Unpacking "SORRY" by The Alessandro Savino Project.
The Alessandro Savino Project serves up a new single, “SORRY,” and it arrives feeling less like a song and more like a strange, beautiful confession made under the low-wattage glow of a bar sign after everyone else has gone home. The word itself is so insufficient, isn’t it? A pebble of a word meant to fill a canyon. But this track isn’t the pebble; it’s the hollow, echoing space.
It’s built on a polished Pop/Jazz chassis, and all the parts are impeccable. Andrea Ferrario’s saxophone glides in not with swagger, but with a kind of weary resignation. The Hammond organ from Clemente Ferrari gives the whole affair a texture that reminds me, oddly, of the worn velvet on old cinema seats—plush, but haunted by a thousand departed dramas. Alessandro Savino and Oona Rea’s voices weave together, a slow dance between pleading and receding, a dialogue where one party seems to be dissolving into air.
Unpacking “SORRY” by The Alessandro Savino Project.
The performance here isn’t about fireworks; it’s about the quiet, devastating implosion of a fantasy. The apology at the core of “SORRY” is a profound act of emotional abdication. It’s the sound of someone realizing they were cast as the hero in a story they could never truly live up to, finally taking off the costume and admitting they were just a pretender in someone else’s fairytale. Roberto Ruvinetti’s guitar doesn’t wail; it just limps along the fault lines.
The track never really resolves. It hangs in the air, saturated with a remorse so complete it leaves no room for forgiveness. It just is. And in the silence after it ends, you’re left to wonder: what sound does the day after an apology like this even make?
Nastea Unleashes A Raw Rock Ballad Of Liberation "Never Come Back"
There are moments in life that feel like a reset button. A clean slate. A new beginning. For Anastasiia Nerutsa, the powerhouse vocalist of the German-Ukrainian band Nastea, that moment came when she fled the war in her homeland and found refuge in Frankfurt.
But her journey of liberation didn’t stop there. It continues with the band’s upcoming single, “Never Come Back,” a raw and heartfelt rock ballad that captures the struggle of breaking free from a toxic relationship.
Nastea is a band born from resilience. Centered around Nerutsa’s commanding vocals, the group brings together musicians with diverse backgrounds in Rock, Pop, Jazz, and Soul.
This fusion of influences creates a distinctive sound that is both emotionally deep and energetically punchy.
Her debut single, “Pretty Face,” has already garnered enthusiastic praise from listeners and bloggers in the USA and UK, setting the stage for their highly anticipated debut album.
Now, with “Never Come Back,” Nastea is ready to show another side of their artistry. The song is a departure from the neo-soul and modern pop of their previous release, venturing into the territory of a rock ballad.
It’s a bold move that showcases the band’s versatility and their willingness to explore the full spectrum of human emotion.
The theme of “Never Come Back” is one that will resonate with many: the difficult but ultimately empowering decision to leave a toxic relationship. The lyrics, which are not yet public, are said to be a raw and honest portrayal of this struggle.
The music, a powerful rock ballad, provides the perfect backdrop for Nerutsa’s emotive vocals to soar. The band, composed of Anastasiia Nerutsa (vocals), Holger Jens Lisy (guitar), and Jeha Noh, creates a sound that is both tight and expansive, giving the song a cinematic quality.
The release of “Never Come Back” is part of a larger strategy for Nastea. Following “Pretty Face,” this is the second of four singles planned for release in the coming weeks, all leading up to their debut album.
This steady stream of new music is a smart way to build momentum and keep their growing fanbase engaged. It also allows the band to showcase their range and give listeners a taste of what’s to come on the full-length record.
Nastea Unleashes A Raw Rock Ballad Of Liberation “Never Come Back”
With “Never Come Back,” Nastea is poised to continue this upward trajectory. The song’s theme of liberation from a toxic relationship is a universal one, and the band’s powerful performance is sure to connect with listeners on a deep level.
It’s a song for anyone who has ever had to make the difficult choice to walk away from something that was no longer serving them. It’s a song about finding your strength and reclaiming your power.
In a world that often feels chaotic and uncertain, music can be a source of comfort and inspiration. Nastea’s music is both. It shows how strong the human spirit is and how art can heal and change people.
With “Never Come Back,” they have created an anthem for a new generation of listeners who are not afraid to stand up for themselves and demand better.
The song is a powerful reminder that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is to never come back.
The Quiet Shame: Nom De Plume's “Circle the Dream”.
Listening to Nom De Plume’s new album, Circle the Dream, is like finding an old, intricate map for a place that doesn’t exist on any globe. This is a record for the motionless traveler, the soul pacing the perimeter of its own skull. Aris Karabelas and Michael Magee have crafted a landscape not of highways and canyons, but of the vast, contradictory terrain behind the eyes, where the greatest distances are covered by simply standing still.
The journey here is fraught. Karabelas’s voice carries the weary texture of someone who has argued with his own shadow and lost, yet still shows up for the next round. It’s an album that understands exhaustion as a fuel source. At one point, a particular guitar line hangs in the air with the strange hum of a neon sign advertising a diner that was demolished twenty years ago—a ghost of a glow, promising a warmth that is now just a memory. It’s in moments like these that the external world, with its frantic routines and hollow ambitions, dissolves into the “fever dream” the album’s narrative so acutely observes.
The Quiet Shame: Nom De Plume’s “Circle the Dream”.
This music doesn’t offer easy answers. It prods at the quiet shame of inaction and the dissonant chords of self-doubt, exploring what it means to be a lonely spectator to both the world’s madness and your own. The progressive, country-tinged arrangements coil and uncoil, building a space where resilience and resignation can share a bottle of bourbon without coming to blows.
By the end, you’re not sure if you’ve been given a guide to find home, or if you’ve just been shown the intricate patterns on the locks.
With their new single “Don’t Wait,” Wild Horse has crafted something of a beautiful contradiction. On its surface, it’s a bright, tight piece of funk-infused pop, driven by the kind of kinetic energy this East Sussex quartet is known for. It invites movement. Yet, beneath that polished, rhythmic veneer lies the quiet, chilling finality of an ending. This isn’t a song about a fight; it’s a song about the moment you realize there are no fights left to have.
The core message—an exhausted plea to just let a dead thing lie—is handled with a devastating lack of drama. There’s a particular kind of sadness in profound detachment, an emotional vacancy that’s far heavier than any shouting match. It reminds me, strangely, of the moment you notice the pattern on a well-loved teacup has been completely worn away by thousands of washes. The memory of what was there is sharp, but the thing itself is just a smooth, blank surface. Wild Horse captures that exact feeling: the recognition that the essential design of a connection has simply been erased.
Moving On: Wild Horse Crafts “Don’t Wait.”
The music, performed by Jack Baldwin, Henry Baldwin, Ed Barnes, and Jade Snowdon, brilliantly serves this emotional state. The crisp guitars and insistent beat aren’t for dancing in celebration; they are the sound of determined feet walking away on pavement. It’s the score to an act of self-preservation, a tune that says “I have to leave to remember who I was before all this.” It’s an oddly buoyant anthem for a necessary, sorrowful departure.
The track doesn’t offer catharsis in the typical sense. Instead, it offers a stark, clear-eyed liberation. It leaves you wondering, which is the heavier burden: holding onto a ghost, or being the one to finally turn out the lights?
Jacob and the Starry Eyed Shadows' "Racing on the Back Straight."
The latest from Jacob and the Starry Eyed Shadows, “Racing on the Back Straight,” performs a fantastic trick: it dresses up a full-blown existential crisis in its summer best and sends it to the beach. This Glasgow solo architect, Jacob, has constructed a Trojan horse of a track, all propulsive indie rock guitars and a pop-punk chorus so immediate it feels like you’ve known it your whole life. You’ll be tapping your steering wheel to it before the first minute is out.
Then you start to actually listen.
Suddenly, the sunshine flickers. This isn’t about open roads and carefree days; it’s about the suffocating finality of a fixed course. Jacob sings of surrendering versus fighting, of facing judgment in the stark morning light with a spent tank and a stubborn ego. The tension is palpable. The music shouts “go!” while the words murmur “what’s the point?” For some reason, it brings to mind the strange, brittle texture of spun sugar sculptures—beautiful, bright, and one wrong move from collapsing into a glittering heap. It’s the sound of holding something impossibly fragile with an unshakeable grip.
Jacob and the Starry Eyed Shadows’ “Racing on the Back Straight.”
Yet, this isn’t a funeral dirge in disguise. Hope, that stubborn little weed, pushes through every crack in the anxiety. Knowing this is the work of a single musician forging every sound makes the triumph feel more personal. The very existence of this impossibly catchy song feels like the answer to its own lyrical dilemma—an act of defiant creation against the pull of powerlessness.
