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Alternative rock project Your Neighbors has never been particularly interested in staying inside one creative lane, and the latest single, “REC.,” makes that philosophy abundantly clear. Built around a deliberately provocative concept, the track trades heavier introspection for something playful, impulsive, and completely unapologetic. Known for combining guitar-driven hooks with electronic textures, modern production, and unexpected creative choices, Your Neighbors approaches each release according to what the song demands rather than a fixed formula. That freedom has allowed the project to move between emotionally direct songwriting and more unpredictable territory without losing its identity. While previous Your Neighbors material has explored existential questions, addiction, self-awareness, and complicated relationships, “REC.” is considerably less interested in unpacking an emotional crisis. The premise is refreshingly straightforward: making your own porn. That bluntness is part of the appeal. Instead of forcing every release to carry some profound revelation, Your Neighbors lets “REC.” exist as a mischievous detour, leaning into humor, sexuality, and the kind of questionable decision-making that makes for a much more entertaining song. Even the band’s takeaway from the release refuses to become overly serious, offering listeners one particularly modern piece of advice: maybe reconsider filming anything too private with Meta glasses, given their security concerns. Beneath the joke, “REC.” reinforces what makes Your Neighbors interesting in the first place. There is no obvious pressure to make one song resemble the last, and unpredictability remains part of the project’s appeal. Your Neighbors plans to coast through the remainder of the year, but already has considerably more music waiting in the wings. If “REC.” is any indication, predicting exactly what comes next would probably defeat the point. “REC.,” is intentionally less serious than some of your previous work. What made you want to step away from heavier subject matter and make something purely provocative and fun? Not for any particular reason, but I did feel like coming off the last album, we needed to balance the catalog with things that were a bit more approachable. “American Hedonism” is such a crazy album that took a lot of effort, but I think if I continued on that path, the music would start sounding like it insisted upon itself rather than serving the purpose I meant for it to have. Sometimes people don’t want an intricate story, including myself. Your Neighbors seems comfortable letting each song become whatever it needs to be rather than following one sonic formula. How do you know when an unexpected idea is worth chasing instead of reining it in? Honestly, I don’t think I do. If there’s something about the song I like, whether it be the song itself or the instrumental, I’ll chase it down with my producers and see where it lands. Will DuPerier (my main producer/mix guy) plays a huge role in the process. He’s kind of like an analog Suno program, where I’ll feed him a song and give him some guidelines, and then he just rips the track to shreds and builds it from the ground up into something I never expect. We have very different influences, but we still respect each other’s tastes, so it allows for some crazy experimentation. By the end of the process, the song is usually worth putting out. But sometimes it just sits on the hard drive forever because we think it sucks. There’s a difference between writing about sexuality and actually making it feel playful rather than forced. What was the creative approach behind getting the tone of “REC.” right? I was just talking to Keaton (one of my producers) about this. Some artists just have a sexier aura and can get away with more on-the-nose lyrics. I would not put myself in that category. I think for someone like me, it’s best to speak in innuendo; the more flowery and esoteric, the better. But I think the best litmus test is just showing it to people, and if my lyrics aren’t vomit-inducing to them, then it’s probably fine. Most people don’t even clock what this song is about; they just like the beat and the melody. You mentioned Meta glasses when talking about the takeaway from this release. How much did technology, privacy, and the way people document their lives today influence the concept behind “REC.”? I think there is some kind of meta dialogue with the title (pun maybe intended), but mainly I just liked how it spelled out the song’s topic with recording a video of an intimate moment. There is a massive pushback on video surveillance right now, and it is really cool to see our society actively rejecting a “big-brother” future in a real way. It’s one thing to be an internet activist, but there are actual people going out of their way to tear down Flock cameras and showing up to city council meetings protesting data centers. It seems like we’re seeing a shift towards viewing policy through a “Human vs Anti-Human” lens rather than a strict adherence to party lines. It’s easy to get depressed with all the insanity in the world right now, but there are glimmers of hope worthy of being celebrated. You’ve said there’s already a lot more music on the way. After a track as unpredictable as “REC.,” what side of Your Neighbors are you interested in showing listeners next? This is kind of a one-off; I wouldn’t expect more EDM in the immediate future. The next songs are much more band-driven, and not as “in-your-face” as I’ve recently liked to be. I want the next songs to be more “song-forward” and less flashy production-wise.

