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Clear your calendar and pack your bags. Joey Green's Verde Vacay  is back for its fourth year, and it's shaping up to be the ultimate destination music escape. Running from July 13 to 17, 2025, the event takes over the breathtaking Hyatt Ziva Riviera Maya for a five-day, all-inclusive experience where sun, soul, and sound collide. More than just a festival, Verde Vacay  invites fans into the heart of the Texas Red Dirt and Americana scenes with a handpicked lineup featuring Johnny Cooper, Tyler Bond, Erick Willis, Bobby Duncan, Bart Crow, and Joey Green himself. Each artist brings their flavor to the beachside stage, creating a one-of-a-kind atmosphere where connection is just as important as performance. " Verde Vacay  is about getting a bunch of music-loving, fun-loving, vacation-needing folks together at an all-inclusive resort to have FaceTime with the artists and fans alike," says Green. "Let's all let loose, listen to music in a place where we're free to be ourselves—relax, party, and just engage." The festival is part of the Texas Music Getaway series, a curated collection of events designed to break down the barriers between artists and fans. With live performances, poolside jams, artist-led excursions, and late-night hangouts, the experience is intimate, immersive, and unforgettable. Whether you're sharing a drink with a headliner or dancing barefoot in the sand, it's all about authentic connection and good vibes. This year's setting at Hyatt Ziva Riviera Maya promises luxury with a laid-back spirit. Attendees can enjoy beachfront views, gourmet dining, and spontaneous music moments around every corner. Forget the crowded venues and rigid schedules. Verde Vacay 2025  is for those who crave genuine music, genuine people, and genuine freedom. You're not just watching a show—you're part of it.

There's vulnerability, and then there's " Am I More Than Enough?!!!??! " A title that feels like an anxious journal entry and a track that plays like a heart cracked open. This stunning opener to Tidings In The Rough , the debut full-length from Yellow Couch Music , sets the emotional and sonic tone for the entire project. It's not flashy. It doesn't need to be. It breathes. Led by drummer and composer Layton Weedeman, Yellow Couch Music isn't just a band. It's a community of sound, and "Am I More Than Enough?!!!??!"  captures that ethos with grace and groove. The track leans into smoky R&B and slow-jam jazz textures, with Estephanie's intimate vocals floating over Kirk Schoenherr's tender, expressive guitar work. It's the kind of song you play on a long night drive, caught between overthinking and emotional release. Weedeman's background as a drummer is evident in the best way. Everything is in the pocket, locked in but unhurried. There's space in every beat, allowing the listener to sit with the lyrics and feel the question unfold in real time: "Am I too much? Or just not enough?"  It's about overcompensation, fear of rejection, and the quiet devastation of wondering if your best will ever be enough. It's not chasing trends. It's chasing the truth. What elevates the song is the subtle layering. Warm basslines, tasteful guitar melodies, ambient textures—all anchored by a drum groove that says more through its restraint than any flashy fill could. It's a masterclass in less-is-more production and a perfect introduction to the collaborative spirit that defines Tidings In The Rough . In a sea of surface-level drops, "Am I More Than Enough?!!!??!"  slows down and dares to feel something real. It's an emotional tone-setter for an album that blends genre and soul in equal measure. If you're looking for music that feels human, this is where to start. How did your experience as a drummer shape the way  Tidings In The Rough  came together? My experience as a drummer has always been rooted in groove, feel, and pocket playing. I'm a huge fan of hip-hop, rock, funk, pretty much anything with a solid backbeat that makes you want to move. That's always been the foundation of how I approach the drums. Creating something that feels danceable and locked in. Early on in my drumming journey, I learned what pocket playing was all about, and I embraced it as a form of expression behind the kit. At this point, it feels like second nature. When I started crafting the songs for  Tidings In The Rough , a lot of the ideas began with the drums. Sometimes, I'd have a bassline already in my head and would build grooves around that. But overall, I'd say 90% of the album is rooted in backbeat-heavy pocket playing, drawing from funk, hip-hop, and world rhythms, all filtered through my sensibilities for groove and feel. I love exploring new styles, but as soon as I get a handle on how to play something "correctly" or true to its form, my instinct is to ask: how can I make this groovier? How can I make it funkier or more pocket-driven? That's just how I naturally hear and shape rhythm. What inspired you to launch Yellow Couch Music as a collaborative project rather than a solo act? First and foremost, I'm a professional drummer and musician, but I'm not a professional bass player, guitar player, keyboardist, or singer. I can hear those parts in my head, and I often have