It’s a shot of pure sonic joy that leaves you chewing on an odd question: are you dancing to outrun the anxiety, or is the dance itself the act of surrender the song is wrestling with?
Ava Valianti’s ‘Clean My Room’ Is A Messy Honest Look At Growing Up
“Clean My Room,” Ava Valianti‘s new single, is not like her other songs. Teenage stress is like having a bunch of clothes on the floor that you just can not bring yourself to put away.
It’s a song that admits, with a shrug and a sigh, that sometimes things are just a mess. And in that admission, it finds a strange and beautiful kind of power.
At just sixteen, Valianti has a voice that feels like it’s been around for a while, like it’s seen some things.
Since her first album in 2023, the singer-songwriter from Massachusetts has been slowly making a name for herself. “Clean My Room” is a sure step forward.
The track, her eighth single, is a preview of her debut EP, which is slated for release this fall. It’s a smart move, dropping a song this strong ahead of a larger project. It’s a statement of intent, a declaration that she’s not here to play it safe.
The song opens with a simple, almost hesitant, melody. Valianti’s vocals are front and center, intimate and confessional. She’s not singing to a stadium; she’s singing to you, from the other side of a bedroom door.
The words are a bunch of small, clear details that together paint a lively picture of a room and a life that are in chaos. At least for a short time, it is a place where you can block out the outside world with all its tasks and demands.
The song’s central idea, the act of cleaning a room, becomes a metaphor for the much larger, much more daunting task of sorting out your own head.
As the song progresses, it builds. The instrumentation swells, the vocals become more layered, more insistent.
It’s a slow burn, a gradual crescendo that mirrors the way that small anxieties can build into something overwhelming.
But there’s a release in that climax, a sense of catharsis. It’s the feeling of finally letting go, of admitting that you don’t have it all figured out. And in that moment of surrender, there’s a kind of freedom.
Valianti has said that the song comes from a “really personal place,” and you can hear that in every note. It’s a song about the pressure to be perfect, to present a flawless façade to the world.
But it’s also a song about the beauty of imperfection, the power of embracing the mess. It’s a reminder that it’s okay to not be okay, that it’s okay to have a messy room and a messy life.
It’s a message that will resonate with anyone who’s ever felt the weight of expectation, anyone who’s ever longed for a space where they can just be themselves, in all their messy glory.
The comparisons to artists like Billie Eilish and Lana Del Rey are easy to make, and not entirely inaccurate. There’s a similar sense of introspection, a willingness to explore the darker corners of the human experience. But Valianti has a voice that is distinctly her own.
Ava Valianti’s ‘Clean My Room’ Is A Messy Honest Look At Growing Up
There’s a warmth to her music, a sense of hope that shines through even in the darkest moments. She’s not just a chronicler of teenage angst; she’s a storyteller, a poet of the everyday. She finds the extraordinary in the ordinary, the profound in the mundane.
‘Clean My Room’ is a song that will stay with you long after the final note has faded. It’s a song that will make you feel seen, understood.
It’s a song that will make you want to go to your own room, close the door, and just be. And in a world that is constantly demanding our attention, our performance, our perfection, that is a powerful thing indeed.
You should keep an eye on Ava Valianti as an artist. Her voice is only going to get stronger. We can tell that her first EP will be great based on the song “Clean My Room.”
It is an honest, messy, and ultimately hopeful look at growing up, which can be beautiful, scary, and exciting.
Angie Newman's 'Loïc': A Fragile Dance of Attraction and Doubt
Angie Newman’s “Loïc” arrives with a quiet power, a gentle unfurling of a story that feels both intensely personal and strangely familiar.
The French singer-songwriter, a student of philosophy, brings a thoughtful and nuanced perspective to her music, and this latest single is no exception.
It’s a song that doesn’t shout for attention but rather invites you to lean in closer, to listen to the spaces between the notes.
The track, is a departure from the slightly more guarded tone of her previous single, “Cigarette.” Where “Cigarette” explored a hazy, undefined connection, “Loïc” feels more immediate, more present in its emotional landscape.
The song paints a picture of a nascent romance, a connection that is as beautiful as it is fragile.
The lyrics, with their allusions to the sea and the Breton coast, create a vivid backdrop for this story of tentative steps and unspoken fears.
Newman’s voice is the heart of the song. It’s a soft, almost ethereal instrument that she wields with remarkable control. She never pushes for effect, never oversells the emotion.
Instead, she lets the melody and the words do the work, her delivery a study in restraint and sincerity. The production, a collaboration with Dante Trinita, is similarly understated.
It’s a minimalist arrangement that gives Newman’s voice the space it needs to shine. The gentle instrumentation, with its subtle electronic touches, creates a sense of intimacy, as if you’re eavesdropping on a private conversation.
The central theme of “Loïc” is the inherent duality of new love. It’s about the thrill of the initial spark, the joy of spontaneous moments, but it’s also about the anxiety that comes with not knowing what the future holds.
The song captures that feeling of being caught between a desire to hold on and a fear of things falling apart. It’s a feeling that many of us have experienced, that sense of being on the edge of something wonderful and terrifying all at once.
What makes “Loïc” so effective is its honesty. Newman doesn’t shy away from the messy, contradictory emotions that come with falling for someone.
She acknowledges the doubts and the insecurities, the moments of hesitation that can be just as powerful as the moments of passion. It’s this willingness to explore the gray areas of human connection that makes her music so compelling.
In a way, “Loïc” is a song that asks more questions than it answers. It doesn’t offer any easy resolutions or tidy conclusions. Instead, it leaves you with a sense of a story that is still unfolding, a relationship that is still in the process of becoming.
Angie Newman’s ‘Loïc’: A Fragile Dance of Attraction and Doubt
And in that ambiguity, there is a certain kind of beauty. It’s a reminder that love is not always a straight line, that it’s often a winding, unpredictable path.
And sometimes, the most meaningful moments are the ones that are the most uncertain.
Angie Newman is an artist who is not afraid to be vulnerable, to explore the quiet corners of the human heart.
With “Loïc,” she has crafted a song that is both a poignant reflection on the nature of love and a testament to her own growing artistry.
It’s a song that will stay with you long after the last note has faded, a gentle echo of a story that is still being written.
"Adagio Grooves": Peter Xifaras's Seamless Blend of Eras.
Peter Xifaras’s new album, “Adagio Grooves”, treats musical history less like a timeline and more like a room where everyone is invited to the same party. Initially, The Budapest Symphony lays out the fine china and polishes the silver, establishing a world of symphonic grace. It’s a sound full of discipline and grand, beautiful spaces—the kind of music that makes you feel you should be wearing a much better coat.
But then, the other guests arrive. Scott Jackson’s drums don’t barge in; they find a pocket in the air and settle in. Max Gerl’s bass begins a warm, intelligent conversation with the cellos, and Justin Chart’s saxophone enters not as a soloist, but as the ghost in the machine—a soulful, modern voice gliding through these classical structures. The album’s trick, and its deepest pleasure, is this seamless transition from formalwear to a state of sublime, head-nodding ease.
“Adagio Grooves”: Peter Xifaras’s Seamless Blend of Eras.
The effect is strangely like finding a secret, manicured garden in the middle of a bustling metropolis—you are simultaneously aware of the intricate, deliberate design and the organic, pulsing life all around it. It reminds me of something I can’t quite place, perhaps the specific feeling of cool marble under bare feet on a hot day. The contrast is the whole point; the groove feels groovier because it has bloomed from such hallowed ground.
These six tracks don’t just bridge two worlds; they suggest the bridge was an illusion all along. The album doesn’t ask for your full attention, but it slyly earns it, leaving behind a lingering calm that feels both earned and effortless. What happens when structure and soul stop competing and simply coexist?
Dive Into The Torment: Grey Jacks' Gripping "Numbers Game."
With their single “Numbers Game,” Grey Jacks has managed to build a deceptively inviting room inside a house that’s actively on fire. The foundation here is a slithering, almost hypnotic rock groove, driven by the lock-step pulse of Teddy Minton on drums and Howard Rabach on bass. It has that cool, coiled tension reminiscent of late-90s Radiohead, a sound that gets in your bones and makes you sway. But something is deeply wrong here.
It’s what Kevin Dudley layers on top—a banjo here, a ghostly wail of lap steel there—that really skewers the listener. The effect is uncanny, like finding a rust-pocked revolver wrapped in a dusty silk scarf. This isn’t history retold; it’s a haunting channeled directly from 1966.
Dive Into The Torment: Grey Jacks’ Gripping “Numbers Game.”
