confront directly. Such framing matters because the record does not reduce the relationship to a neat division between love and injury.
It admits that affection can remain present even after support has failed repeatedly. That unsettled middle ground gives the single its particular force.
Darcy writes from the position of someone learning that shared blood is not a permanent excuse for harmful behaviour, a thought likely to land with listeners who have tried to make peace with the limits of a parent, relative, or guardian.
Taken together, those details suggest an architecture that begins in contained reflection and then allows pressure to accumulate. The reported theatrical lift fits the subject because the song’s argument is not a passing irritation.
It is the delayed recognition that a familiar absence can shape a person’s sense of worth. The arrangement does not need empty flash when the narrative already carries so much weight.
Darcy’s subject recalls the domestic reckoning at the heart of Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. The connection is not one of plot, but of pressure.
Ibsen’s drama asks what happens when the rules of a home are revealed as rules designed by someone else. Darcy’s single returns to a related question from a different emotional room: how does a person speak honestly when love, obligation and repeated hurt have been knotted together for years?
The answer offered here is neither revenge nor tidy closure. The song’s rawness comes from its refusal to pretend that naming the damage will immediately remove it.
That restraint is important in a pop context that can sometimes confuse emotional volume with emotional precision. Darcy’s stated aim is comfort for people who recognise the same pattern in their own lives, and the single’s premise makes room for that without turning recovery into a slogan.
Her point is smaller, tougher and more humane. Somebody else’s failure to show up cannot be used as a final measure of the person left waiting.
There is a useful tangential thought here: difficult families frequently leave behind no obvious evidence, only habits of apology, over-explanation and the instinct to lower one’s own expectations.
Shannon Darcy Gets Personal on Treasures and Gold
A song can give those habits a shape before the listener has found a name for them.
For listeners seeking an emotionally candid alternative pop rock single, “Treasures And Gold” offers an artist who understands that vulnerability has its own discipline.
Darcy’s official release page places the track across major streaming services, while her broader catalogue shows a writer willing to use anger and exposure as separate colours rather than interchangeable poses.
This is an effective direction for an emerging UK artist, particularly one whose work already moves between pop punk bite and more intimate songwriting.
The record leaves an appealing tension intact: it offers recognition, yet it does not pretend recognition is the same as repair.
At its most affecting, “Treasures And Gold” asks listeners to reconsider what they have been taught to preserve at any cost.
When history asks for loyalty but the present keeps naming hurt, how long can silence remain the family’s most expensive heirloom?