a clear idea of how I want them to sound; however, executing them exactly as I imagine is a challenge when I'm working alone. That said, I do see myself growing in those areas, getting better at bass, keys, and other instruments over time. That's part of the journey. The second piece of it is that for most of these songs, I did write the bass parts, the keyboard parts, and the core grooves. They all had their own unique vibe and emotional tone. But I also knew I wanted them to sound as good as the drums at the same level of performance. So, even if I had the ideas, I knew the execution could be better in the hands of someone who specializes in that instrument. For example, I think this drum groove feels great, but the bassline, while solid in concept, isn't quite up to the same standard. So, I'd reach out to a friend who's a professional bass player and ask them to re-record the part. Same with guitar, keys, saxophone, horns, you name it. I leaned into collaboration because I knew it would elevate the music. Sometimes, I would give very specific directions and ask them to play exactly what I had written or imagined in my head. Other times, I left space for them to interpret the part within a set of creative boundaries. In many cases, they brought their voice, their flavor to it, and that became such a beautiful part of the process. There's a lot of trust in that kind of collaboration. My vision for  Tidings In The Rough  was pretty clear, and I chose people. Some I knew personally, others I found through research or trusted referrals, who I felt would bring the right energy to the project. And they did. Their contributions helped shape the album into what it ultimately became. "Fool Stop" features some iconic voices. How did those collaborations come to life? I wrote the instrumental and then collaborated with Grady Tesch and Eric Biondo to refine the groove, making it as funky, groovy, and interesting as possible. From the start, I knew this was going to be a hip-hop-inspired track. That was the intention. The whole feel and inspiration behind it were rooted in hip-hop, so I knew I'd eventually need to bring in some talented MCs. At the time, however, I didn't personally know many MCs. I'm a huge fan of hip-hop; I know hundreds of MCs by name, but I didn't have personal relationships with them, and I couldn't just cold-call them out of the blue. So, I turned to my trusted network of people. One of those people was Steve Royster from Open Crates. I knew his organization was deeply connected to New Jersey hip-hop and DJ culture, so I figured he might have some ideas. I sent him the track and asked if he knew any MCs who might be a good fit. That's when he introduced me to John Robinson. He gave me John's email, and I reached out to him. At first, I thought of it as a cold call. John didn't know me, but later, he told me that because Steve made the introduction, there was already a level of built-in trust. He said if Steve believed in the music, that was all he needed to know. And that was a beautiful moment for me. When John heard the instrumental, he vibed with it. I gave him a little direction based on the theme of the chorus, and he came up with his verse that fit perfectly. The process was similar to that of JSWISS, although we took a slightly different approach. I was familiar with his work through Grady's band, Momentum, but instead of asking Grady to introduce us, I decided to reach out to him directly. I visited JSWISS' website, found his contact information, and sent a genuine cold email introducing myself. I included an MP3 of the instrumental so he could immediately hear the vibe. I kept it honest and told him who I was and what the song was about, and he connected with it. I gave him some loose direction around the chorus lyrics, and he ran with it. As for the chorus itself, that melody and those lyrics came to me after listening to the instrumental probably hundreds of times. It was during a period when I was going through some personal struggles, and the lyrics just emerged naturally from that space. I had a good relationship with Estephanie at the time; we had worked on a few songs together already, so I knew I wanted her to sing the chorus. I wanted a female voice to carry that emotional weight. She was down. She came over to my home studio one day. I sang her the melody, and she nailed it, one or two takes, tops. We kept it, and it was dope. Can you discuss one track on the album that surprised you with its outcome? Locust Walk  was such a fascinating and unexpected creative journey. It all started one day when I went into my drum studio with a mic setup and the intention to learn a groove that was unfamiliar to me, or at least something outside my usual patterns. I sometimes catch myself falling into the same rhythmic habits, so I wanted to push beyond that. I hopped on YouTube and found a video on the Drumeo channel called  "5 Drumming Styles You've (Probably) Never Heard."  