We are listening to a breakdown, sung not as a scream, but as a bitter, crooning dare. Jacks’ vocal performance is chillingly composed, inhabiting the voice of a woman finding a disturbing peace in the center of her own disintegration. Buoyed by Valeria Stewart’s haunting harmonies, the song traps you in its logic. The feeling is less like hearing a story and more like staring at a Francis Bacon portrait—the anatomy of a pop song is all there, but twisted into a shape of beautiful, unbearable agony.
It’s a song about being invalidated, invisible, and locked in a tormenting cycle with an antagonist who won’t even grant you the release of a final collapse. It doesn’t ask for sympathy; it simply presents its cold, defiant reality. What do you do when the only sanctuary left is the heart of the storm itself?
"Ain't Got Nothing But Time": Electric High's Glorious Rock Paradox.
With their single “Ain’t Got Nothing But Time,” Electric High presents a glorious contradiction. Here we have a Norwegian rock band – a collective known for high-voltage, grit-under-the-fingernails swagger – serving up a sermon on the profound beauty of… doing nothing in particular. It’s a curious thing, like finding a Zen mantra scrawled on the back of a well-worn leather jacket. It feels both entirely out of place and perfectly at home.
The groove is a confident saunter, not a sprint. You can feel the combined heft of PV Staff, Olav Iversen, Marius Mørch, Einride Torvik, and Tor Helge Opdahl moving as one solid entity. The track doesn’t build with frantic energy; it occupies its space with the unhurried force of a river that knows it will eventually reach the sea. I was reminded, for some reason, of the slow, deliberate work of a 17th-century clockmaker, painstakingly crafting a single gear, not because a deadline looms, but because the gear demands it. That’s the feeling here: craftsmanship without the anxiety of a ticking clock.
“Ain’t Got Nothing But Time”: Electric High’s Glorious Rock Paradox.
In a world that screams for optimization and hacks to reclaim seconds, this song is a permission slip to let the calendar burn. It’s a head-nodding piece of rebellion that suggests true power isn’t in managing every minute, but in realizing you own all of them, to be spent wisely or wasted beautifully. It pushes back against the modern chaos not with a roar of anger, but with a supremely confident shrug.
This is rock ‘n’ roll that doesn’t demand your immediate attention. It will wait. What, then, is the more defiant act: to smash a guitar against the wall, or to simply unplug it and take a nap?
Kansas City’s TYYE has delivered “whole thing,” a single that glides into your ears with the frictionless cool of a late-night drive but leaves behind the kind of emotional residue that sticks to your ribs. The R&B production is impeccably smooth, a sleek chassis of polished beats and pop sensibilities; The Weeknd taught it how to dress for the city, and a hint of Glass Animals’ humid, gooey synths gives it a peculiar warmth. It’s designed to be compulsively listenable.
And it is. But peel back that glossy veneer and you find a heart beating erratically.
This isn’t a song about simple pining; it’s an ode to radioactive devotion. The kind of all-in infatuation that once made watch dials glow alluringly in the dark, both brilliant and a little bit dangerous to the person holding them. TYYE captures the terror of offering up your entire world, your “whole thing,” while knowing you might just be a scenic overlook on someone else’s journey. There’s a desperate plea here, a rejection of casualness that feels almost primal. The slick, commercial sound feels like a beautiful, fragile container for a feeling that’s about to boil over.
Beyond the Groove: TYYE Delivers “whole thing.”
It’s the paradox of the track that lingers. The groove is laid-back, almost nonchalant, but the lyrical core is anything but. It’s the sonic equivalent of smiling fixedly at a party while your mind is screaming. A demand for everything, wrapped in a melody that asks for nothing but a replay.
You’re left with a question that hangs in the air long after the beat fades: can a love that wants the whole universe ever avoid collapsing under its own weight?
Big O & Tranzformer Craft Sonic Duality on Dichotomy
Sometimes the most compelling art emerges from the tension between opposing forces. Orlando Turner, known professionally as Big O, and San Diego’s Tranzformer have built their third collaborative effort around this very principle.
“Dichotomy” arrives as a 42-minute meditation on musical opposites, where London’s refined soul meets California’s gritty underground aesthetic.
The album opens with Big O’s “Glass Butterfly,” a track that immediately establishes the producer’s signature approach.
Spacious arrangements shimmer with nostalgic warmth, each element carefully placed like brushstrokes on canvas. Turner’s background shows here.
This is someone who started crafting beats at 13 and has spent years absorbing influences across Atlanta, Birmingham, Orlando, Miami, the Bay Area, Los Angeles, and even Germany before settling in London. His production feels lived-in, weathered by experience yet polished by technique.
Tranzformer responds with “Gravy,” and the shift is immediate. Where Big O favors space and breath, his San Diego counterpart packs every corner with intricate details.
Robust bass lines anchor delicate vocal snippets while maintaining that punk rock edge that has defined his work since 2008. The track feels like controlled chaos, a musical representation of the album’s central theme.
This back-and-forth continues throughout “Dichotomy,” with each producer taking turns to showcase their individual vision. Big O’s contributions to tracks 1, 3, 5, 7, and 9 maintain a consistent thread of soulful sophistication.
“Trade It All” and “Count On Me” demonstrate his ability to create emotional depth through restraint. His arrangements breathe, allowing each sample and instrument to occupy its own sonic space without crowding.
Tranzformer’s offerings tell a different story. “Inspiration” and “Cali” reveal an artist unafraid of complexity, layering elements until they form dense musical collages.
His approach recalls the early days of hip-hop production, when creativity meant pushing equipment beyond its intended limits. There’s something beautifully rebellious about his method, a refusal to conform to conventional ideas about space and clarity.
The album’s true magic happens when these two approaches converge. “Culmination” brings together L.O.U., P-Rawb, and cuts from Decksterror in what feels like a summit meeting of underground talent.
Mixed and mastered by Argy W, the track demonstrates how Big O and Tranzformer’s contrasting styles can create something neither could achieve alone.
The production shifts between Turner’s expansive vision and Tranzformer’s dense arrangements, creating a dynamic that keeps listeners engaged throughout.
“Fed Up (Remix)” serves as another highlight, featuring guest verses from Fashawn and G-Rocka with Tranzformer handling hook duties.
Big O’s production provides the foundation while G-Rocka’s mixing and mastering adds the final polish. The track exemplifies the album’s collaborative spirit, with each contributor bringing their strengths to create something cohesive yet multifaceted.
Perhaps most intriguing is “Run It Up,” which closes the album with a solo verse from Benny Canales, formerly known as 3D.
Mixed and mastered by Tranzformer, the track represents the duo’s ability to create unified soundscapes when working in tandem. The production feels like a conversation between two distinct voices, each responding to and building upon the other’s ideas.
The album’s title proves prophetic. “Dichotomy” explores the spectrum of human experiences through musical means, presenting contrasts that somehow feel complementary.
Big O’s London-based perspective brings international sophistication, while Tranzformer’s San Diego roots provide street-level authenticity. The fact that they created this music across continents, collaborating via internet, adds another layer to the album’s exploration of distance and connection.
What makes “Dichotomy” particularly compelling is its refusal to resolve these tensions. Rather than finding middle ground, Big O and Tranzformer celebrate their differences.
Big O & Tranzformer Craft Sonic Duality on Dichotomy
The album suggests that opposition can be productive, that creative friction generates heat and light. This philosophy extends beyond music into broader questions about collaboration, identity, and artistic expression.
The production quality throughout maintains professional standards while preserving each artist’s distinctive character.
Big O’s tracks retain their spacious, soulful quality, while Tranzformer’s contributions keep their dense, energetic feel. The album flows naturally despite these stylistic shifts, suggesting careful sequencing and mutual respect between collaborators.
“Dichotomy” stands as evidence that hip-hop production continues to evolve through cross-pollination. Big O and Tranzformer have created something that honours the genre’s sample-based traditions while pushing into new territory.
Their third collaboration feels like the culmination of a creative partnership that has found its rhythm through embracing rather than minimizing differences.
The album leaves listeners with questions about the nature of artistic collaboration and the value of maintaining individual identity within collective work.
Behind the Zip: Lessons in Crime Unpacks Guilt in "Reply ASAP"
Lessons in Crime’s new single, “Reply ASAP,” bounces along with the kind of infectious energy you’d want for a summer road trip, but it’s a smokescreen for a uniquely modern state of inertia. It feels less like a rock song and more like one of those old pneumatic message tubes from a 1940s department store—all zip and kinetic energy on the outside, but inside, a little capsule of desperate, static guilt is stuck somewhere deep within the walls, between floors. The song perfectly captures the feeling of knowing you should, you must, you want to respond, but the signal from brain to fingertips has been inexplicably severed.