Swiss psyche-folk band HAARA is stepping into darker territory with “Baccano,” a new single released through Rattler Records that transforms ritual, tension and impending battle into a hypnotic collision of sound. The track takes its name from Bacchanalia, the ancient Roman festivals held in honor of Bacchus. Known for nights of dancing, shouting and general commotion, those celebrations provide an appropriate foundation for a song that rarely sits still. “Baccano” opens with the voice of filmmaker Robert Gardner, sampled from his 1963 ethnographic documentary Dead Birds, before a didgeridoo cuts through the atmosphere. From there, percussion begins to build while electric guitar pushes the track into increasingly chaotic territory. HAARA describes “Baccano” as an “electric tarantella,” and that collision of tradition and psychedelia sits at the center of the release. Electric bass is treated as a percussive force rather than simply holding down the low end, while layers of rhythm give the track an almost ceremonial intensity. It feels less like a conventional rock arrangement and more like something unfolding in real time. The lyrics add another layer to that tension. Written and performed in English, they follow characters preparing for a battle set to take place the following day. Their words become a mantra as they perform a propitiatory ritual, ultimately placing their lives in the hands of fate. Released alongside an accompanying music video, “Baccano” finds HAARA leaning fully into atmosphere and experimentation. Powerful, strange, and intentionally unsettling, the track makes chaos part of the experience rather than something to clean up.

Alternative rock artist Doyeeta Dasgupta turns grief, resilience, and the difficult process of returning to creativity into something deeply personal on “Hold,” an independently recorded single that has already earned support from BBC Introducing, iHeartRadio’s Rukus Avenue Radio, Valley Free Radio’s iHeartJrock, and Australia’s Happy Mag. Raised in a musical family in Dhaka, Bangladesh, Doyeeta Dasgupta began studying songwriting and arrangements at seven before teaching herself piano at nine. Having since lived across Bangladesh, the United Kingdom, and the United States, Doyeeta Dasgupta brings that sense of movement and searching into music shaped by memory, atmosphere, and identity. “Hold” emerged after the sudden passing of Doyeeta Dasgupta’s grandmother, a loss that led to months away from singing, writing, playing piano, and creating altogether. Music carried an especially painful connection to the loss. Doyeeta Dasgupta’s grandmother would have relatives download songs onto a phone and listen to Doyeeta Dasgupta’s earlier releases, making it hard to confront the idea of creating music that would never reach her. The turning point came quietly. Doyeeta Dasgupta began singing again without expectations, rediscovering a small piece of the happiness music had always provided. “Hold” grew from that moment, becoming a bridge between who Doyeeta Dasgupta was before the loss and the person emerging afterward. Recorded independently, with vocals captured at home, “Hold” was created alongside Allan Miguel Recto (ALN), who contributed production, songwriting, backing vocals, and instrumentation, then mixed and mastered the track in the Philippines. “I hope people take away the feeling that they are never truly alone in feeling like they are falling behind, or like they haven’t tried hard enough,” Doyeeta Dasgupta shares. With “Hold,” Doyeeta Dasgupta transforms a return to music into a reminder that starting again is still a form of moving forward. “Hold” came after a period when you stopped creating entirely. What did returning to your voice for the first time teach you about your relationship with music? Returning to my voice taught me that my relationship with music is much deeper than simply creating or sharing songs. I had always thought of music as something that I loved doing, but after I stopped completely, I realized that creating was also a part of how I understood myself and processed what I was feeling. When I finally decided to sing again, I didn't try to make anything or think about whether I sounded good. I just sang. That small moment of happiness I felt reminded me that this was still a part of me, even after everything that had happened. I think it also taught me that I don't always have to force myself to create. Sometimes I need to let myself feel things first, and sometimes the most important thing is simply starting again. “Hold” came from that realization. Your grandmother had a unique relationship with your music, listening to songs that relatives downloaded onto her phone. How has knowing she heard your earlier work changed the meaning those songs hold for you now? Knowing that my grandmother had actually heard my earlier music makes those songs feel incredibly personal to me now. She lived in the countryside of Bangladesh and wasn't very familiar with technology, so she would ask relatives to download songs onto her phone for her. She would listen to them while working around the house, and knowing that