One of those styles was called Poinciana, popularized by Ahmad Jamal's version of the tune  Poinciana . The groove, played by drummer Vernell Fournier, had this offbeat swing to it. A New Orleans-style groove using a mallet in the right hand playing the snare, with the snares off, the floor tom, and then the backend of the left stick on the bell. It was subtle, strange, and groovy in its own way. So I recorded about five minutes of myself just playing that pattern over and over, kind of as a personal homage to  Poinciana . When I got home, I started building off that groove, not by copying the original bassline but by creating something with a similar energy. I ended up with a loose, jazzy drum-and-bass foundation that felt different from anything I'd done before. As I often do, I sat with those recordings, listening to them repeatedly. Eventually, melodies began to reveal themselves, particularly horn lines. I reached out to my good friend Lars Haake and told him about the project. I sang the horn parts I had in my head, and he played them. We recorded several takes based on my ideas, and I also gave him space to interpret and improvise. By the end, we had something like five or six horn layers built over this strange, Poinciana-esque drum groove. At that point, I didn't know what I had. It felt weird, jazzy, a little mysterious. But I knew it had  something.  And I thought, "How can I make this even more interesting?" That's when I remembered my fifth-grade art teacher, Mr. Jennings. He was one of my earliest creative heroes, an artist and poet who I always looked up to. I knew he did spoken word, so I reached out on a whim and asked if he had any poetry he'd be open to contributing. I didn't even send him the track; I just asked. A few days later, he sent me an iPhone recording of himself reading a poem called "Locust Walk," which he had written as a tribute to the great Sun Ra. I imported it into my recording software, and to my total surprise, it  fit perfectly . Not only was it nearly the exact length of the instrumental, but rhythmically and emotionally, it landed right in the pocket. It felt like pure magic like something bigger was working through us. I wasn't forcing anything; I was just a vessel. And around that time, Sun Ra's presence kept popping up in my life. People were wearing Sun Ra t-shirts, random mentions in conversation, and I had just seen the Sun Ra Arkestra live for the first time, with Marshall Allen still leading the charge. That show came through my friend Jonathan Glass, who, coincidentally, had also connected me with Lars. Everything felt aligned.  Serendipity was in full effect. With the core of the track built, I decided to shift the energy. I asked myself, "What if this were even funkier?" I ended up stripping out the original Poinciana drums and replacing them with a hard-hitting, backbeat-heavy groove, somewhere between Run-DMC and Rage Against the Machine. That change also called for a new bassline, so I scrapped the original and wrote something much more syncopated and hypnotic, something head-noddy and raw. At that point, I needed a proper studio sound. My drum room is pretty small, and I wanted something bigger and punchier. So I booked a session at Studio G with two people I knew could handle the vibe, Jeff Berner and Grant Zubritsky, to track the new drums and bass live. You can  feel  the energy in the final recording. Raw, chaotic, alive. What began as an experiment in jazz drumming evolved into this wild, genre-bending track featuring spoken word, massive horns, and a hip-hop backbone. It's not Sun Ra's brand of cosmic jazz, but it feels like an  unintended tribute , capturing the same kind of beautiful chaos that his music embodied. And at its core, it's still rooted in the grooves I love. Backbeat-heavy, rhythm-driven, and full of soul. What does success look like for this project, and what's next for Yellow Couch Music? Success, for me, is when I set my mind to something and see it through to completion.  When I can take an idea, manifest it, and bring it into reality. I've always wanted to release my project, my singles and records, and create an album that truly represents  me . And not just the music. I've always wanted everything about the release to reflect my vision, from the sound to the artwork. I wanted to be able to look at a finished piece and say,  Yes, this is mine. This is something I'm proud of. This sounds like me. This looks like me. Over the past three years, working on this album has been a journey, that has taken me from releasing singles and music videos to getting professional photos taken, building my website, shaping my brand, and finally releasing the music into the world. It's all felt like success to me. I've been fortunate enough to collaborate with some amazing people and have even received some great press coverage along the way. One of my next milestones is pressing  'Tidings In The Rough  ' to vinyl. It's 100% going to be yellow vinyl. That's a must. I have a vision for the artwork and the liner notes; it all lives in my mind right now. I'm giving myself about a year to bring it to life. I'm not going to force the process, but when it happens, that'll be another real marker of success for me. I'm a record-head. I love collecting vinyl, I love DJing, and I've always dreamed of holding my album in my hands, opening the sleeve, placing it on a turntable, and hearing it play. That's always been part of the goal. Being able to turn those dreams into reality is the ultimate definition of success for me.

