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Aron Lipman  is not easing his way into pop. He is walking straight into the spotlight, his nerves, hope, and humanity fully exposed. “ Insecure ” marks his debut solo single, and it already tells you exactly who he is. A young artist who would rather tell the truth than pretend he has everything figured out. The industry has enough polished robots. Aron arrives as a real person. “Insecure” sits on a glossy, high-energy pop production courtesy of Party Hills Music in Hollywood. It feels current without chasing trends. Aron’s vocals carry the emotional load, and that is what makes this song hit harder than expected. He leans into a Bieber-inspired softness, but there is a rawness in how he phrases specific lines. You can hear the moment he stops performing and starts admitting something personal. That shift is what gives the track its teeth. The song centers on a simple but heavy reality. Life will break you at times, and you need someone to sit with you through it. Aron wrote it from a place of emotional exhaustion, and the vulnerability shows in every note. He is not begging for a savior. He is asking for presence. Support. Connection. Something real. His quote says it all. Life is impossible alone. Everyone needs a shoulder. Lyrically, the writing is clean and direct. No metaphors to hide behind. No sugar coating the hard parts. He is not trying to romanticize pain. He is just calling it what it is. That kind of honesty is rare in a debut and even rarer in a world where everyone online pretends they are thriving. “Insecure” cuts right through the performance culture and lands on something human. Replay value is strong because the song hits a different nerve each time. One listen makes you feel understood. Another listen makes you realize how often you pretend you are fine. Aron is speaking to people who are tired of acting strong for the timeline. People who want permission to say they are not okay. As a debut, “Insecure” is a bold introduction. Aron Lipman is not chasing a persona. He is choosing truth. And truth always finds its audience. What part of recording “Insecure” pushed you into territory that felt emotionally unsafe but necessary for the song to work? Singing about insecurities is being vulnerable to the world. It puts you in the spotlight, which means people will be judging you. That’s scary  You left school to pursue music full-time. How did that leap of faith shape the honesty you brought into this track? I left school to do what I wanted deep down, which was to sing. Being real with yourself is what matters when it comes to singing. The production feels polished, but your vocal delivery feels intentionally raw. What choices did you make in the booth to keep that balance real? Starting the song off with a softer, sadder tone gave the necessary sadness to the song, but more than that, Insecure is about reaching forward, understanding, learning from struggles, and opening up to someone else the next time. I chose raw delivery bc it feels the most real. Your writing often touches on faith and the search for meaning. How does that inner journey influence the way you talk about fear and needing support? Im still figuring out a lot in life, but that inner search—trying to understand why I’m here and what really matters—shapes the way I write. So when I talk about fear or needing support, it comes from a place of knowing I can’t do everything alone.  This is your debut solo single, which means listeners are meeting you for the first time. What do you hope they understand about you after hearing “Insecure”? I hope listeners understand im about down-to-earth lyrics that everyone needs to hear. Life’s a journey, and im putting some of my journey into music in the hope of helping others on their paths.

Let’s be real. Most emotional rock songs either overdo the theatrics or hide behind distortion, like vulnerability is embarrassing.  Jay Luke  doesn’t do either. “ Ghosts ” lands in that rare, uncomfortable space where the emotion is so real it almost feels intrusive to listen to. And that’s exactly what makes it powerful. From the first note, the track feels like stepping into a dim room filled with things you haven’t dealt with yet. The guitars set the temperature instantly, warm but heavy, while the rhythm section builds this slow, churning tension that sits in your chest. Michael “Duds” McDonald’s lead guitar work cuts like a voice inside the mind you try to ignore, and Joe Loftus on bass, keys, and piano adds a cold edge that makes the whole track feel haunted in the most literal sense. Then Jay comes in. His vocal delivery doesn’t try to pretty anything up. He sounds like a man who has lived with these ghosts long enough to know them by name. There’s grit, there’s ache, and there’s this emotional clarity that only shows up when someone finally stops running from what hurts. The vulnerability hits even harder once you know the backstory. This isn’t a metaphor for the sake of art. This is a son watching his mother drift between memory and confusion. This is trauma repurposed into tribute. And despite the weight, “Ghosts” isn’t exhausting. It’s gripping. Replayable. A reminder that rock still has space for songs that tell the truth without hiding behind ego or nostalgia. The production feels intentionally imperfect, adding to the rawness instead of smoothing it over. You hear every crack as it matters. The cultural moment fits too. In a world obsessed with distractions, here comes Jay Luke asking you to sit with the things you bury. Anyone dealing with grief, unresolved memories, or that weird, disorienting space between love and loss will feel this track hit straight in the ribcage. With chart placements across ISSA Radio, Valley FM, and Radio Indie Alliance, “Ghosts” is proof that authentic storytelling still cuts through the noise. Jay didn’t chase a trend. He let truth lead. And it shows. “Ghosts” carries decades of emotional weight. What moment convinced you it was finally the right time to release it? The interesting thing about being an artist or musician is that the things you create tend to change in meaning as you grow older. To me, that has always been a sign of great art, when it grows with you. I have many songs and lyrics that were never released, and when I revisit them years later, I often find something new or a way to update them to make them feel fresh again. “Ghosts” was exactly that. I originally wrote the lyrics shortly after seeing  The Sixth Sense , and then they just lay dormant in a notebook for years. Fast-forward a few decades, and I found myself sitting with my mother as she began experiencing frightening hallucinations. In that moment, the lyrics I had written back then suddenly shifted into something deeply personal. It hit me instantly that the song needed to be reworked and brought back to life. That was when I knew the time had finally come to release it. The production feels intentionally raw. What imperfections did you choose to leave in because they added truth instead of polish? I can’t say anything in the production was intentionally “left in”, it all happened naturally throughout the process. But if certain moments feel a little rough, emotional, or unpolished, I think that’s because I was drawing from a place of real pain and reflection. I was reliving some of the struggle I watched my mother go through, and that emotion naturally came through in the vocal delivery and performance. Sometimes the truth shows itself more honestly than anything you could plan. Watching your mother navigate that liminal space between clarity and confusion is incredibly heavy. How did you protect your mental state while turning that experience into art? I think no matter how much we try to prolong our mortality, at some point, we have to face the reality that everyone’s time eventually comes. What we choose to do with the time we do have is what life is really all about. Accepting that helped me protect my mental state and approach everything with a clearer mindset.I wanted to illustrate what people go through when they’re seeing or experiencing things nobody else can see. It’s incredibly frightening for them, and witnessing that changes you. Turning it into art helped me process it in a healthier way. Your music has always leaned into emotional honesty. What part of your storytelling shifted the most between the first version of “Ghosts” and the version you released today? Interestingly, the lyrics from the initial draft changed very little. What changed the most was the perspective behind them. Originally, the song was written about an idea, something foreign to most people and me. But as the decades passed, the song almost became prophetic, because it ended up describing a very real and personal situation I was living through. So while the literal lyrical content didn’t change drastically, the connection I had to the song and the emotional weight behind it shifted in a huge way. It became much more personal, and that changed how I delivered it. You ’ve shared stages with major rock icons. How have those experiences shaped the way you approach vulnerability and intensity in your own songwriting? Absolutely, they had a huge impact. I learned from a lot of people I looked up to: how to act, how not to act, what to share, and what to keep private. Having heroes teaches you a lot, but it also teaches you that at some point, people may let you down. That’s when you realize you have to find your own path. In today’s world, the truest form of rebellion is being yourself. Not chasing after the crowd, not trying to fit into whatever is popular at the moment, but carving your own path and seeing where it takes you. That mindset has shaped how I write and how honest I try to be in my music.

