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Kissing The Flint Drives Off With "Windscreen Dream."

With their latest single, Kissing The Flint’s “Windscreen Dream” offers the kind of country rock you feel in your teeth—a low, satisfying hum of forward motion. This is a song built like a classic roadster; every part is an essential component of the kinetic engine. Huey Dowling’s guitars lay down the tarmac, Derek Urquhart’s drums are the steady thump of wheels on the joins in the road, and that glorious swell of Marc Clement’s Hammond B3 is the heat rising from the bonnet. It all moves with a purpose that feels less like a joyride and more like an escape. https://open.spotify.com/track/4HAoZ7SkAVqSUhvAuTjHTY?si=868119b95e904566 There is a profound severance happening here. This isn’t a wistful glance in the rearview mirror; it's the surgical act of making the past insignificant. Leah Chynoweth-Tidy’s vocal delivery has the calm authority of someone who has already made the most difficult decision and is now simply living out the consequence—a consequence that, for once, feels like pure freedom. The song documents the drive away from a world revealed to be a phantom, a relationship built on smoke. For a moment, listening to Graham Rodger’s steel pedal glide through the melody, I was inexplicably reminded of the smell of petrichor—that scent of the first rain hitting parched, dusty earth after a long drought. That’s the feeling embedded in this track. It's not just relief; it's the promise of life returning to a landscape that was emotionally barren, the dust of deception finally settling under a cleansing shower of self-realisation. The song seems to understand that the destination is irrelevant when the act of leaving is so nourishing. "Windscreen Dream" doesn't just ask where you’re going; it dares you to consider what, exactly, you’ve finally gained the strength to drive away from. Website, Facebook, Twitter(X), Bandcamp, YouTube, Instagram

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"Be Brave If You Can": Harry Kappen's Therapeutic Ballad

Listening to Harry Kappen's "Be Brave If You Can" is like finding a note someone left for themselves on a foggy bathroom mirror. As the third single from his album “Four”, it’s a quiet turn inward, a personal reminder scrawled in the steam of a hot shower after a long, wearying day. It doesn't shout for revolution in the streets; it suggests one inside your own ribcage. https://open.spotify.com/track/4cXvTtZLVy9mA5fc70sW0X?si=9e5dacd644ab4d8b There’s a therapeutic steadiness here that makes perfect sense when you learn of Kappen’s work as a music therapist. The track doesn't offer solutions or grand, cinematic catharsis. Instead, it feels like a steadying hand on a trembling shoulder, acknowledging that sometimes survival isn’t about winning the fight, but simply staying on your feet with a degree of grace until the bell rings. It’s a message that values endurance over explosive action, stillness over noise. The whole composition has the painstaking patience of someone building a ship in a bottle. The art-rock sensibilities—think the subtle, intelligent chord shifts of late-era Bowie—are the intricate rigging, meticulously assembled within the transparent, vulnerable glass of a deeply personal singer-songwriter ballad. It’s a contained epic, a grand internal drama played out on a miniature stage. The focus isn't on the storm outside, but on the unwavering craft required to hold oneself together within it. Kappen isn’t asking us to charge into battle. He’s proposing something far more daunting: the courage to sit quietly with our own vulnerability and find it to be a source of profound strength. What if the bravest thing we can do is not to change the world, but to finally learn how to inhabit our own? Website, Facebook, Twitter(X), YouTube, Instagram, TikTok

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Listen: Jon Gold's Heartfelt "Lullaby for a Dream."