she made that effort to hear my music means a lot to me. After she passed away, I found it very difficult to even look at my old music because I knew she had heard those songs. Anything new I created would be something she would never hear, and that was one of the reasons I became afraid of making music again. Now, though, I think of those songs differently. They belong to a time when she was still here and was able to hear me create. There is sadness attached to that, but there is also something comforting about knowing that she was part of that chapter of my life. In a way, those songs are memories that I'll always carry with me. You describe “Hold” as a bridge between your past, present, and future. What parts of the person you were before your loss do you feel you carried into the song, and what parts feel completely new? I think the person I was before my grandmother passed away is still very present in “Hold.” I have my hopes, dreams, and the part of me that believed in creating things even when I wasn't sure where they would take me. Those parts of me didn't disappear after her death; they were buried underneath grief for a long while. At the same time, the song contains a version of me that feels completely new. Losing her changed me emotionally, and eventually I felt like I was waking up from a state of limbo. I started to see things through a different lens instead of seeing everything through rose-colored glasses like I used to. It changed the way I see myself, my relationship with the past and future, and even what it means to keep moving forward. There is a certain awareness in the song that I don't think I had before. That's why I see “Hold” as a bridge. The past is everything I carried into that moment, the future is the person I'm still becoming, and the present is me standing between them and trying to understand everything that happened. I don't think I'm supposed to leave either version of myself behind. Having lived in Bangladesh, the United Kingdom, and the United States, how has moving between different places influenced your ideas of home, identity, and belonging in your songwriting? Moving between Bangladesh, the United Kingdom, and the United States has definitely shaped the way I think about home and belonging. For a long time, I felt like I was always somewhere in between places rather than completely belonging to one. Each place gave me different memories, environments, and versions of myself, so my idea of home became less about one physical location and more about the experiences I carry with me. I think that naturally found its way into my songwriting. I'm very drawn to memories, places, and the feeling of being somewhere that may no longer exist in exactly the same way. Even visually, I find myself thinking about different timelines, the various skylines I've seen, streets, rooms, and different kinds of light. Those things can hold so much emotion for me. I like to describe that experience as “drifting between skylines,” and songwriting became one of the places where all of those different versions of home could exist together. You often begin creating from an atmosphere, image, color, or memory rather than another artist’s music. What was the visual or emotional world surrounding “Hold” while you were creating it? The emotional world surrounding “Hold” felt very quiet, blue, and reflective to me. When I first described the idea to my producer while creating the song, I imagined candlelight reflecting off raindrops on glass. I kept coming back to faded blues, soft blacks, and muted warmth mixed with something grainy, nostalgic, and slightly dreamlike. I wanted the song to feel like a world somewhere between dream and reality, where memories of what could have been blend with the uncertainty of where you're going next. There is a feeling of becoming something new without completely leaving your past behind. The past lingers almost like perfume because it stays with you, and in many ways, it is part of what gives you the courage to move forward. That feeling also carried into the lyric video. It moves through a deep, almost black-blue forest with small fireflies floating through the darkness. I loved the idea of the fireflies because they felt like little pieces of light existing inside something much larger and darker. To me, they represent those moments of hope that can still exist when you're going through something heavy. You don't necessarily need the whole darkness to disappear; sometimes you just need one small light to remind you that you're still moving. I think that contrast was important because the song isn't entirely about sadness. There is grief in it, but there is also grace and hope. The darker blues and quieter imagery represent the weight of everything I was carrying, while the warmer moments represent the realization that I could still move forward. Even the vocals play with that sense of distance and closeness through the changes between reverb and a more exposed, dry sound. Ultimately, I wanted “Hold” to feel fragile but quietly strong, kind of like standing between what has already happened and what might come next.