Some bands fit neatly into genres. T he Uprights are not one of those bands, and that’s exactly why they stand out. Formed inside Area 51 during the global shutdown, the group has always felt less like a band and more like an art movement, one built on experimentation, cinematic imagination, and a refusal to obey conventional musical borders. Their sound is a living collage: electronica, jazz, classical phrasing, spoken-word musings, environmental textures, surrealist visuals, and a commitment to beauty in all its forms of serene, haunting, or downright unsettling. The Uprights have never tried to blend in. Their mission has always been to blur the line between music and art, to create work that feels like an exhibition rather than a playlist. And Curse Of The Yellow Butterfly , the 2025 release chosen for BUZZMUSIC’s Best Independent Releases of 2025, is the clearest expression of that ethos to date. The album isn’t just listened to, it’s entered. It surrounds you. It creates a world where sound becomes a sensory environment, where guitars ripple like strange weather, where vocals hover like memories, and where every arrangement carries an element of wonder, mystery, or danger. As Complex writer Brandon Constantine put it, their compositions don’t follow genre rules; they follow beauty. Whether that beauty is fragile, eerie, or terrifying is beside the point; what matters is the emotional awe it leaves behind. 2025 also marked a banner year for the collective. Their work caught the attention of publications like Pitchfork, Rolling Stone, Medium, Pitch Perfect, Vents Magazine, and more, all drawn to the band’s ability to create something that feels genuinely new in an industry that often leans toward imitation. Guitarist Rod earned a songwriting award from the Nashville Music Foundation; bassist John Thomas debuted a global photography exhibition; the group played stripped-back sets in Germany, Curacao, and Australia; and their music was featured in The Seven In One Way, a documentary exploring the Basque region of Spain. What makes The Uprights so compelling is that their world expands beyond sound. Their visuals, concepts, and performances all stem from the same creative DNA, a willingness to get weird, dig deep, experiment loudly, and refuse to be defined by the expectations of others. And as they prepare to release their next album, Death Of The White Dog, and negotiate with labels and streaming platforms for wider distribution, the band is stepping into their next evolution with the same energy that has carried them since day one: curiosity, intuition, and a commitment to art that challenges and mesmerizes. At their core, The Uprights are a reminder of something essential: great art isn’t safe, predictable, or polished into submission. Great art is weird. It’s bold. It’s boundaryless. And if Curse Of The Yellow Butterfly proves anything, it’s that the world is more than ready for bands that dare to be all three. Curse Of The Yellow Butterfly is the release you chose for our Best Independent Artists of 2025. What was the original spark or visual that set the tone for this album’s surreal, immersive world? When The Uprights first came together, we were planning to be a jazz group. However, we soon realized that our shared interests in both art and experimental music could take us to some far more interesting and imaginative places. So I think that is what set the tone for Curse Of The Yellow Butterfly: a sense of artistic freedom and a willingness to push against the perceived boundaries of what a band can or should be. Your sound blends electronica, jazz, classical, spoken word, field recordings, and cinematic elements, and somehow still feels cohesive. How do you approach composition when your “rules” are basically that there are no rules, except beauty? The world itself is a chaotic blend of random and often conflicting elements. Every day we experience love and hate. Beauty and ugliness. Heart-warming kindness and savage cruelty. We see obscene wealth and wretched poverty. In the same way that all of those things coexist on our pale blue dot, we try to mold these disparate components into unified musical statements. I’m reminded of the words of Kurt Vonnegut, ‘Nice, nice, very nice. So many people in the same device.’ The Uprights were born inside Area 51 during the pandemic, a story that already sounds like its own myth. How did isolation, secrecy, and experimentation shape the band’s identity in those early stages? For us, it is very important that we are artists, as opposed to rock stars. Therefore, we have taken great pains to remain anonymous. That way we don’t have to worry about fashion trends or hair styles, publicity tours or whether or not we are being seen in the hip clubs. We want the music and the art to be the focus, not our private escapades and shenanigans. Ironically, however, our desire for privacy seems to have fueled even more interest in the group.  Brandon Constantine noted that you blur the line between music and art. What does “art” mean to The Uprights, and when do you know a piece has crossed from just sound into something more immersive and experiential? We seem to be at our best when a song sort of bleeds over into real life. You can be listening to a nice groove, and suddenly, there is the sound of gunfire or a dog barking. This happens to people all the time, so we decided to incorporate it into our work. We also like to take quotes from movies or books, which help to express what it is that the song is trying to say, and put them into the piece. Even the natural sounds of wind, rain or traffic. What’s that noise? Is it on the recording? Is it coming from outside? We like that uncertainty. We want the listener to feel as if they are slowly slipping into another world. Somehow familiar and yet, alien. 2025 saw huge moments for the group: praise from Rolling Stone and Pitchfork, Rod’s songwriting award, John Thomas’s photography exhibit, international acoustic shows, and your music being featured in a Basque documentary. What accomplishment from this year felt the most validating for your evolution as a collective? The wonderful reviews that we have received from various music publications in the last year - including from BUZZMUSIC, by the way - have been incredibly gratifying. When we started down this path, we were just trying to amuse and entertain each other. There was no expectation that anyone outside the band would have any interest in, let alone praise for, this music. It turns out that maybe we weren’t crazy after all. There might still be people out there who are looking for something other than pre-packaged pop. Death Of The White Dog is coming this December. What emotional or conceptual territory does this next album explore, and how does it expand or subvert what you started with Curse Of The Yellow Butterfly? We definitely want to expand our horizons beyond what we did on the last album. We are incorporating some new musical styles and sounds. We are creating some longer pieces than we did on Curse Of The Yellow Butterfly and using more AI tools for both the music and the accompanying videos. In short, we just plan to keep exploring and pushing ourselves into new areas. As the saying goes, all of the good stuff is on the other side of your fear. Your advice for artists is to stay weird as hell and define art on their own terms. What’s the weirdest creative risk you’ve taken as a band that unexpectedly paid off? The decision to write, record, and release our last album was an incredibly risky move in and of itself. It was far and away the strangest music that any of us had ever worked on before. We had already finished a perfectly respectable jazz album (which I’m sure that we will release one day) that probably would have gotten some attention and praise from critics, but then we suddenly just walked away from it and said, ‘Let’s try something different…’ It was a ridiculous choice to make at the time, but it has paid off so far. Let your freak flag fly!