Jon Gold’s new single, "Lullaby for a Dream," is an act of gorgeous disorientation. You see the name—a pianist rooted in the intricate soils of jazz—and you prepare for one thing, but what arrives is a mist-laden skiff drifting from an entirely different shore. Gold, a Delaware musician, has composed a piece of British-Gaelic folk, and the cognitive dissonance is half the immediate magic. For a moment, it’s like finding a pristine, hand-drawn map of the Outer Hebrides tucked inside a book on modern architecture. https://open.spotify.com/track/10XFIUPErbDV4sTsMeO53q?si=49cd96d6b84442c7 The song is built on a premise of profound and gentle sorrow: a message of love to a daughter the artist never had. Sung with a kind of luminous clarity by Ditty Wish, the piece sidesteps simple sentimentality. Her voice is the compass needle here, steady and sure, while Gold’s piano provides not a rhythmic framework but something closer to the soft earth beneath the melody’s mossy stones. The track is an offering to an absence, a space filled with a vow of unwavering protection and peace. It's a strange thing to be moved by a love so specific and so imagined. The piece isn’t asking for pity; it’s asking for witness. It bypasses the brain and goes straight for that little cabinet in your chest where you keep unresolved aches and fierce, quiet hopes. The effect is deeply calming, but with a slight, unshakeable chill, the way a truly silent forest feels both peaceful and anciently alive. What does it mean to build a home, out of melody and air, for a love that has nowhere else to go? Website, Facebook, YouTube, Instagram

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Trapped in Beauty: “Serene Despair” by Antoin Gibson.

Listening to Antoin Gibson’s new EP, "Serene Despair", is like discovering a hidden, immaculately designed room in the architecture of your own skull, only to realize the locks are on the outside. This is music as a meticulous, hermetically sealed environment. Knowing Gibson is the sole operator of this venture—the writer, performer, and producer, founder of Circum-Sŏnus—explains the almost unnerving coherence. He isn't just building tracks; he’s constructing a world with its own physics, and then trapping you inside. https://open.spotify.com/album/6VvC7nOvtjvqqYbvz7Tih3?si=z4c-rdM6SLGkmQkzH5RmdA The experience starts in a place of profound despair, a feeling less like sadness and more like the texture of old, cold velvet. But this isn't a pity party. It’s the chrysalis. From this powerlessness, Gibson resurrects femme fatales not as museum pieces, but as living, breathing psychological states. He hands a Succubus a microphone in an electronic darkwave club, lets a Siren sing an ethereal ballad over synths that feel like deep-sea pressure. It reminds me, strangely, of those anatomical illustrations from the Renaissance—unflinchingly detailed, beautiful, and utterly unsettling. Gibson’s verses are surgical, dissecting the anatomy of control and desire. He shifts the power dynamic with a predator’s grace. We move from the hunted to the one with teeth, from a willing surrender in the dark to the cold calculus of a witch wielding seduction as a weapon. The production is a paradox, lush yet bleak, like seeing a supernova through a pinhole. One track pushes you onto a shadowy dance floor; the next leaves you stranded in a vast, cinematic quiet. The EP concludes, the final sound fading into a hum. You're left holding a mirror, but the unnerving question isn’t what you see. It's who? Is it still you, or is it the myth that’s been wearing your skin all along? Website, Instagram, Bandcamp

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“Yours” By Jainy Is Her Alluring Single Off Her “The Real Jainy” EP

Nigerian-Ghanaian songstress Jainy Amarachi Offei, known on stage as ‘Jainy,’ is out with a new song called "Yours" as part of her debut EP, "The Real Jainy." The EP which dropped on July 25, 2025, features five tracks that showcase Jainy's genre-bending capabilities, blending Afro R&B with elements of Afrobeats. "The Real Jainy" is Jainy's first major release since signing with Tripoint Talent Management. The EP includes the tracks "Ojoro," "Shege," "Follow," "Yours," and "Radar," each offering a unique perspective on love, heartbreak, confidence, and self-discovery. Jainy's sound is characterized by her soulful voice and introspective lyrics, drawing inspiration from personal experiences and emotions. The 20-year-old Ghana-based singer first gained attention with her freestyle performance on a popular reality show. With the tune "Madiba," her formal debut, she achieved remarkable success, with over 100,000 streams on Spotify and over 200,000 streams across all platforms combined. Fans have praised the track's sonic quality and Jainy's magnetic delivery on social media. Despite facing challenges and setbacks in the music industry, Jainy is determined to succeed on her terms. With the "The Real Jainy" EP, she is taking a bold step into the Nigerian music scene, showcasing her talent and artistry to a wider audience. Listen to the EP on all platforms here. Follow her on Tik Tok and Instagram via @TheRealJainy

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The Masterful Trap: DaLomonze's "Picture Day".