In a sea of EDM releases, Jared Hallock’ s “ My Destiny ” rises as a genre-bending outlier, whispered, weird, and wickedly charming. A Boise-to-Nashville transplant known for his experimental work under the Project213 alias, Hallock swaps synth builds and beat drops for sultry narration, unexpected soundscapes, and Dadaist absurdism in this theatrical take on fate and infatuation. The track opens with a slippery bassline and distant whistle that immediately disorients. Hallock leans into this tension, layering whispered vocals inspired by The Ying Yang Twins and Snoop Dogg over cinematic snaps and dramatic pauses. It’s less of a club banger and more of a fever dream with a BPM. There’s something undeniably captivating about its restraint, how it flirts with sensuality while simultaneously poking fun at its own intensity. Lyrically, “My Destiny” is a monologue from a narrator trying to play it cool in the face of awe. His “destiny” appears beside him, casually radiant, while he attempts to hide the inner spiral of obsession and hope. Hallock doesn’t define what destiny means; it could be a person, a goal, or simply an idea, and that open-endedness makes the track all the more hypnotic. The music video takes this narrative to its most literal and surreal edge. Using a retro collage animation style, Hallock builds a tennis-themed love story that’s as much a satire as it is a confession. Our unlikely hero competes on a court of cosmic longing, chasing the affections of a spotlight-drenched starlet who barely notices his existence. Between slo-mo smashes and fantastical montages, the video offers a visual metaphor for desire: awkward, exaggerated, yet somehow sincere. “My Destiny” is not your average EDM track, and that’s exactly the point. It invites you to let go of structure, abandon genre expectations, and embrace a little weirdness. In doing so, Hallock proves that charm, comedy, and complexity can coexist beautifully in a three-minute dance track.

RYN is done grieving. With her new single “ Graveyard ,” the Alabama-based country-pop artist delivers a gut-punch of emotional clarity wrapped in cinematic storytelling and stunning vocal grit. It’s not just a breakup song. It’s a full-blown burial of what no longer serves her, and she’s holding the shovel herself. From the first nostalgic verse, “When I think of you, it takes me to our city / Homecoming dance floor back to being 15,” RYN paints a vivid picture of first love, drenched in longing and golden-hour innocence. But she doesn’t stay stuck there. The chorus slams in like a reckoning, trading heartbreak for empowerment as she sings: “Heading to the graveyard / Where I’ll bury the piece of my heart that won’t let you go.” It’s rare to find a breakup anthem that feels this raw and triumphant at once. The production blends country twang with pop clarity, allowing RYN’s voice, rich, emotional, and unmistakably human, to shine at the forefront. She moves from delicate memories to decisive resilience, showing us the whole arc of emotional closure. Lines like “Didn’t think my heart could beat among the living / Without the sound of your voice I’m still breathing” hit especially hard, capturing the grief of loss and the surprising strength that can follow. And by the time the final chorus arrives, RYN isn’t mourning anymore; she’s rebuilding. “Graveyard” proves that RYN isn’t just a storyteller; she’s a truth-teller. With a shovel in one hand and a melody in the other, she’s unearthing something new: freedom, faith in herself, and the power of closure. This isn’t about heartbreak. It’s about healing. “Graveyard” feels incredibly personal. What was going through your mind the moment you started writing this song? This song was a trauma dump for me. It was an opportunity to look inward, feel the pain again, and release it creatively. I knew I wanted to write a song about this particular person because they hurt me in a way that I had never been hurt before, and it haunted me for so long. I refuse to let it come with me into my future.  You describe this track as putting bad memories to rest; how did it feel emotionally once the song was finished? Like a breath of fresh air, and getting to write it with someone I admire so much was the icing on top.  There’s so much vivid imagery in your lyrics. Were any of the lines pulled from real-life moments or memories? It's so funny you ask, because the graveyard is not only a symbol but also the first place that I hung out with the person that this song is about. It felt right to create a song highlighting that moment.  You’ve built a powerful identity outside the traditional music mold. How do you balance being a medical professional, a strong woman, and an artist all at once? Balancing is so hard! Some days, I don’t even remember my own name, haha! What I will say, though, is that setting small and large goals is key. I try to set at least one realistic goal to achieve each month and work hard to reach it. I also forgive myself when I struggle to reach it or have to brainstorm and choose a different goal. I also treat myself with grace, as I would anyone else who struggles sometimes. Life can kick you in the booty sometimes. It’s about how you use that kick in the booty that determines your happiness and outcome.