Specyal T isn’t just an artist, she’s an architect of sound, a multi-instrumentalist, a storyteller, and a creative force who refuses to stay in one lane. The Toronto-born Caribbean-Canadian musician has spent her career breaking boxes, blending genres, and shaping a signature style that exists somewhere between Lauryn Hill’s honest soul and Missy Elliott’s bold, experimental edge. But what sets her apart isn’t just the sound, it’s the intention. Every track, every hook, every sonic left turn is rooted in craft, discipline, and purpose. 2025 marked a defining chapter for her. While fans were already riding the wave of her long-running hit “Double Take,” Specyal T introduced a new side of her artistry through Chasing Sunday, dropping the punchy “ Ben’s Girlfriend” and the raw, relatable “ Automatic .” But it was her sixth studio EP, After The Applause , that revealed the most personal evolution. Genre-bending, emotionally layered, and technically daring, the project showcases an artist stretching beyond comfort zones, experimenting with new textures, and pushing her own creative limits. It’s the release she chose for BUZZMUSIC’s Best Independent Artists of 2025, not only because it’s sonically strong, but because it represents real growth, real vulnerability, and real triumph. For Specyal T, this EP isn’t just another checkpoint in her discography. It’s a body of work built during a year of learning, healing, and reconnecting, with new instruments, new techniques, and a new chapter of performance after joining a worship band for the first time since losing her daughter. That step alone carried weight. It opened doors, sparked new connections, and reignited a sense of spiritual grounding in her relationship with music. Outside the studio, she spent the year expanding her skill set, performing more, and continuing her role as a mentor to emerging artists. She’s the kind of creative who leads by example, a reminder that independent artistry isn’t just about releasing music; it’s about the hustle behind the scenes, the self-management, the emotional labor, and the constant drive to evolve without losing authenticity. As she steps into 2026, Specyal T is aiming higher: more live shows, bold collaborations, and new releases that push her versatility even further. But at the heart of her journey remains the same message she gives other artists: keep grinding, stay grounded, and trust the beauty inside the struggle. That’s where the real connection lives. After The Applause is your chosen release for 2025, a project you’ve described as both creatively challenging and personally meaningful. What headspace were you in while making this EP, and how did pushing into new genres and techniques change you as an artist? I was in a different level of creative flow when creating ATA. Pushing into new genres and techniques continues to help me evolve in my artistry. Your career spans R&B, Hip-Hop, Pop, Electro-Pop, and even Pop Rock through your Chasing Sunday project. What inspires you to constantly genre-bend, and how do you decide which sonic world each story belongs in? As an artist I’m known to push creative boundaries, I don’t like to be put in a box. The vibe, the mood, and the direction come from the story, and then the music evolves everything from there. You’ve talked about wanting listeners to understand the layers and workload independent artists manage. What’s something behind the scenes that people don’t realize takes real emotional or creative stamina? I feel the true level of work as a whole, most times done independently, at the level of a major artist, without the various teams and resources they typically have. It takes real emotional and creative stamina to stay in the grind when the respect may not always be there.  You learned new instruments and skills this year, and you also returned to performing piano/synth with a worship band, your first since your daughter’s passing. How has reconnecting with music in that space shifted your relationship with performing and healing? Yes, this year I’ve also been busy with building up more musical skills in performance and technique. It’s been a real healing journey, and I’ve found in this new, familiar environment a new sense of peace, which has helped me overall through my continued bereavement journey.  Between radio rotation, TV placements, and the long life of singles like “Double Take,” you’ve built a career with serious longevity. How do you balance staying consistent with also reinventing and evolving across each new era? I just continue to stay true to my vibe. It has served me well throughout the years.  You’ve become a mentor and role model to other musicians. What’s one piece of hard-earned wisdom you find yourself sharing most often with artists coming up behind you? One piece of wisdom I find myself sharing with newer artists is to stay focused on your goals, and don’t let outside noise affect your creative process. Looking ahead to more performances, new collaborations, and new releases in 2026, what creative risks or new chapters are you most excited to explore in the next year? I’m excited for everything creatively that’s coming next. 2026, let’s get it!

Some songs are written. Others just spill out because they have to. “ (Haunted By) The Ghost ” is firmly in the second category, and that urgency is exactly what makes Giselle’ s latest release so heavy in the best way. The Los Angeles–based alt-rock artist didn’t set out to craft a perfectly polished track. This song was born during a moment of PTSD flashbacks, captured instinctively on her phone with nothing but a keyboard and her voice. No rewrites. No overthinking. Just raw emotion moving faster than fear. Even after additional layers were added in the studio, that original feeling remains untouched. Sonically, “(Haunted By) The Ghost” lives in a tense, atmospheric space. Moody keys anchor the track while subtle production choices keep the focus where it belongs: on the emotion. Giselle’s vocal delivery is restrained but aching, allowing vulnerability to lead instead of theatrics. She lets moments breathe, which makes every line land harder. Lyrically, the song explores what it means to be haunted by someone who caused real harm. Not a metaphorical ghost, but a presence that lingers long after the damage is done. The kind that shows up uninvited, refuses to fade, and reopens wounds that were never fully allowed to heal. While the story is deeply personal, Giselle intentionally leaves the meaning open, giving listeners space to attach their own experiences to the song. Her background as a multi-instrumentalist and seasoned live performer comes through in the track’s quiet confidence. Every element feels intentional, never overcrowded. Years of gigging from Buffalo to Los Angeles, and playing rooms like Hotel Café and Whisky a Go Go, show up in her ability to trust simplicity. At its core, “(Haunted By) The Ghost” isn’t about closure. It’s about acknowledgment. Giselle isn’t trying to offer answers or wrap trauma up neatly. She’s offering understanding. A place to sit with the weight. A release for anyone carrying something they haven’t been able to name. Giselle says she hopes the song helps people feel less alone and gives them permission to cry if they need to. That intention is felt in every second of the track. “(Haunted By) The Ghost” is honest, haunting, and quietly powerful, proof that sometimes the most impactful songs are the ones that don’t ask for attention; they just tell the truth.