Berlin-based Greek artist Molyneaux enters a darker new era with “Nemesis,” an experimental pop single that turns identity, expectation, and personal reinvention into something hauntingly atmospheric. Released September 30, “Nemesis” marks the beginning of a new chapter shaped by Molyneaux’s past three years living in Berlin. Following the 2023 EP Sorrow, the track pushes further into electronic avant-pop, combining synthwave textures with deconstructed, experimental production. At the center of “Nemesis” is Katherine, Molyneaux’s baptismal name and one that no longer represents who Molyneaux has become. Rather than treating that former identity as something neatly left behind, the song examines what happens when the expectations attached to your past continue following you. Growing up within a conservative Christian Orthodox environment in Greece informs that tension. “Nemesis” wrestles with inherited ideas surrounding identity and heteronormativity while capturing the complicated process of building a life that feels authentic when an earlier version of yourself still casts a shadow. The production matches that emotional unease. Dark electronic textures create a deliberately unsettled atmosphere, with Molyneaux pulling inspiration from artists including Kedr Livanskiy, In Atlas, Aisha Devi, and Emika. The result feels immersive rather than overly polished, allowing its experimental edges to become part of the storytelling. Molyneaux recorded and produced “Nemesis” independently from a studio in Berlin’s Kreuzberg neighborhood, with Christos Bekiris handling the mix and Iraklis Vlachakis mastering the track. With a full Nemesis album expected in February 2027, the single feels less like an isolated release and more like the opening scene of something larger. Molyneaux isn’t simply introducing a new sound. “Nemesis” is about deciding who gets to define the person standing behind it.

Love songs have spent decades promising hearts, souls, and forever. Olivia Royal takes things a little further on “Gimme,” turning all-consuming desire into something much more literal. “Gimme” is the centerpiece single from Olivia Royal’s upcoming album, Songs for Eros. The Chicago-based vocalist, songwriter, and producer blends funk-inspired pop and R&B with a darker fantasy edge, building the track around pounding drums, driving bass, horns, keytar, and Olivia Royal’s rich alto vocals. At the center of “Gimme” is a wildly effective metaphor: cannibalism as the final form of consuming love. It is eerie, playful, absurd, and strangely romantic, tapping into the centuries-old connection between appetite and desire while refusing to take itself too seriously. That idea ultimately became the foundation for Songs for Eros, an album tracing the increasingly intense stages of falling in love. The story begins with narcissism and complete self-sufficiency before spiraling toward the feeling of wanting another person so badly you could quite literally eat them. After writing her share of sad love songs, Olivia Royal wanted to have some fun. “Gimme” sounds like exactly that: a twisted, theatrical love song with enough groove to make the darkness feel dangerously inviting. “Gimme” takes the idea of all-consuming love and pushes it all the way into cannibalism. What made you realize that metaphor could carry an entire song? When I write, I like to have a strong thesis statement because it gives me direction for the song. Otherwise, it's easy to repeat the same love song platitudes over and over. Some songs have more obvious metaphors than others, but I think it's always important to have a central theme and point of view. And since there's such a long history of people equating love with food, I knew that our language for love is really ripe with metaphors to play with. You’ve said “Gimme” ultimately inspired Songs for Eros. What was it about writing this track that unlocked the larger world and story of the album? Gimme is the song that inspired the album because it gave me a place to go. You don't start with cannibalism; it's so extreme it feels more like something you fall into. So then the question becomes: where do you fall from? If I'm using cannibalism as a metaphor for closeness, then an opposite song would be about holding people at a distance. And then the album gets to explore the descent between the two extremes. The album moves from narcissism and not needing anyone to wanting someone so intensely you could “eat” them. How did you build t I'd love to come back to this question when the album is out next February. I'd love for people to listen to the project in its entirety and feel the emotional progression themselves. That said, I think of the emotions in this album as similar to temperature. We start the project ice-cold, and hopefully Gimme feels like the boiling point. Your work pulls fantasy, mythology, romance, and pop music into the same universe. How much world-building happens before you write the music, and how much reveals itself through the songs? At this point, I've done so much world-building between my projects that I can just