Liam Schwisberg and Paolo Pace have crafted an anthem for the ghost in the machine of our own making. Over shimmering synths and a resolute guitar line that chugs forward with a confidence the narrator desperately lacks, we are invited into a cycle of self-sabotage. Lyrically, we’re stranded. The Ottawa duo articulate that quicksand of digital obligation with startling clarity—the paralysis born from the simple, crushing weight of expectation. For a self-produced track, its sonic landscape is expansive, blending orchestral hints with clean pop architecture, a contrast that heightens the internal messiness of being so capable and yet so completely stuck.
Credit: Photo by Alex Henkelman
This isn’t a song that offers a solution. It’s a diagnostic scan. It holds up a perfectly-produced mirror to our own inertia, reflecting the silent scream behind a screen that’s gone dark. It validates the exhaustion of performing connection when your own batteries are dead.
The track ends, and the silence it leaves behind is loud. That little red notification bubble on your phone seems to glow a bit brighter, a bit more knowingly. It doesn’t ask for an answer; it just makes you wonder, who is waiting for you to break through the static?
There’s a peculiar, soil-and-metal chill to Rubanq’s new single, “Bury Me Deep.” From the first few sparse piano keys, you’re not so much listening to a song as you are being lowered into its world—a quiet, frostbitten landscape where the roads are empty and the sun is just a rumor. The Swedish songwriter operates in that stark territory between grunge’s raw-nerve honesty and Americana’s weary storytelling, creating a sound that feels both vast and claustrophobically intimate.
The track’s narrative doesn’t scream its despair; it exhales it. This isn’t the sound of fighting against the darkness, but of becoming so acquainted with it that you offer it a seat and a drink. Rubanq’s voice isn’t polished; it’s a cracked and weathered thing, delivering lines about cosmic alienation and disillusionment with the kind of exhausted resignation that is somehow more unsettling than outright rage. There is no struggle for a final redemption here, only the frank acceptance of an end.
“Bury Me Deep” by Rubanq: The Grim Lullaby.
Listening to it, I was suddenly reminded of the eerie serenity of Iron Age bog bodies, pulled from the peat after millennia, unsettlingly at peace. A complete surrender to the elements.
This is the strange power of “Bury Me Deep.” It presents oblivion not as a terror, but as a final, comforting weight, like a heavy blanket in a cold room. The track offers no easy answers or glimmers of manufactured hope. Instead, it holds a mirror to a profound exhaustion and finds a kind of grace within it. It’s a beautifully grim lullaby for the worn-out soul.
What, after all, is more human than the desire to finally rest?
Physics of the Heart: Mike Stewart Theory's "It Reaches Us" Review
Mike Stewart Theory’s new single, “It Reaches Us,” feels less like a piece of music and more like a strange meteorological event happening inside your head. You’re immediately dropped into a groove that has the smooth, shoulder-rolling confidence of 80s soul, but something is off in the atmosphere. The air is thick with a psychedelic haze, a sense of temporal displacement that is both unsettling and deeply hypnotic.
The architecture of this feeling is deliberate. Julio Figueroa’s drums are the anchor, the steady, human heartbeat in the void. But floating above it is Marcus Praed’s Moog synth, which doesn’t just play notes; it emits gravitational waves. It hums like a relic from an abandoned starship, creating that woozy, Indietronic shimmer that makes everything feel slightly unstuck from reality.
Physics of the Heart: Mike Stewart Theory’s “It Reaches Us” Review
Lyrically, the track pulls off a brilliant, heartbreaking trick. It equates the ache of a past relationship to starlight—light from a source that may no longer exist, still traveling an impossible distance to land in your eyes. This isn’t nostalgia. This is physics. The idea, born from witnessing an eclipse, is baked into the song’s sound. Mike Stewart’s vocal performance has the quality of someone trying to describe the uncanny, pewter-colored light of a midday sun blotted out by the moon. It’s a quiet awe mixed with the creeping dread that the natural order has been suspended just for you.
The fallout of a love affair is arriving now, years late, a package delivered to the wrong address at the right time. The energy is real, its source long gone, but its effect is only just beginning.
How do you mourn something that, for you, hasn’t even finished dying yet?
Kavita Baliga’s “Lost in the Dark” Is A Song For The Times
Kavita Baliga, a name that might be new to some, is not new to the music scene.
A classically trained soprano, she has lent her voice to Bollywood soundtracks and has been a choir conductor. Now, she steps into a new arena with her latest single, “Lost in the Dark.”
The track is a bold and refreshing revival of the 1980s power ballad, a genre that many of us hold dear.
But this is not just a throwback; it’s a contemporary re-imagination of a sound that defined a generation.
When the song starts, there is a dreamy part with Baliga’s voice flowing over a bed of acoustic sounds. Slowly building up, it has a soft start that pulls you in.
The lyrics, penned by Baliga herself, speak of chasing a flame, of feeling a pull at the heart, of change. It’s a sentiment that resonates in today’s world, a world that often feels heavy and unjust.
As Baliga says, “In today’s turbulent unjust world, it’s a reminder that music can make us feel joyful, empowered, and alive.”
And that’s exactly what “Lost in the Dark” does. It’s a song that makes you want to close your eyes and just feel.
Baliga and 33-time Grammy-winning and -nominated producer/engineer Craig Bauer worked together on the music, which is perfect.
The famous Michael Thompson plays guitar on the track. Thompson has been on a lot of 80s hits.
When you put his powerful chords next to Baliga’s smooth singing, you get an electric dynamic conflict. She says it is a “full circle” moment that one of the people who created that sound is adding his magic to her track.
The song’s theme of nostalgia is palpable. Baliga mentions that the song started as a late-night noodling on her keyboard, a subconscious longing for the simplicity of childhood.
This sense of looking back, of yearning for a time before responsibilities, is something that many of us can relate to. But the song is not just about nostalgia; it’s also about stepping into the new.
Baliga, an Indian-American woman, is breaking new ground by writing music that was made famous by leather-clad hair bands decades ago. It’s a brave and exciting move, and one that pays off handsomely.
The track is a cinematic experience. It’s easy to imagine it playing in a movie, during a pivotal scene.
Kavita Baliga’s “Lost in the Dark” Is A Song For The Times
The lush harmonies, the soaring vocals, the powerful guitars – it all comes together to create a sound that is both grand and intimate.
The song is a reminder of the power of music to transport us, to make us feel, to connect us to something larger than ourselves.
“Lost in the Dark” is a song that will stay with you long after you’ve heard it. It’s a song that is both of its time and for all time. It’s a song that is, quite simply, a triumph.
Kavita Baliga has created something special here, a song that is a love letter to the power ballads of the past and a beacon of hope for the future.
It’s a song that reminds us that even when we’re lost in the dark, there’s always a flame to chase, a song to be found.
Dax's 'Man I Used To Be' Is a Raw, Unflinching Look in the Mirror
Dax, the Nigerian-Canadian artist known for his lyrical dexterity and rapid-fire delivery, has taken a sharp turn.
His latest single, “Man I Used To Be,” is a quiet storm, a country-tinged confessional that finds him trading his rap persona for something far more vulnerable.
Released after a self-imposed six-month hiatus from music until he was sober, the track is a powerful statement of intent.
It’s a song about shedding skin, about looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person staring back, and about the difficult, often messy, process of becoming someone new.
The song opens with a simple, almost hesitant, guitar riff. It’s a sound that immediately signals a departure from the hard-hitting beats that have defined much of Dax’s career.
His voice, when it enters, is surprisingly gentle, tinged with a weariness that speaks to the battles he’s been fighting. “I’m half the man I used to be, it’s gon’ take some getting used to me,” he sings, and the line hangs in the air, a raw and honest admission of his transformation.
It’s a bold move for an artist who has built his career on confidence and bravado, but it’s a move that pays off, drawing the listener in with its unflinching honesty.
As the song unfolds, Dax paints a vivid picture of the man he used to be, a man burdened by “generational trauma, heartbreak, addiction.” He doesn’t shy away from the darkness of his past, but he doesn’t dwell on it either.
Instead, he uses it as a backdrop to highlight the profound changes he’s undergone. “Don’t ask the reason I changed, ask yourself why you stayed the same,” he challenges, and it’s a line that cuts deep, a powerful call for self-reflection and accountability.
This isn’t just a song about his own journey; it’s a song that speaks to anyone who has ever felt stuck, anyone who has ever yearned for a fresh start.