Rock & Roll Hall of Fame icon Steve Perry  is leaning fully into the season, and he’s doing it with heart, history, and purpose. The former Journey frontman has debuted an animated visualizer for “This Christmas,” a standout track from his latest holiday release The Season 3, while simultaneously launching a massive charity holiday auction packed with once-in-a-lifetime memorabilia from his personal archive. Following a successful summer auction that raised over $200,000 for Sweet Relief Musicians Fund, Perry has once again partnered with Darkives Collectibles, the archival memorabilia platform from Dark Horse Records, to curate a collection of more than 90 never-before-available items. This time, all proceeds benefit Gilead House, a Marin County nonprofit supporting unhoused single mothers and their children, many of whom are survivors of domestic violence. The auction, live now through December 16, includes deeply personal and historic pieces: handwritten lyrics to Journey classics “Separate Ways” and “Only The Young,” Perry’s Diamond RIAA Award for Escape, signed vinyl test pressings, studio-used instruments, vintage tour merch, promotional jackets, and rare solo and Journey releases pulled directly from Perry’s own collection. Every item has been authenticated and preserved in partnership with Audio Media Grading (AMG). To mark the holiday moment, Perry has also released a new animated visualizer for “This Christmas,” designed by Patrick Atkins, adding a warm, visual layer to The Season 3, the latest chapter in Perry’s acclaimed holiday album series. “I’m excited to once again open up my personal archives for this special Holiday auction,” Perry shared in a statement. “Every item comes directly from my personal collection. These pieces have been carefully stored for many years, and now feels like the right time to pass them on. Most importantly, all the proceeds will go to support Gilead House, a charity close to my heart that helps families rebuild their lives with dignity and strength.” Earlier this year, Perry also surprised fans with a reimagined version of Journey’s legendary ballad “Faithfully,” recorded as a duet with Willie Nelson. The collaboration, recorded in Nashville and at Perry’s Love Box studio, was praised for its stripped-back emotion and unlikely but powerful pairing. Founded over 25 years ago, Gilead House provides housing, education, job training, and long-term stability for mothers and children escaping homelessness and domestic violence. The funds raised through Perry’s auction will directly support programs that restore safety, independence, and hope for vulnerable families across Northern California. For fans, collectors, and anyone looking to make a real impact this holiday season, this auction isn’t just memorabilia. It’s a legacy meeting purpose. The Steve Perry Holiday Charity Auction is live now at Darkives Collectibles and closes December 16 at 12 PM PT.

Leonie Persch is in a rare category of artists who can live between worlds, geographically, musically, and emotionally, and turn that fluidity into something powerful. The German songwriter and artist built her foundation in Berlin’s sharp-edged creative scene, signing her first publishing deal right out of school and writing across Europe for major labels like Universal, Warner, STMPD, and Spinnin’. Her pen touched Disney syncs, charting EDM collaborations, and songwriting camps across the continent. But in 2025, Leonie stepped into a new chapter, one shaped by reinvention, independence, and a level of personal honesty she had never allowed herself to reach before. Now based in Los Angeles under an extraordinary-ability visa, Leonie has become one of the most compelling dual-identity artists to watch. Under her EDM alias EVIE, she’s collaborated with Afrojack, performed across global festival stages, and contributed to a track played at Ultra Europe, a massive moment for any rising artist. Under her legal name, she releases the kind of alt-pop that breathes vulnerability: cinematic, melancholic, intimate, and deeply human. Her 2025 catalog reflects that evolution, Blindfolded , Code Blue , and EVIE’s “ Hold On ” mark transitions, relocations, and emotional upheaval. Outside of the studio, Leonie’s year was equally transformative. She earned three Hollywood Independent Music Award nominations, landed top 5% of most-streamed songwriters of 2025, surpassed 70 million Spotify streams, and achieved her biggest EDM cut to date with Afrojack. She also launched INDIE TABLE, a bi-weekly networking series in LA and NYC, creating a safe, collaborative ecosystem for artists, songwriters, and producers, a reflection of her belief that community fuels creativity. Heading into 2026, Leonie is focused on one mission: to write as much music as possible. With her dual artistry thriving, a growing creative community at her side, and a renewed sense of emotional clarity, she’s stepping into a new era with both vulnerability and fire. You recently moved from Europe to Los Angeles under an extraordinary-ability visa. How did this massive relocation shape the themes of identity, transition, and self-reinvention across Blindfolded, Code Blue, and Dirty Habits? The move from Europe to Los Angeles completely reshaped my sense of identity. Blindfolded and Code Blue were written during the moment of leaving behind everything familiar. My community, my routines, even the version of myself that existed in Berlin. Those songs capture the process of transition, the uncertainty, and the internal rewiring that happens when you suddenly start over on a different continent. My upcoming single Dirty Habits is a personal turning point for me. Earlier in the year, I went through a very heavy time in my private life, and this song became an outlet to process that period. Without going deep into the details, it was a moment where everything felt overwhelming, and I had to find a way back to myself. The song captures that shift, the moment you decide to stop numbing or distracting yourself and start facing the world again with a clearer mind. It’s about acknowledging your struggles without letting them define you, finding lightness again in small moments, and remembering that healing isn’t linear but absolutely possible. For listeners, I hope it feels like a reminder that even when things get dark or chaotic, you can still reclaim your sense of self. You can choose better habits, better thoughts, and step back into your life with more clarity and more gratitude for what’s right in front of you. You release music under multiple aliases, Leonie Persch for alt-pop, and EVIE for EDM. How do you navigate these two artistic identities, and what emotional or creative needs does each one fulfill? Both identities serve different parts of me, and I love that I don’t have to compress everything into one sonic world. As Leonie Persch , I focus on alt-pop. It’s intimate and very lyric-driven, and it gives me the space to unpack personal thoughts, vulnerability, and the emotional transitions I go through. As EVIE , I get to lean into energy, adrenaline, and pure sonic expression. EDM lets me channel movement and the collaborative spirit I’ve always loved from working with DJs and producers.  Your collab with Afrojack was played at Ultra Europe, a massive milestone for an independent artist. How did that moment reshape your confidence, your expectation for yourself, or your perception of where your career is heading? Hearing a song I wrote and sang being played at Ultra Europe was one of those surreal moments that make everything feel possible. As an independent artist, you often have to build your own momentum, so seeing a global crowd react to something you created is incredibly affirming. To be honest, I always had a lot of trust in myself and my skills as a writer and vocalist - so this scenario definitely happened many times in my head before it happened in real life (haha) - and when it came true, it was just the best feeling ever and showed me I can continue trusting in myself. When the DJs with whom I collaborate play our songs at those huge festivals, and people love the music, and it brightens their day, that makes me really happy because that is one of the things I would love to contribute to society for the rest of my life. You’ve built INDIE TABLE, a networking series across LA and NYC. What inspired you to start your own creative community, and how has building that space influenced you as an independent artist? Moving to LA and starting over made me realize how essential community is, especially for independent artists who don’t have a huge support system. I wanted to create a space where people could meet collaborators, exchange ideas, find new clients, and feel less alone in an industry that can be incredibly isolating. INDIE TABLE grew faster than I expected, and hosting it bi-weekly has been one of the most grounding parts of my year. It keeps me connected, inspired, and constantly surrounded by people who are as passionate about creating as I am. When I get feedback from the attendees, and they’re telling me they've worked with multiple people who also attended the Indie table networking dinner - meaning, they found new long-term clients and earned more money AND found new friends and creative partners - that is ultimately what I was going for starting the event series and what I wished I had when I was starting. My initial thought as someone who moved to Los Angeles by herself, not really knowing anyone yet, was - if you don’t have a seat at the table yet, build it yourself. Looking into 2026 with the goal to “write as much music as possible,” what emotional terrain or new sonic directions are you excited to explore next? I’m excited to push both of my projects further – even more honesty and depth in my alt-pop releases, and more experimental and high-energy moments with EVIE. I feel like 2026 is going to be a year of trusting my instincts even more, taking risks, and exploring sounds that feel bolder and more intentional. Writing as much as possible is my way of staying open and letting the year shape the music instead of the other way around.

