KUNAL Closes the Chapter With “Night Voices” and Quietly Hands the Crown to Veer Baaz

Most artists say they’re evolving. KUNAL actually did it. “Night Voices” doesn’t feel like a single. It feels like a closing statement with real weight. The kind that only works if you’ve actually lived through what you’re talking about. And KUNAL has.

From the first hook, the track locks into this internal tension. The voices aren’t a metaphor for aesthetics. They feel real, constant, almost exhausting. Lines like “I will sleep when I’m dead” don’t come off motivational. They sound like someone who hasn’t had the luxury of slowing down.

Production-wise, it leans cinematic without getting lost in its own style. There’s a steady, grounded knock that keeps everything moving, but the layers behind it carry this heavier, almost spiritual undertone. It feels intentional. Not overproduced. Just controlled. Like every sound has a job and nothing is there for decoration.

What really cuts through is the messaging. KUNAL isn’t chasing trends or trying to fit into whatever algorithm-friendly lane is hot right now. He’s actively rejecting it. “Be a wave runner, not a wave catcher” isn’t just a bar. It’s the thesis of the entire track.

And that’s where the Veer Baaz transition hits different. This isn’t a rebrand. It’s a separation. KUNAL as the host, the translator, the one making sure everyone felt included. Veer Baaz is the messenger, the one who doesn’t care if the truth makes you uncomfortable. That shift is all over this record.

There’s also a level of social awareness that most artists tiptoe around. Lines calling out systems that keep people stuck don’t feel performative. They feel lived in. That matters. Especially in a space where “conscious rap” often feels like a costume.

“Night Voices” works because it doesn’t try to be everything. It knows exactly what it is. A sendoff. A statement. And a door opening at the same time. Many artists disappear when they pivot. KUNAL didn’t disappear. He stepped back on purpose. And honestly, that’s a way bigger power move.

You split KUNAL and Veer Baaz into two distinct identities. At what point did that stop being a concept and start feeling necessary for your sanity as an artist?

It stopped being a concept the moment I realized Kunal carries a different set of responsibilities. There is a crown to uphold—a name and a lineage that demand a certain level of dignity. While working on this record, the clash was becoming clear. I was trying to be the person who honors that duty while being the artist who speaks with an uninhibited voice, and those two worlds were starting to suffocate each other.

For my sanity, I had to separate the man from the messenger. Veer Baaz became the lane where I didn't need permission to be raw. Once that separation happened, I looked at the movement we built and realized that everything I set out to accomplish with this sound, I actually did. All praise to the eternal. The split wasn't a shield; it was the key that let me execute the vision without compromise.

There’s a strong rejection of trend-chasing in this track. What’s something in today’s music industry that you think artists are blindly following that’s actually hurting them long term?

I don’t think it’s about criticizing artists—we all have the capacity to create masterpieces. The real issue is the disconnect between what is glorified and what is actually consumed. There is a massive tendency for the masses to romanticize the 'classics,' but daily consumption is still driven by whatever is fast and fleeting. I think all of us are guilty of it to some extent, but it creates a real creative hurdle.

You try to cook something from a place of deliberate, high-level sound, but then feel forced to shave off the edges to make it easy for a trend. When you try to make something built with that kind of intentional weight fit into a temporary box, you risk losing the very thing that made it powerful. It’s a difficult tightrope to walk, but ultimately, you shouldn't have to check your watch while reaching for the eternal; the most timeless things usually take their time to arrive.

The production feels controlled but heavy with intention. What was one sonic choice you almost didn’t commit to that ended up defining the track?

The biggest risk was deciding to intentionally disrupt the 'perfection' of the recording. I had a vocal take for the singing hook that felt really honest—it was clean, raw, and just had the right energy. Usually, you’re protective of a melodic centerpiece like that, but we wanted the essence of the production to align with the actual fabric of the song.

We stepped away from the standard rules. We actually banked a layer of that singing hook directly into the beat—maxed out the volume, pitched it up, and threw it into this massive, wide space so it functioned more like an instrument than a traditional vocal. It felt like a gamble to mess with a hook that already felt solid, but we needed the sound to communicate those exact same emotions of anxiety and that constant striving for triumph.

By letting the synths pull back and giving that processed hook the room to breathe within the rhythm, the track stopped being just a 'recording.' It became a raw emotional space that mirrors the tension of the lyrics.

You talk about leadership as both recognition and burden. What did you have to sacrifice personally once people started looking at you as someone to follow?

The biggest sacrifice has been the comfort of my own privacy. I’ve always been an extremely private person, and I strive to operate at the highest standards in every avenue of my life—whether that’s personal, professional, or creative. The challenge wasn't that I was a different person in those spaces; I was me in all of them. But as things grew, those worlds started to clash.

Different audiences or aspects of my life wanted to see only one specific part of me, and those expectations started crowding each other out. It felt like there wasn’t enough space for everything to exist at that high standard without feeling like something was being compromised. It was an isolating experience for sure, trying to navigate that friction.

I’m grateful for the growth and evolution, but at the end of the day, I do this because I love it—point blank. Music is the language I feel most confident speaking and where I feel most heard, but I’ve had to sacrifice the luxury of just blending in to make sure that language finally has the room it needs to breathe.

Veer Baaz is positioned as someone who speaks without filtering for the sake of comfort. What’s a truth you haven’t said yet that you know will hit people the hardest when you finally do?

The truth we all eventually run into is that the world would rather have a convenient version of us than a real one. We all feel that pressure to edit ourselves down just to make the room more comfortable—to keep our different lives in separate boxes so we don't 'crowd' anyone else's expectations. We’re told from a young age that being our whole selves is the goal, and on paper, that sounds beautiful. But in practice, it actually becomes a conflict of interest.

The harder reality is that you can’t truly honor where you come from or where you’re going if you’re still asking for permission to be seen in your entirety. We spend so much energy trying to be background characters in someone else’s story of who we should be.

The truth that hits the hardest is that the most expensive thing we’ll ever own is our own name—and once we decide that being whole is worth more than being understood, we stop apologizing for the space we take up. It’s a lonely path at first, but it’s the only one where we’re actually free to speak.