add on top of what was already built. For example, I've already played with the idea of being a siren in a song of mine called Under from my mixtape PSYCHE and also in my novel The Diviner Sisters through one of my characters. Sirens are alluring, but they're also deadly; so with Gimme, I didn't feel like I had to start from scratch. I already had ongoing themes that I could play with. Another example is that Psyche is the wife of the god of love, Eros. When I was thinking about what to name this next project, given that my last project was called PSYCHE and it was about me and my identity, it felt like a no-brainer to make the next project Songs for Eros. You’ve written plenty of sad love songs in the past, but “Gimme” embraces humor, absurdity, and darkness. Did allowing yourself to have more fun change the way you approach songwriting? The difference between writing a sad love song and a song like Gimme is that it allows me to look forward to the performance a lot more. When I write sad love songs, it’s because I’m feeling sad, so I’m trying to release some emotions. Those songs can sound great right away because they're so raw, but I don't always love performing them because it means I have to keep going back to that feeling I had when I was writing. With more fun songs like Gimme, I can get really excited about how this song could be experienced live and how I want people to feel when they hear it. But there are a lot of months of work to do to close the gap between my vision and the demo, so it requires more patience to get the payoff of the fun, explosive sound I’m looking for. I think both kinds of songs have their pros and cons. I'm happy to have all of it in my catalog.

Photo by Le3ay Alt-pop artist Zeph is back with “don’t let go til you hate me,” a distorted electronic-pop release that explores what happens when holding onto a relationship starts doing more damage than letting it end. Written and produced entirely by Zeph, the single arrived September 25 via MDDN Records/Atlantic Records and finds the Maryland-born artist leaning further into the detailed, self-produced sound that has shaped the project. Bright pop melodies collide with clipped electronics, manipulated vocals, and flashes of distortion as Zeph unpacks the need to push a relationship to its absolute breaking point before accepting that it’s over. Rather than approaching heartbreak from the aftermath, “don’t let go til you hate me” sits directly inside the mess. Zeph writes from the perspective of someone who knows a relationship is collapsing but would rather see it through to complete emotional exhaustion than walk away without closure. The accompanying music video pushes that tension further, using chains, cages, and industrial imagery to bring the track’s themes of attachment and emotional confinement into a physical space. Following 2023’s debut album, character development, Zeph continues to build a world around confessional songwriting and intricately layered production, with the uncomfortable parts of love, anxiety, and attachment left firmly intact. We caught up with Zeph to dig deeper into “don’t let go til you hate me,” producing the track independently, the limits of oversharing, and why sometimes letting go is the hardest part. “don’t let go til you hate me” is built around wanting a relationship to reach absolute emotional exhaustion before you can accept that it’s over. Where do you think that need for a definitive ending comes from? I think love is hard to come by, so when I have it, I don't want to give it up. to me it feels worse to live with regrets than it does to be in a toxic relationship. You’ve described oversharing as a big part of your songwriting. Is there ever a moment where you write something and think, “I actually don’t know if I want people to know this about me”? Actually, no, I've never held back in writing about myself. I'm more careful about writing about other people, though. You wrote and produced this track entirely yourself. What was the hardest part of translating something so emotionally messy into production without making it feel overly polished or controlled? For this song the production came naturally to me, the hardest part was putting my thoughts into words. This was actually the first song I made while I was on vyvanse so I really locked into creating all the tiny details. There’s something almost self-aware about knowing a relationship has become unhealthy but still wanting to hold onto it. Do you think writing this song changed the way you understand that instinct in yourself? Writing this song didn't change the way I think about holding onto an unhealthy relationship; it helped me consolidate the way I've felt about it for a long time. The video uses chains, cages, and industrial imagery to physically represent the song’s emotional fixation. What did you want the visuals to communicate that you couldn’t get across through the song alone? I wanted to show my conviction and desperation in a tangible way that matched the production's energy, and director Amy Lee did an amazing job of capturing that.