Pinwheel Valley isn’t just a music project; it’s a vessel for the emotional, spiritual, and existential weight of being human. Led by Jordanian-Canadian singer, composer, and multi-instrumentalist Qais Khoury, the project has carved out a space where Indie Soul, mellow Alternative Rock, and Folktronica blur into something atmospheric, cinematic, and deeply introspective. The sound feels like dusk: warm, moody, textured, and full of quiet revelations. Whether he’s layering falsetto against delicate guitar lines or weaving electronic elements into organic spaces, Qais builds worlds you step into, not just listen to. His journey has always been shaped by depth and curiosity. After graduating from Point Blank Music College in London and earning early accolades across international songwriting competitions, Khoury spent years building Pinwheel Valley into a project defined by its emotional honesty and creative integrity. That dedication led to airplay on NPR and RTE 2FM, features in Clash, Wonderland, Earmilk, Kaltblut, and recognition across major video award circuits, proof that his art resonates far beyond genre boundaries. But 2025 became a particularly transformative chapter. With releases like Going Away , Someway , Can’t Hear A Sound , and collaborations under his DJ alias Nativalien, Qais explored new textures and emotional vantage points. Yet Werewolf stands out as the project’s emotional spine. The track isn’t simply a metaphor; it’s a mirror held up to anyone who has ever felt like an outsider. It speaks to the immigrant experience, the racialized experience, the “othered” experience. It channels anger without endorsing violence, compassion without romanticizing pain, and transformation without ignoring the weight that comes before it. “Werewolf” gives shape to feelings many people carry but rarely articulate. It acknowledges what it’s like to be pushed to the edge by society’s expectations and judgments, and to reclaim that identity with self-awareness instead of shame. It’s music for misfits, for those who feel “too much,” for anyone whose life has existed on the edges of belonging. And that’s exactly what makes it so powerful. Outside of music, Qais experienced one of the most profound moments of his life: welcoming his daughter, Florence Evangeline. Fatherhood layered new meaning onto everything: his sense of purpose, his desire for balance, and the emotional color of the art he’s creating next. In his own words, it felt like a divine blessing, a grounding force that reconnected him to gratitude and personal clarity. Looking ahead to 2026, Pinwheel Valley is entering a new era: new music, a UK tour, Nativalien shows, and a fresh desire to stop measuring his success against timelines or comparisons. Instead, he’s embracing acceptance, growth, craft, and the joy of simply making honest art. “Werewolf” is the release you chose for our Best Independent Artists of 2025, a song about anger, survival, and feeling pushed to the margins. What life experiences or observations shaped the emotional core of this track? I’d say this track comes more from observation than personal experience. Thankfully, I’ve never been deported, detained in an immigration facility, or lived through bombings. But it’s not hard to imagine how marginalized people can be pushed so far to the edges that their anger becomes volcanic. The “werewolf” metaphor captures that feeling of being seen as an outcast, forced into painful transformations by systems that misunderstand or dehumanize you. Even when someone’s core is good, that pressure can drive them to a breaking point, where revolt becomes both a possibility and a powerful response. Your music lives at the intersection of Indie Soul, mellow Alt-Rock, and Folktronica, a blend that feels both intimate and cinematic. What draws you to that hybrid space, and how do you know when a song has found the right sonic identity? They say your sonic identity really takes shape in your late teens and early twenties, and I’ve always felt that’s true. Whatever you’re absorbing during that stretch, what you’re obsessed with, what hits you emotionally, starts to form the blueprint for the sounds you end up loving or even creating. For me, artists like Jeff Buckley, Fink, Ben Howard, Coldplay, and Radiohead were huge early influences, and as a young guitar player, I naturally drifted toward that crossroads of songwriting. Figuring out when a song has actually found its sonic identity took a lot longer, though. It’s been about two decades of sharpening my ear and learning what truly feels like “me.” I recorded my first album at 15 (2004) and never released it. My second album, which came out in 2013, lived on streaming for a couple of years before I pulled it. It didn’t meet the standard I was aiming for. With my third and fourth albums (2016 and 2018), I ended up cutting them both down to about half their original tracklists for the same reason. Some songs just didn’t feel like they belonged in the timeless sonic space I was trying to carve out. Looking back, it’s pretty simple: if a song gave me the ‘cringe factor’, it didn’t survive. These days, I’m much more aware of that instinct as I write and release new music. Honestly, that’s still why I don’t release half the ideas I work on now. I might finish a song all the way through, but if it even hints at cringe, I’ll move on to the next thing without thinking twice. You’ve been recognized by competitions, film festivals, international media, and editorial playlists over the years. How do those milestones impact your internal sense of success… or do you try not to let them define you? Accolades and recognition are all wonderful things to have, but it’s tricky not letting them seep into your head. It’s important that you don’t. Songwriting has to come from a real, grounded place, from the experiences that make the music feel human and relatable. The moment you allow the accolades and recognition to define your identity, your center moves and your voice changes, and suddenly you’re creating from a place of ego rather than authenticity.  Becoming a father this year feels like a major shift,  a grounding moment. How has welcoming your daughter influenced the way you think about art, ambition, balance, or the emotional layers of your songwriting? That’s an interesting question, because there’s still a part of my brain running on autopilot that assumes I’ll keep making and performing music exactly the way I always have. But the more aware part of me knows things have shifted. Becoming a father hasn’t changed the way I think about art, but I’m sure it’ll shape my songwriting in ways I don’t even notice yet. I’ve already written a song just for her, my baby girl Florence, which I’ll be releasing on December 26th through my alter alias Nativalien. That should give listeners a glimpse into that world.  Each part of your question touches on something different, so I’ll break it up a bit. Ambition-wise, I think the idea of me chasing the “world-famous rock star” dream is pretty much out the window now. My priority is stepping up for my family and keeping them safe and secure. The music industry has never been a reliable place for that. The creative side of music is beautiful, and I’m absolutely going to keep making things. But the financial side of it is often brutal and uncertain, and that changes the choices I’m willing to make. That ties directly into balance. I still want to create, to experiment, to put things into the world, but I have to be smarter about where my time, energy, and money go. Saying no to certain opportunities isn’t just about boundaries anymore; it’s about protecting my daughter and my family. And, as you and I both know, this industry is heavily plagued by scams and opportunists, so that sense of caution is even more important now. I can’t afford to operate on faith or impulse the way I used to. Fatherhood hasn’t rewritten my artistic identity, but it’s definitely sharpened my awareness of what, and who, I’m doing all this for. You mentioned wanting to stop stressing about where your career is “supposed” to be. What moment or realization pushed you toward that mindset change, and how does it shape the way you’re approaching 2026? It wasn’t a single moment that pushed me toward that mindset shift. And sorry if this gets a bit