Listening to the new DaLomonze EP, "Picture Day," is a study in deceptive portraiture. You’re told it’s about capturing a moment, a fixed smile for the world, documenting personal growth. The Cleveland artist’s vocals are certainly grand enough for a milestone, full-bodied and cinematic, with an orchestral sweep that feels both holy and expensive. But something is hiding in the gorgeous frame. It’s not documenting love; it’s documenting a hunt. https://open.spotify.com/track/0jhSGFUhk70XOOsEFoySub?si=2084431cde2a418f This music has the strange, unnerving scent of night-blooming jasmine climbing the walls of a forgotten mausoleum—intoxicating, yes, but its sweetness is rooted somewhere cold and final. DaLomonze builds a soundscape of soulful allure, but lurking within the angelic harmonies and stirring violin is the narrative of a beautiful, ancient predator. His voice shifts from silken promise to the coiled-spring tension of a rap verse, a narrator confessing to a crime he fully intends to commit again. He’s the dragon disguised as the desirable prince, the witch offering an apple so perfect you’d be a fool not to take a bite. The true cunning of the EP is in how it makes this malevolent narcissism sound so utterly tempting. This isn’t the sound of a monster roaring; it's the sound of a monster reasoning with you, making you believe its hunger is a form of love, that being consumed is a kind of ascension. The music is a masterful trap, and DaLomonze is both the architect and the bait. https://youtu.be/P7kZddYa9P8 It leaves you feeling exquisitely tricked, a participant in a beautiful game you never realized you were losing from the start. So, as the final angelic harmony fades, you have to ask: who are you really smiling for in your picture, and what appetite does it feed? Facebook, Twitter(X), Website, TikTok

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"Cowards and Shadows": Fiona Amaka's Bold Vanishing Act.

Fiona Amaka’s new single, “Cowards and Shadows,” doesn’t kick down the door; it slips the lock and vanishes into the night, leaving the chain on. There’s a particular London cool to this departure, a swagger in its disappearing act. The track's lauded Bowie-esque posture is immediately apparent, thanks in no small part to Andy Zanini's sharp, stalking guitar work. It’s less a gentle fade and more of a strut into nothingness. https://open.spotify.com/track/0AJB1MK45S6v06TflIPm6A?si=eb7f1dce4f914280 The whole thing made me think, oddly, of those marble statues whose features have been worn smooth by centuries of acidic rain. The form is there, but the identity is blurred, eroded by slow, persistent exposure. This is the sound of someone choosing that erosion, actively dissolving a connection—not just in romance, but in the corporate ghosting of a job application—as a form of self-preservation. It’s the moment you stop maintaining the facade and give yourself permission to become indistinct, a shadow. Amaka’s soulful, blues-inflected vocal, however, fights against this vanishing. It’s the paradox that anchors the song. While the lyrics map out a retreat into ambiguity, the music itself possesses a defiant, solid spine. It’s the sound of a person becoming a phantom, but doing so with immense, deliberate force. This isn't weakness; it’s a calculated withdrawal from the front lines of a battle that can’t be won. The song poses no judgment on this modern art of the fade-out. It simply builds the room where the decision is made, lets you feel the chill. It leaves you with the unsettling question: when you leave only a shadow, what exactly does it haunt? YouTube, Instagram

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Helladdict’s "Sudden Death": An Exhumation of Fury.