The production, handled by Nashville hitmaker Jimmy Robbins, is masterful in its subtlety. The sparse arrangement, with its gentle guitars and understated percussion, creates a sense of intimacy, making it feel as if Dax is speaking directly to the listener.
Dax’s ‘Man I Used To Be’ Is a Raw, Unflinching Look in the Mirror
There are no flashy solos or over-the-top production tricks here. Just a man, his guitar, and his story.
It’s a testament to the power of simplicity, a reminder that sometimes the most profound statements are the ones that are whispered, not shouted.
“Man I Used To Be” is a song that will undoubtedly surprise many of Dax’s long-time fans. It’s a departure from his signature sound, a move into a new and uncharted territory.
But it’s a move that feels both natural and necessary. It’s the sound of an artist who is no longer afraid to be vulnerable, who is no longer afraid to show his scars. It’s the sound of an artist who is finally, and fully, himself.
In a musical moment that feels saturated with fleeting trends, the arrival of Riviir’s “Rap 4 Me” EP is a welcome anomaly.
The Harlem-based artist, in a surprising and potent collaboration with West Coast veteran The Game, has crafted a two-track offering that feels less like a modern release and more like a time capsule unearthed from the early 2000s.
The project, consisting of the title track and “Kochi,” is a deliberate and well-executed homage to a bygone era of hip-hop, a time when lyrical substance and soulful production were paramount.
The story behind “Rap 4 Me” is as compelling as the music itself. Riviir’s creative process, as detailed in the press release, was a journey of trial and error.
His initial vision of a lo-fi, chill-hop beat was abandoned, but not before he salvaged a string arrangement that would become the heart of the final track.
This willingness to deconstruct and rebuild, to let the music guide him, is a testament to his artistry. The final instrumental, a high-tempo affair with soulful, self-recorded background vocals, is a rich and layered affair.
Riviir’s verses, which bookend The Game’s contribution, are sharp and incisive, delivered with a confidence that belies his emerging status.
The Game’s presence on the EP is a significant co-sign, a bridge between the West Coast and East Coast sensibilities that define the project.
His verse on “Rap 4 Me” is a reminder of his enduring skill, a gruff and seasoned counterpoint to Riviir’s more youthful energy.
The chemistry between the two artists is palpable, a shared respect for the craft that shines through in their performances.
“Kochi,” the second track on the EP, has an even more fascinating backstory. The beat, a relic from Riviir’s 2014 archives, was one of the few to survive a corrupted hard drive.
This phoenix-from-the-ashes narrative adds a layer of poetic resonance to the song. The track, originally titled “Don’t Do That There,” was given a new name and a new life, a tribute to the Indian city of Kochi.
The updated lyrics and The Game’s verse transform the song into a powerful statement, a fusion of personal history and global consciousness.
Riviir And The Game’s “Rap 4 Me”: A Throwback To the Golden Age Of East Coast Hip-Hop
The decision to release music videos for both tracks on August 4, 2025, is a savvy move, a way to build momentum for Riviir’s forthcoming debut album.
The EP is a potent appetizer, a taste of what’s to come from an artist who is clearly a student of the game, but also a creator with a unique and compelling voice.
In an industry that often prioritizes style over substance, Riviir’s “Rap 4 Me” is a bold declaration of intent. It is a project that values authenticity, craftsmanship, and the enduring power of a well-told story.
It is a reminder that sometimes, the most forward-thinking music is that which looks to the past for inspiration.
The result is a release that feels both nostalgic and refreshingly new, a promising glimpse into the future of a talented artist.
Sadie Mustoe’s ‘White Flag’ is a Folk-Rock Battle Cry You Didn’t Know You Needed
Sadie Mustoe. Remember the name. The Australian singer-songwriter has been making waves in the folk scene, and her latest single, ‘White Flag,’ is a proof to her rising artistry.
This is not a song of defeat. It’s a raw, unapologetic expression of anger, a sonic venting that is as therapeutic as it is infectious.
Mustoe is taking ‘White Flag’ on the road, with a tour across Western Australia and Victoria. She’s promising a mix of intimate acoustic sets and full-band shows that will get you on your feet.
And if the single is any indication, these live performances will be electric. There’s a fire in this song that is meant to be experienced live, a collective catharsis waiting to happen.
It’s a sound that is both familiar and refreshingly new. Mustoe has a knack for combining genres in a way that feels organic and exciting.
The song compels you to shout, to move, to feel. It’s a headbanger with a heart of gold.
The production, handled by Ben Irawan and Sam Varghese, is superb. Heavy guitars and an earworm chorus are balanced with eerie, beautiful verses.
A guitar and fiddle solo adds a touch of the unexpected, a moment of pure musical joy. Every element is perfectly placed, creating a rich and dynamic composition.
She’s been writing and recording since she was 10, and her experience shows. Her previous singles, ‘Power In This World’ and ‘I Find You Interesting,’ have already garnered significant attention, with the former gaining over 21,000 streams on Spotify.
Sadie Mustoe’s ‘White Flag’ is a Folk-Rock Battle Cry You Didn’t Know You Needed
‘White Flag’ sees Mustoe pushing her creative boundaries even further. Her unique chord progressions on guitar, experimental violin techniques, and enchanting voice come together to create something truly special.
She’s backed by a band of top Melbourne musicians, and their chemistry is palpable.
This is an artist on the rise, a voice that demands to be heard. Sadie Mustoe is not just a musician; she’s a force of nature. And ‘White Flag’ is her storm.
What does it mean to wave a white flag? In the context of this song, it’s not about giving up. It’s about acknowledging the fight, the struggle, the anger.
It is about being strong when you are weak. Just remember that letting it all out is sometimes the best thing you can do.
Cali Tucker’s “Last Name” Isn’t Just Another Country Song
Cali Tucker’s latest single, “Last Name,” arrives with the force of a summer storm.
It’s a song that doesn’t just ask for your attention; it demands it. The track, a modern retelling of the Cinderella story, is a powerful statement about self-reliance and the courage to build a life on your own terms.
Tucker, the daughter of LaCosta Tucker and niece of the legendary Tanya Tucker, is no stranger to the spotlight.
But with “Last Name,” she steps out from the shadow of her famous family and claims her own space in the country music scene.
The song, co-written by Tucker, Derek Robertson, Tricia Battani, and G’harah “PK” Degeddingseze, is a masterclass in storytelling. The lyrics paint a vivid picture of a woman who is tired of waiting for a prince to rescue her.
The message is clear: you don’t need a fairy godmother to make your dreams come true. All you need is a little bit of grit and a whole lot of heart.
The music video, which premiered on Taste of Country, brings the song’s narrative to life with a playful and imaginative twist. Tucker’s mother, LaCosta, makes a special appearance as the fairy godmother, a touching nod to the family ties that have shaped her as an artist.
But this is not a story about a damsel in distress. This Cinderella is a fighter, a survivor, and a dreamer. She’s a woman who is not afraid to get her hands dirty and build her own castle, one brick at a time.
Tucker’s voice is a force of nature. It’s a voice that can be both sweet and sassy, vulnerable and strong.
It’s a voice that has been shaped by years of performing, from the hallowed stage of the Grand Ole Opry to the massive crowds at NASCAR’s Pennzoil 400. It’s a voice that is destined to be remembered.
In a world of fleeting fame and disposable pop stars, Cali Tucker is the real deal. She’s an artist who is not afraid to be herself, to speak her mind, and to chase her dreams.
With “Last Name,” she has given us a declaration of independence wrapped in melody. It’s a song that will inspire you, empower you, and make you believe that anything is possible. Cali Tucker is a name you won’t soon forget.
The single is a refreshing departure from the often-formulaic narratives of modern country music.
While many songs in the genre focus on love, heartbreak, and hometown pride, “Last Name” offers a different perspective. It’s a story about the messy, complicated, and ultimately rewarding process of self-discovery.
It’s a song for anyone who has ever felt like an outsider, a misfit, or a dreamer. It’s a song that reminds us that our greatest strength lies not in our connections to others, but in our connection to ourselves.
The production of the song is as impressive as its message. The arrangement is a perfect blend of traditional country instruments and modern pop sensibilities.
The guitars are crisp and clean, the drums are powerful and driving, and the vocals are front and center. The result is a sound that is both classic and contemporary, a sound that will appeal to a wide range of listeners.
The song’s chorus is an instant earworm, a sing-along anthem that will be stuck in your head for days. It’s a song that is destined to be a hit.
But “Last Name” offers so much depth beyond its catchy tune. It’s a song with a deep and meaningful message. It’s a song that speaks to the heart of what it means to be human.
It’s a song about the power of dreams, the importance of self-reliance, and the courage to be yourself. It’s a song that will resonate with anyone who has ever dared to dream of a better life.