long-winded, but I think it all matters. First, as mentioned, becoming a father reshaped my sense of what’s truly important. I’d been hopping from one “next best” PR company to another, convinced each one might finally propel my career forward, only to realize none of them were actually helping me grow. They were just expensive illusions dressed up as opportunity. And while it’s true that we’re all on our own individual paths, that constant pressure of stressing about where my career was “supposed” to be wasn’t inspiring me or advancing anything. If anything, it drained me, financially, emotionally, and took a real toll on my mental health. And honestly, mental health has to be a priority if you want to stay steady in any long-term pursuit. Another layer of it was how triggered I felt seeing people I knew (from high school, college, or my close community), sometimes with very little experience in songwriting, start their music journeys later than I did, and somehow climb further up the industry ladder. It sent me spiraling through all sorts of blame: my parents’ hesitance about me pursuing music, friends or followers who only seemed supportive when things were going well, even my physical appearance, and whether it was holding me back. And while there may be pieces of truth in some of those things, I eventually realized that constantly molding myself to gain listeners or followers was only feeding my insecurity. It pulled me away from the joy of creating and pushed me into this mindset of unhealthy spending, where hiring PR companies month after month started to feel like the only viable route forward.  Underneath all of that was a quiet resentment toward anyone I knew who got ahead without ever offering support or even checking in. And reaching out for support felt like a barricaded approach, since I’ve also come to see how fiercely people guard their own success and networks. Plenty of folks, even the truly talented ones, aren’t actually interested in helping others rise, because in our late-stage capitalist world, some measure their value (In a very Joffrey-from-GOT sort of way) by watching others struggle beneath them. That’s simply not the headspace, or the heartspace, I wanted to inhabit anymore. So moving into 2026, I’m approaching everything with a lot less pressure and a lot more intention. I want to create from a grounded, joyful place again, without constantly chasing some invisible benchmark of where my career “should” be. You’re preparing for a potential UK tour, new releases, and even shows as your DJ alias, Nativalien. What creative space or energy are you excited to tap into that fans may not have seen from you yet? I mentioned that I was preparing for a potential UK tour with my band Pinwheel Valley, although I would love to tour as Nativalien (my producer alias for electronic dance music). It would be so much easier to do a solo DJ tour with just a USB stick as opposed to a million instruments and a minibus full of flatulence :)  Back to the question: I won’t be going on a UK tour anymore. I’m happy to have drawn the attention of booking agents, but after doing some of the math around the costs of touring, I realized these aren’t pursuits I can pull off without the support of a label. And I’m not saying a label needs to cover my tour costs, because I know that’s a bit outside the ambition scale for us indies. I mean, at least a reputable entity that understands the value of my music and can get real ears on my work before I choose to single-handedly sink a new vehicle’s worth of expenses into ten days of “you never know how it’s gonna turn out.”   “Werewolf” gives voice to people who feel different or excluded. As someone who moves between cultures, genres, and identities, what does “belonging” look like to you, and how do you create that feeling in your music? Belonging, to me, always comes back to family. And yes, Vin Diesel might deliver that line with extra cheese, but I genuinely mean it in that simple, earnest way. At the end of the day, having a supportive, joyful family, whether by blood or by choice, feels like the real endgame. It’s the place you should be able to retreat to when the world gets loud or heavy, and feel warmth, safety, and comfort waiting for you. In my music, I try to build that same sense of refuge. Each song becomes its own little universe, a small world the listener can step into. By shaping those spaces with honesty and emotion, I hope to create something that feels like family. Familiar, welcoming, and personal. If someone can press play and find a moment of solace, a place where they feel understood or at home, then that’s the truest form of belonging I can offer.

Kem’Yah doesn’t just make music, he builds cosmologies. The Congolese-Canadian artist has spent the past several years crafting one of the most spiritually grounded, interdisciplinary, and culturally intentional bodies of work in modern Afro-fusion. His sound, a blend of Bantu-cosmic philosophy, hip-hop, R&B, trap, and ancestral rhythm, isn’t designed for passive listening. It’s meant to be absorbed, interpreted, and experienced on a cellular level. Rooted in Kalunga cosmology and the ancestral teachings of the Bantu-Kongo, Kem’Yah approaches music as both ritual and revelation. His work lives at the intersection of memory, reincarnation, divine identity, and liberation, the kind of art that invites listeners to confront where they come from, who they are, and what their spirit is evolving toward. With a trilogy that spans music, short films, and a graphic novel, Kem’Yah has created a universe rather than a catalog, each release expanding the narrative and deepening the metaphysical journey. 2025 marked the completion of this monumental trilogy with Truth . If Kongo Nkisi was the invocation and Bantu Liberty was the awakening, then Truth is the rite of passage. It’s the final breath, the last transformation, the moment where ancestral knowledge meets modern urgency. Across seven tracks, the album channels the fire of Bantu-Kongo memory, the pulse of diasporic spirit, and the unshakable pursuit of freedom. Every song operates like a ceremony, weaving family, community, intention, and spiritual clarity into a soundscape that feels both ancient and futuristic. This isn’t music built for charts or trends, it’s built for resonance. It’s built for listeners who crave meaning, for those who recognize the power of art to heal, confront, and liberate. Truth stands as one of Kem’Yah’s most resolute offerings: raw in message, sharp in lyricism, and deeply connected to the metaphysical world he channels through his craft. Beyond the studio, 2025 saw Kem’Yah perform twice in Africa, including Accra’s iconic Chale Wote Festival, where he represented Congolese-diaspora futurism on a global stage. Standing on African soil added a visceral weight to the trilogy, completing a creative cycle in a way that felt spiritually aligned. Now, heading into 2026, Kem’Yah’s focus is clear: touring, connecting, expanding the universe he’s built, and carrying the trilogy’s energy into a new chapter. His advice for fellow artists mirrors the transparency of Truth itself: be open, be vulnerable, be real, because authenticity amplifies impact. Truth completes a trilogy rooted in Bantu-Kongo cosmology. When you entered this final chapter, what spiritual or emotional state were you in, and what did you feel needed to be said that hadn’t been said in Kongo Nkisi or Bantu Liberty? When Eye stepped into Truth, Eye felt like Eye had reached the deepest chamber of Myself. Kongo Nkisi was the awakening, calling the spirits, remembering who Eye am. Bantu Liberty was the battle — breaking chains, reclaiming what was stripped away. But Truth… that was the mirror. Eye entered this chapter humbled, sharpened, and spiritually heavy, because Eye could hear My late Mother saying, “Now speak with no mask.” What needed to be said was the part of the journey that’s not glamorous, the spiritual exhaustion, the self-accountability, the tests, the ego deaths… and the clarity that comes after. Truth is not just about power. It’s about responsibility. It’s about becoming the center and not just a vessel. Your music fuses ancestral philosophy with modern Afro-fusion, hip-hop, trap, and soul. How do you balance cultural preservation with cultural evolution