Helladdict’s new single, “Sudden Death,” doesn’t feel like a tribute; it feels like an exhumation. Here are six men from Santiago, all seasoned enough to know that pure fury is a young person’s game, offering instead the far more corrosive anger of experience. They resurrect the chassis of 80s thrash, all bone-raw intensity and punishing tempo, but the engine is modern, built with the cold precision of a generation that has watched ideals rust over. It’s like finding a perfectly preserved medieval battle-axe that’s been sharpened with a laser. https://open.spotify.com/album/2O5ghIdN68St3aezeEQuSz?si=aMzfDstkR9CXJUfCn_U9Fw The track’s narrative—a suffocating entrapment in the wreckage of a destructive relationship—clings to you. It’s the emotional equivalent of the acrid smell of burnt toast, a minor domestic catastrophe that somehow lingers for days, a ghost in the air you can’t scrub clean. The past here isn’t a gentle memory; it’s an active, hostile roommate. The genius is in the fracture. With Javier Hernández and Juan Barra sharing vocal duties, the song becomes a brutal internal dialogue. One voice seems to be spitting out the facts, the sheer ugly truth, while the other howls from the pit of denial and fear. All the while, the twin guitars of Ignacio Hernández and Sebastián Ibáñez are a maelstrom of serrated, coiled riffs, while the rhythm section of Mark Reynolds and Gonzalo Bayer provides not a beat but a series of controlled explosions, pushing the torment ever forward. There is no escape, only acceleration. This isn’t just rebellion against an abstract "established order." It’s a rebellion against the tyranny of a memory that has become the new establishment, a brutal regime ruling a kingdom of one. The sound is a desperate clawing for a new beginning, smothered by the crushing weight of what’s already been done. What happens when your only proof of life is the autopsy report of a dead love? YouTube, Instagram

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Ferdinand Rennie's "Someone to Remember Me": A Tender Look at Legacy.

Ferdinand Rennie’s “Someone to Remember Me” (Remake 2025 Version) arrives with the quiet confidence of a man who has looked at the map of his life more than a few times. This isn’t the sound of ambition clawing its way up a wall; it’s the sound of someone standing on the summit, looking back at the long path and wondering about the shape of his own shadow. https://open.spotify.com/album/3WbZLKazo1fmYxd5u6Geyr?si=weotXbp6TqWXX__XNRdm4g Rennie’s voice is, as expected, a beautifully weathered instrument. It has the warm, dark grain of polished oak from some old Scottish coastal inn, carrying a melody that feels both familiar and deeply considered. The arrangement is clean, a modern ballad that knows its most important job is to get out of the way of the vocal and the sentiment. It doesn't strain for drama. The drama is already there, baked into the very premise of the lyrics. Listening, a peculiar image surfaced in my mind: one of those ancient Roman coins, pulled from the soil, where the emperor's profile has been worn almost completely smooth by a thousand years of commerce and touch. The impression is gone, but the weight remains. Rennie’s song is about that weight – the heft a life leaves behind, even after the sharp details fade into the earth. It’s a clever, tender-hearted bait-and-switch. The track begins as a eulogy for another, observing the ripples a single soul can create. But then, almost imperceptibly, the camera turns back on the singer. This isn't just grief for what’s lost; it’s the quiet panic and purpose that follows: what mark will I leave? This isn’t a plea for applause, but for something far more fragile. Does a life well-lived make a sound after it’s over? Website, Facebook, YouTube, Instagram, TikTok

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Brandon White's "BiG FiSH": Too Big for the Pond

Listening to Brandon White’s new single, “BiG FiSH”, is to understand a very specific, architectural kind of pressure. It’s the feeling of having shoulders too broad for the doorway, a voice too resonant for the room. White articulates not just the frustration of being a large talent in a small scene, but the creeping paranoia that comes when the pond life starts to nibble, mistaking your scale for a threat. https://open.spotify.com/track/3KH5EIxnZSlXZhTSaGoSlv?si=856b7b1f59924a04 The track moves with a defensive crouch. Its experimental beat isn’t aggressive in a showy way; it’s coiled, watchful. It’s the sound of someone checking their mirrors one too many times. For a moment, the rhythm and the low-end thrum brought to mind the strange, beautiful cruelty of a bonsai tree—all that immense, natural potential being meticulously wired and pruned by its surroundings to stay manageable, decorative. White’s flow is the resistance to that wiring. He doesn’t rap about this alienation with bitterness alone. There’s a weary clarity here, an acceptance of the jealousy that blossoms in the shadow of someone else’s light. This isn’t a boastful anthem; it's a cinematic diary entry from a spiritual battlefield disguised as a hometown. The narrative is so potent you can almost feel the air go thin with unspoken envy, the weight of being perpetually underestimated and simultaneously resented for proving the estimates wrong. The song doesn’t resolve neatly, because this kind of growth never does. It just keeps expanding, pressing against the limits. It leaves you pondering a sharp, uncomfortable question: when you finally break the pot, do you remember the shape of the thing that held you back? Twitter(X), YouTube, Instagram