Cali Tucker is an artist on the rise. She has the talent, the drive, and the vision to become one of the biggest stars in country music. With “Last Name,” she has proven that she is a force to be reckoned with.
She is an artist who is not afraid to take risks, to push boundaries, and to challenge the status quo. She is an artist who is destined for greatness. And with a name like Tucker, how could she not be?
But as she so powerfully declares in her new single, she represents far more than a family name. She is a voice. And it’s a voice that deserves to be heard.
The song’s message of empowerment is particularly relevant in today’s cultural climate. In a time when so many people are struggling to find their place, “Last Name” is a reminder that we all have the power to create our own destiny.
It’s a song that encourages us to be bold, to be brave, and to be true to ourselves. It’s a song that will inspire a new generation of dreamers to chase their own happily ever afters, on their own terms. And that is a message that is truly timeless.
Let’s talk about the sound of this track. The opening chords, a simple, clean guitar riff, immediately set a tone of introspection. It’s a sound that feels familiar, like a comfortable pair of blue jeans, but there’s an undercurrent of something more.
As Tucker’s voice enters, it’s clear that this is not a song that will stay in one place. Her delivery is confident and direct, with a hint of a southern drawl that feels both authentic and modern.
The production, helmed by a team that clearly understands the nuances of modern country, builds gradually. The addition of a steady, unobtrusive drumbeat and a subtle bassline gives the song a sense of forward momentum, a feeling of moving toward something important.
The instrumentation is a thoughtful mix of classic and contemporary country elements. The steel guitar, a staple of the genre, makes a welcome appearance, but it’s used sparingly, adding a touch of melancholy without ever feeling overwrought.
The electric guitar, on the other hand, is more prominent, with a clean, bright tone that gives the song a modern edge. The balance between these two elements is a testament to the skill of the musicians and the vision of the producers.
It’s a sound that respects the traditions of country music while also pushing the genre forward.
One of the most interesting aspects of “Last Name” is its place within the larger context of contemporary country music. In a genre that has, at times, been criticized for its lack of diversity and its reliance on formulaic songwriting, Tucker’s single feels like a breath of fresh air.
It’s a song that is not afraid to be different, to tell a story that is both personal and universal.
It’s a song that speaks to the experiences of women in a way that is both honest and empowering. It’s a song that is not afraid to be smart.
Cali Tucker’s “Last Name” Isn’t Just Another Country Song
The Cinderella theme, which could have easily felt cliché in the hands of a lesser artist, is given a fresh and modern twist. This is not a story about a woman waiting to be rescued.
This is a story about a woman who rescues herself. The glass slipper is not a symbol of a magical transformation, but a reminder of a past that she has outgrown.
The prince is not a saviour, but an equal. It’s a subtle but important distinction, and it’s one that gives the song a real sense of depth and meaning. It’s a fairytale for the 21st century.
The song’s structure is also worth noting. The verses are narrative and conversational, drawing the listener into the story. The chorus, on the other hand, is a full-throated anthem, a declaration of independence that is impossible to ignore.
The contrast between these two sections is effective, creating a sense of dynamic tension that keeps the listener engaged from start to finish. The bridge, a moment of quiet reflection before the final chorus, is particularly effective.
It’s a moment of vulnerability, a glimpse behind the curtain of a woman who is still figuring things out. It’s a moment that makes the song’s final, triumphant chorus all the more powerful.
In the end, “Last Name” is a song that is as much about the journey as it is about the destination.
It’s a song about the struggles and the triumphs, the heartaches and the joys of a life lived on one’s own terms. It’s a song that is both deeply personal and universally relatable.
It’s a song that will stay with you long after the final notes have faded. Cali Tucker has given us a gift with this song, a reminder that we all have the power to write our own stories, to create our own happily ever afters.
And that, in the end, is a story worth telling. What will your story be?
Eli Lev’s ‘Past Lives’: A Folk-Pop Séance You Can Dance To
Eli Lev is not your typical folk singer. He’s more like a genealogist with a guitar.
On his new album, Past Lives, the Silver Spring, Maryland-based artist has done something audacious: he’s invited his ancestors to the recording session.
Their voices, captured in old family interviews, are woven throughout the album, creating a conversation between generations that’s both deeply personal and surprisingly universal.
The album is the second instalment of Lev’s ambitious Three Worlds Project, a trilogy that explores the past, present, and future. If his previous album, Present Journey, was about finding his footing in the here and now, Past Lives is about digging in the dirt to find the roots that have been holding him steady all along.
The result is a collection of songs that are as much about where we come from as they are about where we’re going.
The album opens with “Echo,” a song that sets the tone for what’s to come. Over a bed of acoustic guitar and a simple, insistent beat, we hear the voice of Lev’s Bubbe Sarah, born in Poland in 1892.
She speaks of a world that is a distant memory, a place of shtetls and steamships. Then Lev’s voice comes in, clear and bright, singing of being “washed in waves of time.”
It’s a powerful juxtaposition, the old world and the new, the crackle of an old recording and the clarity of a modern one. It’s also a pretty good summary of the album’s central project: to make the past present, to give voice to the ghosts that haunt our family trees.
From there, the album moves into “Where We Come From,” a foot-stomping anthem that celebrates the messy, complicated business of heritage.
Lev, who has both Jewish and Appalachian roots, sings of “a thousand stories in my blood.” We hear from his Uncle Ben, who talks of life on a farm and in a mill in the American South.
The song is a celebration of the working-class lives that are often forgotten in the grand narratives of history. It’s a song for anyone who has ever looked at an old family picture and wondered about the people in it.
Not all the songs on Past Lives are so explicitly about family history. “My Wish Was You” is a whimsical love song that finds Lev looking back on a past romance with a sense of gratitude rather than regret.
It’s a sweet, simple song that provides a nice counterpoint to the weightier themes of the album. “Who I Was” is a more philosophical track that explores the idea of reincarnation and the many lives we live.
“Who I was back then / Is who I am,” Lev sings, a line that could be interpreted in a number of ways. Is he talking about past lives in a literal sense, or is he simply acknowledging the ways in which our past selves continue to shape who we are today? The song doesn’t offer any easy answers, which is part of its charm.
The album’s emotional core is “Our Friends,” a song about grief and remembrance. The song is a tribute to those who have passed on, but it’s not a sombre affair.
Instead, it’s a celebration of the enduring power of friendship and the idea that those we’ve lost are never really gone. “Those who are no longer seen / Are just as real as you and me,” Lev sings, a line that is both comforting and a little bit spooky. It’s a song that will likely resonate with anyone who has ever lost someone they love.
Past Lives is a record that takes risks. The use of his ancestors’ voices could have easily come across as a gimmick, but Lev handles it with a deft touch.
He allows their stories to breathe, to exist on their own terms. He doesn’t try to force them into a neat and tidy narrative. Instead, he lets them be what they are: fragments of a larger story, echoes of a time that is both gone and ever-present.
The result is a project that feels less like a history lesson and more like a conversation with the ghosts at the family dinner table.
Lev’s music has been described as “folk-pop,” and that’s as good a label as any. The songs on Past Lives are built on a foundation of acoustic guitar and heartfelt lyrics, but they’re also infused with a pop sensibility that makes them instantly accessible.
Eli Lev’s ‘Past Lives’: A Folk-Pop Séance You Can Dance To
The melodies are catchy, the choruses are memorable, and the production is clean and modern. This is not your grandfather’s folk music. It’s something new, something different. It’s music for a generation that is both deeply connected to the past and hurtling toward an uncertain future.
In a world of disposable pop songs and fleeting internet fame, Eli Lev is doing something that feels important. He’s making music that is built to last, music that is rooted in something real.
He’s telling stories that need to be told, stories that remind us that we are all part of a larger human family.
Past Lives is a beautiful and moving collection of songs that will stay with you long after the final notes have faded.
It’s a reminder that our ancestors are always with us, their voices echoing in our own. All we have to do is listen.
There are moments in music that feel like a secret whispered across a crowded room. A shared glance, a sudden understanding.
That’s the sensation at the heart of “Cinéma,” the solo debut from Mikhaïl Yaks.
You might remember him from his work with Iya Ko & the Guilty, a band that graced the stage at the Montreux Jazz Festival. But this is something different. This is personal.
“Cinéma” arrives as a single, a concentrated dose of a sound that’s hard to pin down. It’s a fusion, a concoction of RnB, Afro soul, and a sprinkle of electronic stardust.
The track opens with a synthetic texture that feels like the low hum of a city at night, a futuristic sound that gives way to a tropical melody. It’s a surprising turn, like finding a hidden garden in the middle of a metropolis. The beat is a slow, deliberate pulse, a heartbeat that draws you in.