when you create new sonic landscapes? For me, there’s no conflict between preservation and evolution; they feed each other. Bantu-Kongo cosmology isn’t a museum piece; it’s alive. Rhythm is memory, and memory moves right? So when Eye blends Kikongo/Lingala chants with trap drums or spiritual proverbs with Afrofusion melodies, I’m not fusing “old” with “new.” I’m letting the ancestral code upgrade itself. Eye think of it like, My culture is the root and My sound is the branch. If the root is strong, the branch can grow in any direction and still remain true. Each track on Truth feels like a ceremony. What rituals, practices, or grounding habits helped you maintain that spiritual intention throughout the recording process? The session for Truth started as most of m y sessions do: stillness first. My Wife lights a sage, cleanses the environment, we say a prayer, hold a smoke, and then begin creating. Eye avoided low vibrational environments and wrote a lot in nature as well, brought a kind of quiet that sharpened My intuition. You performed twice in Africa in 2025, including the iconic Chale Wote Festival in Accra. How did being on the continent, within ancestral proximity, shift your understanding of your artistry or the trilogy as a whole? Afrika gave Truth its final breath ; it made the journey real. You describe the album as channeling “Bantu-Kongo memory and modern Black liberation.” What does liberation mean to you personally, and how does that definition show up in your lyricism? Liberation to Me is the ability to live as who you are before the world named you. It’s the freedom to raise Our children with their language, their ancestors, their symbols, their royalty intact. It shows up in My lyrics as honesty, sometimes beautiful, sometimes raw. I’m not trying to be perfect; I’m just trying to be free. And if My words can wake even one person out of a spiritual sleep, that’s liberation work. Your trilogy blends music, short films, and a graphic novel — a multidisciplinary approach many artists don’t attempt. What inspired you to build a whole universe rather than just drop singles? Because Our stories deserve galaxies, not playlists. Eye grew up wanting to see divine Black families, cosmic Black heroes, Bantu mythology in the mainstream, and it wasn’t there. So Eye had to build it Myself. The trilogy became more than music; it became a portal. The films, the graphic novel, the visuals, they’re not extras. They’re extensions of the same spirit. I’m giving people a world they can enter, not just a song they can hear. Moving into 2026 with touring on the horizon, what aspects of Truth are you most excited to translate into a live setting, spiritually, visually, or sonically? The live show is where Truth becomes physical. I’m excited to bring the ritual energy, the chants, the drums, the ancestral invocations. I’m excited for the visuals, the cosmic Bantu symbols, the divine-family imagery, the Afrofuturist aesthetic. And sonically, Eye want the crowd to feel the bass in their chest, the spirits in the melodies, the presence in the silence between notes. 2026 is about embodiment. Taking everything Eye channelled in the studio and letting audiences experience it with Me, not as fans, but as participants in the ceremony.

Working Royals  didn’t return after thirty years to make something half-hearted; they came back to finish a story they started as kids.  Their album, Cross Country , is the sound of a band reconvening across provinces, airports, family schedules, and wildly different adult lives to put their shared history into something permanent, finally. The result is a rock/Americana record that hits like a box of old photos you forgot you saved. It’s warm, lived-in, emotional without trying too hard, and built on a simple truth: real music happens when actual humans show up in the same room and play as they mean it. The album eases open with “Second wind,” an invitation into a world where old flames and old memories suddenly swing back into view. The band paints the moment beautifully, a woman walks in, says hello like no time has passed, and suddenly the story that should’ve been over feels like it’s cracking open again. The narrator isn’t scared of the past coming back; he’s energized by it. It’s that rare feeling of cosmic timing, the “if it comes back, it’s meant to be” moment people write entire novels about. As an opener, it sets the tone for an album obsessed with the overlap of memory and possibility. “Jenny” follows as this surprisingly tender reminder that even strong people get swallowed by darkness sometimes. The song leans into the quiet, unspoken burden of trying to pull someone you love back into the light, not with force, not with pressure, but with a steady hand and a patience that feels deeply earned. Working Royals write this kind of emotional honesty really well; there’s no hero complex, just a man telling Jenny she’s allowed to shine again. “Better man” moves the record into heavier territory: heartbreak, self-confrontation, the emotional hangover of trying and failing to make something work. Instead of turning bitterness into a hook, the band goes inward, talking about drinking too much, burning old memories that don’t serve you anymore, and cutting ties with the people who keep you stuck in your comfort zone. There’s a maturity to the writing here: growth is messy, uncomfortable, and requires way more honesty than blame. By the time “Here right now” arrives, the album shifts into presence. No analysis, no questioning, no emotional paperwork, just two people choosing to exist in the same moment without unpacking the weight of the past. It’s simple, breezy, and necessary after the emotional scab-picking of the songs before it. Then comes one of the album’s most poetic turns: “Time.” At first listen, it plays like a song about a relationship, memories, fading moments, wondering why the wonder slipped away from someone’s eyes, but the more you absorb it, the more obvious it becomes that the “baby” in the song isn’t a lover at all. It’s time itself. Time as a thief. Time as a giver. Time as the thing that holds every memory together before pulling it apart again. It’s one of the most thoughtful metaphors on the album, and it adds a whole new dimension to the record’s theme of distance and change. “Us at our finest” reintroduces optimism, the kind that’s grounded rather than naïve. It’s a song about choosing inner alignment, listening to the voice inside you, and leveling up not just for yourself but for the people you love. The band frames self-improvement as something communal: when you grow, so do the relationships that matter. It’s less a pep talk and more a reminder that the best version of “us” starts with the best version of “you.” “Fighter” keeps that emotional grit alive, leaning into perseverance with a quieter kind of strength. There’s no chest-thumping bravado here; it’s about waiting, holding on, and enduring the parts of life that test your patience and your heart. It feels like the steady pulse between storms. Then, Working Royals let the light back in with “We are the night,” their most cosmic, spiritual moment. The song leans into twin-flame energy, the idea of meeting someone whose presence doesn’t just match you but amplifies you. It’s about two people whose connection turns into its own kind of electricity, lighting up the dark and creating space to be fully, unapologetically themselves. It radiates warmth without getting cheesy, which is a tough balance they manage beautifully. Just when the album feels like it’s floating toward hope, “Lonely road” snaps everything back into the reality of grief. This isn’t breakup grief, it’s the kind that comes from losing someone permanently. The writing is stripped down, honest, and quietly devastating. The narrator admits that no matter where he went in the world, his car kept taking him back to her memory. There’s a harsh kind of acceptance in that image, love that didn’t get a chance to play out, a road that ends before it should, and a truth you carry for the rest of your life. The fact that she passed away makes every lyric land with a deeper ache. “Colors to love” serves as the emotional lift afterward, a reflection on love that expanded someone’s world instead of shrinking it. The band uses color as the metaphor