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Lost & Found on Bromsen's "Data Highway."

There's a specific kind of night drive baked into Bromsen's new single, "Data Highway," the sort where the headlights of oncoming traffic begin to hypnotize, and you forget if you’re running from something or just running. The Berlin trio—Richard and Karlo Bromsen, now propelled by the engine of Bon Schmelke's drums—has crafted a track that moves at a hundred miles per hour yet somehow feels completely, existentially stuck in traffic. https://open.spotify.com/track/3znxhZPcIu9oiDqS4k1aBV?si=cc7c16e1a4e54a99 The sound is a magnificent contradiction. Richard Bromsen’s synthesizers don't just nod to the retro; they hum with the nervous energy of a server farm about to overheat. I swear, certain frequencies remind me of the smell of static electricity rising from an old CRT television just before the picture tube dies. It’s a tangible, anxious texture. Above this, Karlo Bromsen’s vocals don't just soar; they’re a flare shot into the digital twilight, a raw plea cutting through the system’s noise. This isn’t a song about the romance of the open road. It's about the frantic, aimless scroll of modern life made audible—a journey not to a destination but as a means of outrunning one's own thoughts. A strange kind of SOS. https://youtu.be/0WA8xuQJlMo It taps into that deeply modern paradox of being networked to everything while feeling tethered to nothing. We are all moving, all transmitting, all searching. But in this dazzling, overwhelming motion, how do you ask for a hand to hold when your own are so busy scrolling? Website, Instagram

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A Cleansing Listen: Kelly Glow's "Black Girl Magic" (DJ Nervex Remix)

A strange and wonderful thing happens when you listen to Kelly Glow’s “Black Girl Magic” DJ Nervex Remix. The sound itself is pure nostalgia, a sun-drenched boom bap that feels genetically engineered to be played with the windows down, circa 1995. But something else is going on beneath that familiar West Coast shimmer. This isn’t just a throwback; it's a lecture hall where the podium has been replaced by a pair of turntables, and the professor is Dr. Kelly Glow, Ed.D. https://open.spotify.com/track/6xaCVVFAqUopduC9UHM8Ks?si=fb23de5880f1489f This isn't slight-of-hand magic she's celebrating. The track presents the term as a kind of cultural alchemy—the transmutation of the lead weight of history and oppression into something resilient and brilliant. The joy in her delivery is palpable, but it’s a learned joy, earned. DJ Nervex’s remix work is smart; he doesn’t obscure the message but gives it a new coat of chrome, a brighter glint in the sun. For a moment, listening to the bassline, I thought of the specific mineral smell of wet pavement after a sudden summer shower. A cleansing. A renewal of something that was always there. Glow’s flow is less a performance and more a pronouncement. At 49, she moves with an unhurried confidence that eschews the frantic energy of youth for the grounded authority of experience. This is a voice that has studied the very culture it now so vibrantly shapes. There’s no plea for recognition here, but rather a confident, matter-of-fact declaration of worth, a curriculum set to a beat. https://youtu.be/6uTl4uBPKPo It leaves you with a curious question. Is this an anthem, or is it the first page of a syllabus? Website, Twitter(X), Instagram, TikTok

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Emma Whybrow's "Amnesia": When The Beat Drops, So Does The Truth.