Then comes the voice. Mikhaïl Yaks’ vocal delivery is hypnotic, a low, sensual murmur that tells a story of two people caught in a moment.
The lyrics paint a picture of a cinematic encounter, two gazes locking, each second savoured like a frame in a film. It’s a story that feels both intimate and grand, a personal movie playing out for an audience of two.
The song doesn’t just tell you about this feeling; it makes you feel it. The production is rich and layered, a sonic world to get lost in. It’s a sound that belongs to him, a signature that’s both bold and deeply personal.
This is a track that builds a bridge. A bridge between Afro-European musical traditions, between the past and the future, between the synthetic and the soulful.
It’s a testament to the power of a singular vision. Yaks isn’t just a singer; he’s a writer, a producer, a performer.
A multi-faceted artist who is creating a space for a new kind of expression. An expression that is at once sensitive and audacious.
Sometimes, a piece of music can feel like a memory you haven’t made yet. A premonition of a feeling, a place, a person. “Cinéma” has that quality.
It’s a song that lingers, a melody that stays with you long after the last note has faded.
It’s a reminder that the most profound stories are often the ones we tell ourselves, the ones that play out in the private cinema of our own minds.
What does it mean to see your own life as a movie? To watch your own encounters unfold as if they were scripted, directed, and lit for maximum effect?
Mikhaïl Yaks Unleashes Latest Single “Cinéma”
“Cinéma” doesn’t answer these questions, but it poses them in a way that is both beautiful and unsettling. It’s a song that invites you to look closer, to pay attention to the small moments, the fleeting glances, the unspoken words.
It’s a song that reminds you that sometimes, the most epic love stories are the ones that happen in the spaces between the words, in the silence between the beats.
This is more than just a debut. It’s a statement. A declaration of a new voice, a new sound, a new way of seeing the world.
It’s a glimpse into the future of soul music, a future that is complex, personal, and deeply human. And it’s a future that sounds very, very good.
"Loneliest at Best": RIOT SON's Agony of Unsaid Words.
Listening to RIOT SON’s new single, “Loneliest at Best,” is a curious exercise in emotional time-travel. The sound pulls you back to the early 2000s, to a time of angular guitars and heartfelt, frayed-collar vocals. It has that nervous, shimmering energy of indie rock that always sounded best on a pair of wired headphones, the beat prodding you forward even as the lyrics confess to being hopelessly stuck. There’s a beautiful, raw-knuckle quality here, the kind that can only be forged in a home studio, where there’s no one to tell you an idea is too honest.
The whole affair is about being dressed for a party your heart has already left. This is the soundtrack to straightening your tie or reapplying lipstick in the rearview mirror while a silent, screaming match is still echoing in your head. It captures the profound awkwardness of a love that died not from a bang, but from a total, devastating system failure in communication.
“Loneliest at Best”: RIOT SON’s Agony of Unsaid Words.
That jangly post-punk guitar, it doesn’t just strum; it fidgets. It reminds me, bizarrely, of the sound a beautiful, antique telegraph machine might make if it were forced to send a modern text message—all frantic clicks and dashes, desperate to convey a complex emotion it simply wasn’t built for. And that, right there, is the track’s genius. It sonically replicates the very breakdown it describes: the inability to make the old language work for a new kind of pain.
RIOT SON has bottled the unique agony of knowing exactly what needs to be said, but possessing a tongue made of stone. The song doesn’t resolve, because the feeling doesn’t either. It just lingers. What, then, is the ghost of a conversation supposed to sound like?
A Doctor's Dream: Tim Camrose's "Going to Nashville"
Before you can even properly settle into Tim Camrose’s new single, “Going to Nashville,” your mind gets delightfully snagged on the backstory. For forty years, this man was a surgeon and a professor—a life measured in scalpels and lecture halls, not chord progressions. It’s impossible not to picture those same steady hands, once dedicated to mending human bodies, now tracing the frets of a guitar with an entirely different, yet strangely similar, kind of focus.
This isn’t a swaggering, boot-stomping anthem about taking the town by storm. It has a “country-tinged stride,” to be sure, but it ambles with the purpose of a man on a personal pilgrimage, not a conquest. The arrangement is clean, the storytelling direct, leaving room for the quiet sincerity of the goal itself.
There’s a strange, admirable humility at its core. For a moment, it made me think of those people who painstakingly build ships inside glass bottles. The art isn’t for a stadium; it’s about the focused, devotional act of its own creation.
A Doctor’s Dream: Tim Camrose’s “Going to Nashville”
Camrose’s song isn’t about becoming a star under the neon lights of the Grand Ole Opry. The ambition feels purer, more fragile than that. It’s the hope of playing to a handful of strangers who might just nod along, of connecting a story about love or loss with someone nursing a drink in the back. The profound personal victory is found not in the applause, but in the courage to show up at all after a lifetime spent elsewhere. It’s a track that trades bombast for a kind of grounded grace.
It leaves you with an odd, resonant question. What does a person dream of the morning after their lifelong dream comes true?
A Nostalgic Roar: Gianluca Zanna's "You Are My Destiny" Arrives.
Gianluca Zanna’s new single, “You Are My Destiny,” arrives with the polished sheen and unwavering confidence of a high-tech skyscraper. On a track featuring the soaring vocals of Claudette Lyons, Zanna, an entrepreneur with a background in self-defense, has built an anthem of absolute romantic certainty. There’s a curious friction in that, isn’t there? A man professionally versed in calculating risk and creating impenetrable barriers crafting a song about complete and total emotional surrender.
The track itself is a grand, sweeping affair—a blend of pop hooks and an EDM pulse that feels engineered to fill a stadium, or perhaps the final scene of a movie where the lovers finally kiss as a planet conveniently explodes behind them. It has that kind of scale. It eschews subtlety for sincerity, a choice so bold it feels almost radical in a world saturated with irony.
A Nostalgic Roar: Gianluca Zanna’s “You Are My Destiny” Arrives.
This isn’t a shy glance across a crowded room; it’s the booming, operatic declaration from the stage, unapologetic and blindingly bright. For a moment, it reminds me of the specific, slightly synthetic cherry scent of car air fresheners from the late 90s—overwhelmingly sweet, undeniably present, and nostalgic for a time when things felt simpler.
Through Lyons’s powerful delivery, the lyrics paint love not as a partnership, but as a cosmic event, a pre-written finale. The production swirls around this central thesis, a vortex of cinematic synths and driving rhythm designed to convince you that this is, in fact, how destiny sounds when it finally shows up.
The song doesn’t linger so much as it imprints. It leaves you contemplating the sheer force required to hold such a belief. What does a love song sound like when it’s written as the ultimate security system? Apparently, a whole lot like this.
Maraad’s new album, “BUFF”, is a strange and beautiful paradox, an object forged in the very fire it’s meant to protect you from. Each track is presented as a “buff,” a bit of protective magic for the spirit, but the energy humming underneath feels less like a polished shield and more like the faint, determined glow around a figure in a centuries-old altarpiece—somehow both holy and profoundly weary. This isn’t empowerment as a shout; it’s empowerment as a persistent, low-frequency hum that says, simply, “endure.”
The progressive and deep house foundations provide a relentless forward motion, a metronome for the quiet, conscious fight for survival described in its core themes. You can feel Maraad’s history as a support musician here; he’s not trying to seize the spotlight but to build a floor solid enough for you to stand on. His use of AI as a collaborator feels less like a gimmick and more like a form of modern alchemy, taking the raw, bleeding ore of heartbreak and abandonment and transmuting it into something that can actually hold weight. The result is an emotional landscape that is vast, protective, and achingly lonely all at once.
After the Fall: Finding Tools in Maraad’s “BUFF”
This isn’t feel-good music for a sunny afternoon. It’s music for the pre-dawn commute after a sleepless night, a chain of anthems for when carrying on is its own quiet victory. It recognizes that sometimes the most profound act of strength is the continuous, simple act of breathing when you feel utterly lost.
The music video was crafted using the evocative visuals of director Thomas Schepps and actress Greta Zappettini, sourced from the Artlist catalog. Color grading and final editing were completed collaboratively by Maraad and Chilean director Felipe Sepúlveda.
The album equips you, but it never lets you forget why you needed the armor in the first place. So when the final beat fades, are you truly stronger, or just more exquisitely aware of the ache?
"Angel Gabriel's Light": Karen Salicath Jamali's Sound of Hope.