From the moment Stream Worthy: Audacity kicks in, it's clear that RYJ CR8 isn't here to blend in; he's here to break out. The Dallas-born artist navigates this genre-defying EP with intent, delivering a body of work that's smooth yet raw, cinematic yet grounded, vulnerable yet unshakably confident. The project unfolds like a series of inner monologues, confessions layered over moody 808s, minimalist beats, and hypnotic vocal textures. RYJ CR8's ability to shift between alt-R&B melody and gritty hip-hop flows keeps each track fresh, while his storytelling creates a thread of emotional depth that binds the project together. Standout moments like "Patience" and "Villain Arc" showcase both lyrical introspection and sonic swagger, echoing the influence of artists like Brent Faiyaz and Smino without ever sounding derivative. Where this EP shines most is in its sense of freedom. These aren't songs chasing a trend; they're moments of self-liberation. RYJ CR8 isn't afraid to explore his own contradictions: the hurt and the healing, the ambition and the apathy, the confidence and the questions. His voice carries the weight of someone who's been through it but refuses to let the pain define him. And that tension, that audacity to own both the scars and the shine, is what makes this project hit so hard. Stream Worthy: Audacity is more than just a title; it's a declaration. It's the sound of an artist who knows his worth and wants you to feel yours, too. Currently on tour, RYJ CR8 is proving in real time that he's not only stream-worthy but stage-ready, and the kind of artist who's just getting started. The title Audacity says a lot in one word: What gave you the audacity to create this project the way you did? The Audacity lies in people speaking their truth and saying the quiet parts out loud. You blend alt-R&B and hip-hop seamlessly. How do you approach genre when you're writing or producing a track? I create music off of feel.  Melodies first.  If I like a beat, I will cut it off immediately on the first listen and restart it to record the melody im feeling in the present. "Villain Arc" feels like a standout emotionally. Was there a specific moment or experience that inspired that track? Oddly enough, I am a lover, but I think life can force you into a villain role at times, and this was a time I felt like my back was against the wall. You're currently on tour; how does the energy of this EP translate in a live setting compared to the studio versions? The first date in DC showed a lot of promise.  It's always nerve-wracking introducing yourself to different regions, but so far, so good.  Next up, Atl in late July. What's one thing you hope fans feel after listening to Stream Worthy: Audacity from top to bottom? After hearing about this project, I want people to understand the versatility I bring.  The mask itself symbolizes not being put into a box.

After seven years of near silence and just as many detours, The Ting Tings have returned. But this isn’t a loud, brash comeback. It’s something bolder. ' Home ' is not a grab for relevance. It’s a deliberate, soul-searching pivot into vulnerability, restraint, and the kind of musical maturity that only comes with time. You remember them for the snarling energy of “ That’s Not My Name ” and the punked-out swagger of “ Shut Up and Let Me Go .” But Katie White and Jules De Martino aren’t here to recycle the past. With 'Home,' the UK duo pulls back the curtain, trades attitude for atmosphere, and delivers a body of work that feels lived-in, not manufactured. And it hits, not with impact, but with depth. 'Home' is a quiet storm. A slow burn. A triumph. The album’s mission is clear from the first note of “Good People Do Bad Things,” a buttery soft opener that invites compassion over condemnation. White’s vocals glide with empathy while De Martino holds it down with grooves that barely rise above a whisper. It’s disarmingly tender, and it sets the tone for everything that follows. Where "We Started Nothing" shouted, 'Home' listens. On “Dreaming” and “Winning,” the lyrics explore the tension between ambition and emptiness. “What are you really winning when you’re winning?” Katie asks. There’s no irony, just a naked question that lands like a punch to the gut. The record is also deeply personal. “Song For Meadow” and “In My Hand” are love letters to the couple’s daughter, aching with quiet devotion. This isn’t performative parenting. It’s real. It’s raw. And it’s beautiful. Production-wise, 'Home' is a masterclass in analog subtlety. Synths hum like nostalgia. Guitars shimmer in soft focus. Pianos echo like late-night confessions. Everything is intentional, down to the silences. The album’s midpoint is its strongest. “Goodbye Song” could pass for a forgotten TV theme from the early 80s, soaked in sax and sentiment. “Dance on the Wire” floats in with the poise of vintage Roxy Music. The closing track, “Down,” doesn’t end the record; it leaves it suspended in midair, unresolved but at peace. 