London-based independent artist, producer, and engineer Maya Musat introduces the emotional world of upcoming debut album SOB (State of Being) with “you/me,” an intimate alternative R&B release that finds hope somewhere between an old love and a new beginning. Written as the exposition of SOB, “you/me” captures Maya Musat at a complicated romantic crossroads. Someone new is entering the picture, but the emotional ties to someone from the past haven’t completely disappeared. Instead of forcing that tension into a straightforward love song, Maya Musat lets uncertainty become part of the story. There’s still optimism running through the track. The possibility of something real feels exciting, but Maya Musat draws a clear line between opening the heart to another person and losing yourself in the process. At its core, “you/me” is as much about choosing yourself as it is about choosing who gets to stand beside you. That perspective gives the track its emotional pull. Romance is allowed to be messy, hopeful, confusing, and beautiful at the same time without becoming the sole measure of personal happiness. Sonically, Maya Musat’s work brings together a love for vintage sounds and nostalgia with atmospheric modern production. The entire project is deeply hands-on, with Maya Musat recording and producing the sounds from a home studio and drawing each story from lived experience. After holding onto “you/me” for four years while the larger story of SOB took shape, Maya Musat is finally opening that journal to listeners. For the hopeless romantics learning that love shouldn’t require abandoning yourself, “you/me” might hit exactly where it needs to.

LA and Toronto-based artist and producer Sarah Shafey is stepping into a new era with “Route 25,” an atmospheric alternative-pop single that leads the way toward her forthcoming album, By Design, arriving in 2027. Currently recording By Design alongside Grammy-winning producer Tristan Boston, Sarah Shafey is using the project to explore self-sovereignty, authenticity, and clarity while moving between alternative rock, pop-rock, grunge, and R&B-infused rock. “Route 25” turns that evolution into a literal journey. Inspired by Sarah Shafey’s move from Toronto to Los Angeles, the track captures the uncertainty and freedom that come with uprooting your life and choosing something bigger for yourself. A steady nocturnal groove meets soaring vocals and sun-soaked West Coast energy, giving the song the feeling of driving the Pacific Coast Highway with the windows down and the future wide open. Beneath its cinematic exterior, “Route 25” is ultimately about self-trust. Sarah Shafey traces the transition from feeling untethered to becoming firmly grounded in her own identity, turning the open road into a metaphor for leaving old expectations behind. The result is an empowering track for anyone making a major life change and choosing to rebuild on their own terms. “Route 25” also arrives as Sarah Shafey expands this chapter beyond the studio. Sarah Shafey recently debuted a new live set backed by an all-female band and is preparing to bring the music to audiences on tour. As the first introduction to By Design, “Route 25” makes Sarah Shafey’s direction clear: going forward is the only way.