Most music that arrives with the label “meditative” feels like an instruction to relax—a gentle but firm command. Karen Salicath Jamali’s “Angel Gabriel’s Light,” however, doesn’t instruct; it simply arrives. Listening to this single for the first time is like walking into a room to find the light has changed color, subtly and without explanation. You don’t question how it happened. You just stand there for a moment, letting the unfamiliar glow settle around you.
The backstory here is, frankly, staggering. A severe head injury, a near-death experience, and then—with no prior training—this. Music. It reframes the entire listening experience. This isn’t the work of someone who painstakingly practiced scales; it’s the product of a bizarre and profound rewiring. A neurological miracle that chose piano keys as its medium. The composition doesn’t feel wrestled with or meticulously built; it feels received.
“Angel Gabriel’s Light”: Karen Salicath Jamali’s Sound of Hope.
And what was received is a piece of quiet astonishment. The piano notes fall with a kind of considered patience, never rushing to make their point. It’s the sonic equivalent of watching dust motes dance in a sliver of sun in a completely still room. The composition drifts, guided by a logic that feels more celestial than formal, embodying its new-age and contemporary classical descriptors without succumbing to the cliches of either. There’s an intentionality here that is both deeply personal and universally serene.
Jamali channels a message of hope, but it isn’t the loud, orchestral kind. It’s a steady, glowing ember of a thing. A calm assurance rather than a declaration. The single leaves you suspended in its peaceful atmosphere long after the final note fades. It poses a curious question: when music arrives from such an unbelievable place, are we listening to a person or a phenomenon?
Some records feel like they were unearthed rather than written. Kristen Castro’s debut album, ‘Capricorn Baby,’ is one of them.
There is no need to shout in this quiet revolt, which is an emotional declaration of freedom. She’s built her own room, soundproofed it with introspection, and invited us in for a listen.
The album, is a product of five years of Castro’s life. Five years of change, of questioning, of becoming. And you can feel it in the music.
This isn’t a collection of songs about abstract concepts. It’s a series of sonic diary entries, each one a snapshot of a moment in time. From the sun-drenched nostalgia of ‘Malibu’ to the quiet hope of ‘Hope Is The Thing With Feathers,’ Castro takes us on a tour of her inner world.
What’s most impressive about ‘Capricorn Baby’ is that Castro did it all herself. She wrote the words, composed the music, produced and mixed every track.
This is not just a project for fun. It shows how smart and creative she is. In a business that still has trouble with representation, the fact that a Latinx queer artist from Nashville is making her own record is an important achievement. It’s a quiet revolution, a changing of the guard that’s happening one note at a time.
The sound of the album is a reflection of Castro’s own story. It’s a mix of her Southern California roots, her Nashville present, and her Latinx heritage.
There are hints of folk, of pop, of ambient music. But it never feels disjointed. It’s all held together by Castro’s singular voice and her distinctive production style.
The result is a collection of songs that are both intimate and expansive, personal and universal.
Take a track like ‘Summer Rain.’ It’s a song about leaving a place to find yourself, about the bittersweet ache of nostalgia. The lyrics are simple, but they cut deep. “I was lost for years in the backyard pool in Cali,” she sings, and you can feel the weight of those words.
It’s a song that could have easily been overwrought, but Castro’s production gives it a sense of space, of air. It’s a song that breathes.
Then there’s ‘Amor & Psyche (Stripped),’ a song that feels like a whispered secret. It’s a modern retelling of a classic myth, a story of love and loss and the search for connection.
The stripped-down arrangement puts the focus on Castro’s voice, and she delivers a performance that is both vulnerable and strong. It’s a song that gets under your skin and stays there.
Kristen Castro Shares Her Debut ‘Capricorn Baby’
The album closes with the title track, ‘Capricorn Baby,’ a collaboration with Deb Talan of The Weepies. It’s a fitting end to the record, a song that looks back at the past with a sense of acceptance and looks forward to the future with a sense of hope.
It’s a song about embracing who you are, flaws and all. And in a world that’s constantly telling us to be someone else, that’s a message that we all need to hear.
‘Capricorn Baby’ is a remarkable debut. It’s an album that is both personal and universal, intimate and expansive. It’s a record that announces the arrival of a major new talent.
Kristen Castro has created something special here. Something that will stay with you long after the last note has faded.
Emily Popli’s “Alight” Burns Bright With Hope And Honesty
Chicago-based singer-songwriter Emily Popli has a story to tell, and she’s not holding anything back.
Her latest single, “Alight,” is a raw and heartfelt duet with the equally talented Matt Giraud. The track, a preview of her debut album Lilith Fair Kid, is a powerful exploration of the complexities of a relationship on the rocks.
But this isn’t a song about giving up; it’s a song about fighting for the embers of a love that still has the potential to burn brightly.
Popli’s voice, a captivating mix of Kacey Musgraves’ storytelling charm and Adele’s soulful power, immediately draws you in. She sings from the perspective of a partner who is struggling to keep the flame of her relationship alive.
The lyrics are a proof to her songwriting prowess, painting a vivid picture of a love that’s been tested but not broken. There’s a vulnerability in her voice that is both heart-breaking and brave, a quality that is sure to resonate with anyone who has ever been in a similar situation.
The addition of Matt Giraud’s vocals takes the song to another level. His voice, a soulful and gritty counterpoint to Popli’s, adds a layer of depth and passion to the track.
The interplay between their voices is a conversation, a push and pull of emotions that perfectly captures the song’s theme.
The production, a seamless fusion of pop, folk, and soul, provides the perfect backdrop for their vocal performances.
The melodic electric guitar, in particular, stands out, its notes weaving in and out of the vocals like a thread of hope.
What makes “Alight” so compelling is its unapologetic honesty. Popli isn’t afraid to lay her heart on the line, and that’s what makes the song so relatable.
It’s a reminder that relationships are not always easy, that they require work and commitment. But it’s also a reminder that love is worth fighting for.
The song’s central message is one of hope, a belief that even in the darkest of times, a single spark can be enough to set a heart “Alight.”
Emily Popli’s “Alight” Burns Bright With Hope And Honesty
This track is a fantastic introduction to Emily Popli’s music and her upcoming album, Lilith Fair Kid. The album, named after the iconic women who have inspired her, promises to be a collection of deeply personal and introspective songs.
If “Alight” is any indication, we can expect an album that is both musically and emotionally rich. Popli has something to say, and we should all be listening.
Emily Popli is a force to be reckoned with in the Chicago music scene. A singer, pianist, and songwriter with over two decades of experience, she is finally stepping into the spotlight with her professionally produced debut.
With the help of GRAMMY-nominated producer Brandon Williams, Popli is ready to share her stories with the world. And if “Alight” is the first chapter, we can’t wait to read the rest of the book.
Jooniuh Asks A Simple Question "Do You Want To Dance?"
Jooniuh, the London-based singer and songwriter, has a question for you: “Do You Want To Dance?”
His latest single, following up on “Shotgun Part Two,” is a confident stride into a space of his own making. The track is an invitation, a dare, and a celebration all at once.
It’s a piece of music that feels like it was made for a specific kind of summer evening, the kind where the air is warm and the possibilities feel endless.
The song opens with a beat that is immediately engaging. It’s a sound that pulls you in, a rhythmic current that carries you along. Jooniuh’s voice glides over the top, a smooth and entrancing presence.
He has a way of singing that feels both effortless and intentional, as if he’s simply speaking his mind and it just so happens to come out as a melody.
This is a voice that can tell a story, and in “Do You Want To Dance?”, the story is one of connection and release.
What’s interesting about Jooniuh is his refusal to be boxed in. He’s an artist who is clearly comfortable exploring different sounds and styles, and this single is a perfect example of that.
It’s a pop song, but it’s also something more. There are hints of R&B in the vocal delivery, a touch of electronic music in the production. It’s a combination that feels fresh and modern, a reflection of the diverse musical city that he calls home.
The theme of the song is simple, but it’s a powerful one. It’s about the joy of movement, the freedom of the dance floor.
It’s a reminder that sometimes the best way to connect with someone is to just let go and move to the music. In a world that can often feel complicated and heavy, there’s something beautiful about a song that is so unapologetically fun.
This is a track that is sure to get a lot of play this summer. It’s the kind of song you’ll hear at a party and immediately want to know who it is.
Jooniuh Asks A Simple Question “Do You Want To Dance?”
It’s a song that will make you want to grab a friend and, well, dance. Jooniuh has created a moment with this single, a snapshot of a feeling that is both personal and universal.
With “Do You Want To Dance?”, Jooniuh is making a statement. He’s an artist with a unique vision and the talent to back it up.
He’s not afraid to be different, to be himself. And in a music industry that can often feel formulaic, that’s a very exciting thing.
This is an artist to watch, and this is a song to put on repeat.