There’s a curious kind of cruelty beating at the heart of Emma Whybrow’s new single, “Amnesia,” and it is utterly exhilarating. Here is a massive, pulsing techno anthem—a thundering, four-on-the-floor declaration built for vast, sweaty rooms—and yet, tucked inside its propulsive machinery is an intensely private, bitingly personal act of dismissal. It’s like finding a handwritten "get lost" note folded neatly inside a fireworks display. https://open.spotify.com/track/0AspWpU6l1VZmPHaCQmiWR?si=882a600ce34c48e1 The track’s narrative is all venomous sugar, a series of fantastical, sarcastic questions posed to a phantom who has dared to reappear. While the beat insists on collective movement, the lyrics paint a picture of solitary, self-absorbed grandeur: spaceships and treasure cruises. The juxtaposition is a dizzying, brilliant trick. For a moment, one of the shimmering synth arpeggios reminded me of the frantic, blinking light on an old museum diorama I saw as a child—the one depicting the Battle of Hastings. It was meant to signify chaos and action, but it was just a tiny bulb, blinking in a loop, completely unaware of the painted soldiers it was meant to represent. That’s the sound of this song’s accusation: a looped, bright, impersonal signal for a deeply personal catastrophe. Emma Whybrow weaponizes the concept of amnesia, turning it from a passive affliction into an active, unforgivable insult. This isn’t a lament for what’s been forgotten; it’s a cold stare at someone who believes their absence can be so easily overwritten, as if a memory card was simply wiped and reformatted. The song doesn't ask for an apology. It scoffs at the very notion that one might be owed. https://youtu.be/-2yWuoxtnks It leaves you with the strangest, most invigorating feeling. So, when the beat drops, who are you meant to be dancing for: yourself, or the ghost you’re finally kicking out of the room? Website, Facebook, Instagram

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"Turn Back Time": Jimmy Scott Free's Soulful Paradox.

Jimmy Scott Free’s return with “Turn Back Time,” featuring the potent vocals of Kim English, is a peculiar kind of exorcism. It’s a track with a passport full of stamps—born of a Southend sensibility, aged in Barcelona, and now arriving on our shores—yet its emotional core is stuck stubbornly in a single, unchangeable moment. This is a song that tells you to dance while its lyrics confess to being paralyzed, a shimmering, euphoric cage of a memory. https://open.spotify.com/track/13Hed3voPJPQRQxTRqdIvz?si=e37c22dce3414d16 There's a strange, fossilised quality to the obsession here, as if a pang of profound longing has been perfectly preserved in amber. The thumping, soul-infused beat doesn’t bury the feeling; it polishes the amber, holding it up to the strobe light. One gets the sense that Jimmy Scott Free, after a decade of disillusionment and creative recalibration, understands this paradox intimately. He isn't just recounting a lost love; he's orchestrating the sound of an internal feedback loop, the beautiful, maddening hum of a thought you cannot shake. The track’s raw energy prevents it from ever wallowing. Kim English’s voice slices through the nostalgia not with sadness, but with a vibrant, demanding ache that insists on being heard and felt. The result is less a lament and more a full-bodied haunting. It’s the sonic equivalent of spotting the face of an old lover in a crowded room, but the room is a festival tent at 2 a.m. and the face is just a trick of the light. It feels less like a comeback and more like a continuation of a conversation that was paused mid-sentence ten years ago. How brilliant, and how terribly human, to build a dance floor right on top of your own personal glitch in time? YouTube, Instagram

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"I'm Still Standing": Frankie Muriel's Taut, Emotional Groove.