Indie folk singer-songwriter Emalyon has released her new single, “The Lovers,” a haunting and intimate exploration of what it means to choose connection even when certainty is impossible. Rooted in indie folk, “The Lovers” unfolds around a beautifully restrained riff that immediately gives the track a reflective, almost ceremonial quality. Emalyon leans into atmosphere rather than excess, allowing the song’s imagery and emotional tension to do the heavy lifting. References to moonlight, cycles, and ritual give the release a dreamlike quality while keeping its central story grounded in something deeply human. The inspiration behind “The Lovers” began unexpectedly through a weekly tarot practice. Emalyon repeatedly pulled The Lovers card during readings centered on relationships, leading Emalyon to consider the idea of love as more than chemistry or fate. Instead, the song examines the conscious effort beneath intimacy and the willingness of two people to continue meeting each other through uncertainty. That concept fits naturally within Emalyon’s broader approach to songwriting. Moving between organic folk and rock influences and the darker textures of modern pop and electronic music, Emalyon creates songs that feel detailed without becoming overcrowded. On “The Lovers,” that balance gives every element room to breathe. There is a quiet confidence to the track. Emalyon does not attempt to provide a clean answer to the uncertainty that comes with love. Instead, “The Lovers” finds something more compelling in accepting the unknown and choosing to move toward connection anyway. With “The Lovers,” Emalyon turns a deeply personal meditation into an immersive piece of indie folk storytelling, capturing the strange mix of vulnerability, intention, and possibility that makes meaningful connection feel almost magical. What first drew you to The Lovers card, and when did you realize its recurring presence in your tarot practice could become a song? I have a daily practice pulling tarot cards for myself. Partially to learn, and partially for self-reflection. I had this week where I kept pulling The Lovers card over and over, so the card was on my mind. I was playing through some other songs on guitar and then started riffing a bit and improvising; then the Lovers song started writing itself, so I took a voice note, then started writing the lyrics down. “The Lovers” explores love as a conscious choice rather than something driven purely by fate or chemistry. How has that idea shaped the way you approach relationships in your own life? I think with all relationships, we're human. Falling in love is one thing, and choosing love is another. Seasons change, we change, and I think we decide if we keep showing up to the dance with someone else or not. I do think fate and chemistry play a part, and I think our souls choose people, but I also think relationships are work and a balance of give and take and presence. Adjustment, readjustment, showing up, bending, attunement, all of it. There’s a quiet, almost ritualistic atmosphere throughout “The Lovers.” How did you translate the song’s themes of moonlight, cycles, and mysticism into its production and overall sound? I could see dancing in the dark under a new moon in a waltz with someone. The song is in a 3/4 meter, and stays rooted in minor as opposed to major chords to give some piece of nighttime, the mystery, the unknown, the liminal. I don't want to fully say eerie, because the song doesn't come across as eerie to me, but in the unseen we also get to just be all of ourselves, and I find that very raw and vulnerable, and so having the track be an acoustic guitar and voice felt appropriate. Your music moves between organic folk and rock influences and darker elements of pop and electronic music. What excites you about bringing those different worlds together? I think there are so many different colors to paint with in music, different stories to tell, different worlds to unravel and reveal. Different songs feel like they long for different paints and brushes, so moving between organic folk, rock influences, darker elements of pop, and electronic music makes so much sense to expand what can be expressed in the long run. We have free will, and our expression can usually go so much farther and deeper. Why not bring whatever a song needs into the song? Now that “The Lovers” is out, what does this release represent for where Emalyon is headed next creatively? This release represents a walking back into where I suppose I came from sonically as a guitar player and singer-songwriter, and I'm bringing who I have become to the table, bringing some magic along with it, and exploring music from the mystical place that I think music itself comes from.