for perspective, for rediscovering joy, for the way the right relationship can shift everything from grey to vivid. It’s raw, organic, intimate, a reminder that real connection doesn’t just change your heart, it changes how you see the world. Finally, “Hard to be back” closes the record with the same emotional honesty it opened with. Coming back home after building a life somewhere else is complicated. The song acknowledges the ache of returning to a place that shaped you but no longer fits you, the tension between gratitude and growth, between loyalty and evolution. It’s not a bitter song; it’s a heavy one. A recognition that loving your roots doesn’t mean you’re meant to stay planted in them forever. As a full body of work, Cross Country succeeds because it embraces the messiness of adulthood, the reunions, the missed chances, the grief, the joy, the rediscovery of who you are when life blows you off-course. It’s a road-trip album in the emotional sense: you feel like you’ve traveled somewhere by the time it’s over. The band’s own words echo through the project: “It’s never too late to pick up the phone, book the flight, and chase the thing you’ve been talking about for years.” That mission bleeds into every guitar tone, every lyric, every live-off-the-floor arrangement that reminds you real music still exists. With vinyl on the way and their December 18 Holiday Rocktail Party set to turn Vancouver’s Hollywood Theatre into a full-circle homecoming, complete with support for Music Heals and the community that raised them, Working Royals aren’t just releasing an album. They’re building a legacy out of friendship, memory, and the courage to keep going. Cross Country feels like an album built from the lived experience of three decades of friendship, distance, and real adult life. Looking back, what moment or turning point made you all finally say, “Okay, it’s time, we need to make this record now”? Ben: It was very organic. Paul and I started exploring themes on his piano and making demos about a year ago … from there and without hesitation, we started working with long-time friend and collaborator Zach, who is based in Toronto . Music has always been a very important part of all of our lives, but it is often hard to dedicate and commit time to it with work and family. None of this felt planned, more so ‘we have to do this now’ because the music is really speaking to us and exciting. Zach: Paul and I have worked creatively together quite a bit over the years… Songwriting for fun, but also writing scripts and commercials professionally in the agency/advertising world. Our professional roads sort of led us in separate directions around 2020, but I continued writing a lot of music, especially during the depths of the pandemic, regularly sending it to Paul for feedback and reaction. After a while, I guess Paul kind of got the bug and started working up his own piano and guitar pieces, working with Ben and occasionally sending me some ideas, asking me to “pile on” with ideas. I would listen to their work on dogwalks, quietly singing to myself… loosely working up vocal melodies and lyrics… finally, I started sharing my parts back with them, and Ben would finesse and arrange… These first tunes proved the “cross country” concept, that our songs could be written over a long distance. In fact, we found there was some magic in the separation… a little independent thought, even a little broken telephone, added some surprising depth. We thought the songs were sounding good, and it seemed obvious (to us at least) that they were worth fully producing and recording… And we haven’t stopped…  After that first song or two was recorded and we got a taste of what we actually sounded like… what we were capable of,  we just kept going! A lot of these songs reflect different stages of life: old flames returning, losing someone too soon, reconnecting, outgrowing the past, and finding clarity. When you were writing, were there any lyrics or themes that surprised you by hitting harder than expected? Ben: I can share that each song tells a specific story, and each one of us has a unique perspective on the origins. Jenny started as an unassuming guitar demo from Paul with a few lyrics for the chorus. Zach works magic with weaving a story and came up with the verses. It’s a song that we didn’t expect much from, but it’s really carried a lot of weight for the record. Similarly ‘Second Wind’ - was a grooveCreated during Covid in a cabin and Zach took the vibe and ran with it … it’s far exceeded our expectations .. I know that many of these songs are personal real-life snapshots for Zach and carry a lot of honest truth - like Hard to Be Back and Colors and Colors to Love. Zach: Most of these lyrics are a pretty literal product of my last few years… It’s been a pretty heavy, bordering on dark time for me. I’ve lost some close family members and have had to recon with some pretty traumatic events and life changes, all against a backdrop of a shaky economy, wars, a climate crisis, wildfires and drought, a growing acceptance of autocratic rule, and a general dumbing and numbing of society… These songs and lyrics have been my therapy through all of this… and yeah, it always surprises me when a lyric articulates a feeling… but Jesus, the feelings are pretty (fuckin’) big right now. Not just in me, but in the world… I believe most people are too distracted and isolated by their phones, and too sedated by cheap booze and sugar to complain or even cite their experiences as notable. This is a notable time, and I, for one, do not believe it is great. It surprises me that more people aren’t singing their truths or experiences. The truth is astonishing these days. Yet, we see so much artifice and contrived glamour through social media. These songs reflect details of a real, contemporary, human life. Any sharing of real raw experience and emotion is going to create a little tension… that tension hits hard. It’s something we need more of. The album leans heavily into human connection, literally, people in a room together. Why was that “live-off-the-floor” approach so essential for capturing the honesty and chemistry of Working Royals after being apart for so long? Ben: Most of the best hooks and arrangement ideas come together spontaneously in the studio. We don’t get too precious with things; if it feels good, we usually know it and just go for it. Zach: That’s just it. Almost all of these songs were cobbled together. Parts were written separately. Sessions were volleyed back and forth between our studios in Toronto and Vancouver. It’s lonely work… and well, getting together to literally  “PLAY” and bring the tunes to life is fun! It brings out the humanity in the arrangements… people coming together making something bigger than the sum of its parts… it feels like a celebration. It’s a privilege. We all know it is a rare and special gift to be able to do this! Songs like “Lonely Road” and “Time” dig into grief, memory, and how time reshapes us. How did you balance telling deeply personal stories while still creating music that listeners can see themselves in? Zach: I believe that the more detailed and personal a story is, the more relatable it will be to an audience. If you paint an honest and believable backdrop, people are more likely to find and recognize pieces of themselves in the small details… that’s what I try to do, invite people into my stories, illuminating the bits that I think are worth mentioning, giving people/listeners enough substance to relate back to their own experience and ideally feel something themselves. As a listener, that’s what my favourite songs do for me. You’re celebrating the album with a hometown Rocktail Party that supports Music Heals. What does community mean to Working Royals? Ben: It means everything to us - we are so lucky to have a community that supports the arts, and giving back through music heals is something we love dearly … our closest friends started Music Heals and revamped the iconic Hollywood theatre, we are thrilled to be able to give back and support local music. Zach: As Ben says above, it is everything. Working together to make lives better. That’s at the core of everything we do. It’s the reason we pour ourselves into our music… It’s the most positive contribution we can make to our community.