With “I’m Still Standing,” Frankie Muriel isn't just releasing nine songs; he’s excavating a life lived in the key of rock and roll. The glam-metal swagger of KINGOFTHEHILL and the dance-floor pulse of Dr. Zhivegas are here, but only as ghosts in the machine—ancestral echoes beneath a sound that is grittier, warmer, and stained with the wisdom of survival. This is the sound of a man taking inventory. The whole thing feels less like a straightforward narrative and more like an act of kintsugi—the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold lacquer. Muriel isn't hiding the cracks of heartbreak, fatherhood, or personal failure; he’s tracing them with funk basslines and soul-inflected guitar, making them the most interesting part of the vessel. He wrestles with the complex physics of love: its pull, its decay, its sudden, startling regeneration. There’s no sonic indulgence here, just a taut, emotional groove that feels earned, like the comfortable quiet after a necessary argument. For a moment, one track made me think of the specific, dusty smell of a sunbeam hitting an old velvet armchair. It’s that kind of record—it doesn’t just play, it triggers dormant senses. This is not the sound of a rocker raging against the dying of the light, but of someone who has sat with the darkness long enough to know its shape and is now simply walking toward the door, unafraid of what’s next. Muriel’s journey from peacocking frontman to this soulful raconteur is palpable in every note. The resilience isn’t shouted from a mountaintop; it’s humming in the amplifier. So what do we do with our own beautiful scars when the music finally fades? Facebook, YouTube, Instagram, TikTok

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Shelita's "Fade": Strange Comfort in Suspension.

Listening to Shelita’s new single, “Fade,” is a strange and strangely comforting exercise in suspension. The track is built on a foundation you could almost set your watch to—a steady, pulsing beat that feels less like a drum machine and more like a medical monitor keeping track of something vital. Over this steady pulse, airy synths drift and gather like weather fronts, creating a tension that is both calming and deeply unsettling. It’s a heartbeat in a glass case. Precise. Steady. A constant. https://open.spotify.com/track/3Vd5LhtK4BdKF1xv2m9Jvn?si=85e941fb136e4f7e This is a song about holding on, but not with a frantic grip. It’s the kind of holding on you do with open palms. Shelita’s vocal delivery is the key; it possesses a focused clarity, a kind of pre-grieved composure. She’s not pleading so much as she is building a temporary shelter against an inevitability. There’s a line in the theme about creating a shared, idealized fantasy, and the song captures this with a startling accuracy. It’s the sonic equivalent of building a perfect little world inside a shoebox diorama—knowing full well the messy, bigger room exists just outside the cardboard. The music offers an emotional sanctuary that acknowledges its own fragile walls. It’s a space where finality is understood but not yet allowed entry. Shelita’s pop sensibilities are sharp, but they serve something more profound here than simple hooks. She’s mapped the intricate geography of a goodbye that’s happening in slow motion, a moment stretched thin until it’s translucent. It leaves one wondering about the nature of these moments. Is a comfort offered against a ticking clock somehow more potent, or just a beautiful, shared delusion? Website, Facebook, Twitter(X), Instagram

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The Journey Within: Amara Fe's “Reborn”

Listening to Amara Fe’s debut album, "Reborn", is a peculiar act of unearthing. You expect a phoenix from the flames, a cannon-blast of arrival. Instead, you get something far more interesting: the sound of a locked room being patiently, methodically picked from the inside. https://open.spotify.com/album/7zIfmVK9TgMY8u2Pe38w6l?si=kMej8MhJS2m-kUlmpDntpw This isn't the clamor of a wrecking ball tearing down old walls for attention. It’s the quiet, assured scent of old paper and leather in a forgotten library aisle—the smell of substance, of things that last. Fe, having seized the production reins, crafts a narrative that values inner wisdom over external volume. Her vocals, steeped in the soulful RnB of her family’s legacy (you can feel the shadow of Minnie Riperton, for whom her grandmother wrote, in the effortless grace), don't shout for validation; they command a specific, intentional space. She built this herself. You can hear it in the careful architecture of the alternate pop arrangements, a framework for a story about shedding the societal pressure to be smaller, louder, shinier, other. There are anthems of independence here, certainly, but the most compelling moments are in the cracks. The album breathes, admitting to the lingering sting of regret, the slow, cautious process of learning to trust your own footing after trauma. It’s a liberation that knows the weight of its former chains. It all charts a course from being an overlooked footnote to becoming the entire text. It’s a journey so complete, so deeply considered, it leaves you with a strange and unsettling final thought. What does one do with a second, self-made life? Amazon, YouTube, Instagram