Photo by C Seattle-based rock-fusion band GENEVA channels anger, accountability, and the urgency for change into “Hand Of God,” a confrontational track that challenges listeners to examine the distance between what they believe and how they actually live. Led by vocalist Lea “Eve” Anderson alongside co-writer and lead guitarist Angelina Daly, GENEVA has built a distinctive sound by colliding camp rock with jazz fusion and high-energy performance. Founded in 2023, the band emerged from Boston’s rock scene before touring the West Coast and eventually relocating to Seattle, where GENEVA has continued building a dedicated DIY following. Despite its title, “Hand Of God” is far from a straightforward Christian-rock anthem. Lea “Eve” Anderson initially developed the song as a poem written from a place of frustration surrounding ethical decline, religious nationalism, and the weaponization of religion. As the concept developed, the focus expanded toward a broader criticism of complicity and the contradictions that can exist between advocating for change and participating in the very systems being criticized. That tension gives “Hand Of God” its bite. GENEVA avoids directing all of the song’s anger toward one convenient target, instead turning the lens toward complacency, comfort, and the need for greater self-awareness. After receiving the original lyrics and early chord ideas, Angelina Daly developed the infectious guitar riff that helped establish the song’s direction. The result is a driving, aggressive, and atmospheric instrumental that gives Lea “Eve” Anderson’s words an appropriately forceful backdrop. Completed by Brandon Bosch on rhythm guitar, Ethan Horn on drums, and Alexander James “AJ” Marto on bass, “Hand Of God” is designed to provoke as much as it is designed to hit hard. GENEVA wants listeners to headbang, but the larger goal is attention, mobilization, and creating an anthem for voices that have yet to feel heard. What was the moment that turned the original poem behind “Hand Of God” into something you knew needed to become a GENEVA song? The poem wasn't something everyone could relate to, but feelings I wish everyone would try to understand. Not everyone pays attention to lyrics, but I knew we could back them with an instrumental that told the same story. Everyone in the band is happy to relay that message through music. Though it's hilarious to me that some far-left punk bands have plenty of right-wing fans who have no idea that the band's lyrics challenge their entire ideology, I make sure to precede the song with a very clear contextual foreword every time we perform it live. “Hand Of God” challenges complicity rather than pointing the finger at one obvious target. Why was it important to turn some of that criticism inward? Complicity takes the place of a friend, a family member, or someone you thought you could trust through vulnerability. In my eyes, that's the biggest heartbreak when change brings harm to anything and anyone. People who preach their anger towards systems, legislation, and constructs but are hopeless when it comes to acting against them come off as insincere and dishonest. We see it everywhere, from a situation where someone embraces ignorance to protect their peace, to forgiving or forgetting the most horrible, unspeakable crimes. Almost every woman and those in ethnic communities and LGBTQ+ communities know this pattern way too well. Angelina Daly’s guitar riff helped transform the original lyrics into the aggressive track we hear now. How did the rest of GENEVA build around that riff and shape the final sound? When Angelina and I brought this to the rest of the band, they picked up on the vibe right away. We'd never created a song so aggressive and punchy, so telling them to get loud was like opening a floodgate. Ethan, our drummer, found a slow groove that felt somewhere between Tool and Pearl Jam, and AJ, our bassist, almost plays a driving pedal tone on his lowest note, with some room for tasteful embellishments. Our previous rhythm guitarist, Brandon, found his part in the atmosphere, transforming sections from overdriven, moody washes to bare-bones nothing. Everyone left plenty of space for the lyrics to be heard loud and clear, highlighting the message. They did a great job. You want “Hand Of God” to encourage attention and mobilization, but music can only go so far. What would meaningful action from listeners actually look like to GENEVA? The biggest thing that I'd love to see from our listeners in exchange is to inform themselves. Form their own opinions based on their own research, ask their diverse friends how they're doing right now, and hopefully, get inspired to create change the same way we do. Everyone is extremely capable of influence, whether it's boycotting, creating art, publishing, or just having a talk with someone they disagree with. GENEVA has never seemed interested in making comfortable music. As the band’s audience grows, how do you protect that willingness to be confrontational without softening the message for broader appeal? As far as I'm concerned, we need our audience far more than they need us. We're only a handful of people who could be targeted for our identities and the movement we preach. Anyone who is made uncomfortable at a show, if unwilling to change their beliefs, could be motivated to challenge or harm us. But every single person in our audience who joins our movement makes us one person stronger and one person safer.