'Home' isn’t here to trend. It’s here to mean something. It’s not an album you blast, but one you carry. The Ting Tings didn’t reinvent themselves. They remembered who they were and turned that into something honest, fragile, and maybe even timeless. They didn’t come back to be loud. They came back to be real. And it worked. "Home" feels like a complete sonic shift from the brash energy of your early work. What emotional or personal breakthrough gave you both the permission to slow down and lean into softness on this album? There are a number of seismic emotional reasons why we shifted style on our new album. COVID was one. Locked in writing and recording without mixing with other beings, little interaction or sharing had a massive effect on enjoying something new without much interference. Disillusionment with the music industry and the current state of play meant we wanted to be truly independent and be our creative selves without management opinions, label qualms, doubters, or ego-driven trend followers. Becoming parents for the first time is probably the biggest distraction in our lives to date. We were kinda done. There were many reasons why we didn't fancy being a band anymore, so we closed shop and just enjoyed writing while in this new cocooned life. You've mentioned building studios in wild places, from LA with no plumbing to boats and trailers. How do these offbeat environments affect your songwriting, and did the isolation of Ibiza give "home" a different kind of clarity or warmth? We've always preferred to be the underdog. Fame is a disease, a terrible hindrance and burden, so moving from one place to another felt like deconstruction, a new start every time. We had done LA, Berlin, the South of France, and London in the same manner. Building a new studio is part of the songwriting process for us. We stumbled into Ibiza when we played Ibiza Rocks during the album tour and found ourselves drawn back sometime later to do some recording. The summer music scene isn't anything we were interested in, tbh. We found a winter scene that was mild weather with a sprinkling of artists who had risked isolation by distancing themselves from the cosmopolitan musical city lifestyles. We met Andy Taylor from Duran Duran, and we collectively moved into a small studio for a while, mostly because we shared the same view of the disastrous world of music and what it was becoming. We bought an old house on a hillside, then went back on tour. Years later, we returned, and that's when the Island really impacted us. Completing the new album 'Home' on the Island made total sense. We were not coming here on holiday or to chill or party anymore. We were coming home. It felt like home. The mindset, sustainability, health consciousness, and freedom for our new family. More time to look at music from a new perspective, away from all the unwanted noise. Felt safe, something we had not felt for a bloody long time. There's a deep undercurrent of parenting throughout this record. How has becoming a family changed the way you view vulnerability in your music, especially with songs like "Song for Meadow" and "In My Hand"? Before having a child, there was no distraction. We just worked 24/7. We traveled, we moved around, and we performed and experimented on the flip of a coin. We thought it was ideal, paradise, and the way dedication was meant to be as artists. But having a family meant distraction. A crying daughter, a sick or hungry or frightened baby that we attended to with love and care, we could be midway into a recording or writing session or meeting, and we would just stop. It's the only way. She comes first. From the moment she arrived, everything changed. We could never have stopped mid-session before. It was so refreshing. Records take time to write, record, and experience. We found we could do much more by legitimately moving away from the task, and in turn, it inspired us to dig deeper. Everything is moving way too fast to be any cop these days. You once said you considered changing your band name entirely. In an era obsessed with reinvention, why did you ultimately choose to keep the Ting Tings, and how does "home" challenge people's expectations of what that name means now? We named ourselves 'Demartino & white' to de-shackle from the Ting Tings. We pinned pictures of all our favorite artists whose songs we had been listening to forever, all on a mood board: Steely Dan, The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Bread, and Gerry Rafferty, to name but a few. We did what was natural while nurturing our new family without any touring or social media ties, just writing songs. No tech, no tricks, no fads. Just playing our real instruments between parenting hours in lockdown. Then, when the songs were mostly written, we sensed excitement in the prospect of recording them properly and getting them heard. The Ting Tings is our DNA, our bloodline, something we are hugely proud of, so we took the step back into the limelight to finish the recordings and start announcing on socials that we had a new record in the making. The reinvention is in the music, not the band. It's still us two. Though we live, we are a nine-piece. We woke up in the eagles. Tracks like "Good people do bad things" and "Winning" explore internal conflict with brutal honesty. Was there ever a moment during the making of this record where you had to rewrite or rethink a song because it felt "too real"? No. Given there's always some finessing in songwriting, this album was in its own lane from the moment we decided to detach and just write. Whatever we wrote immediately spoke volumes in the lyrics, melodies, and music. There was never a need to re-evaluate. It took 3 years to write and 4 years to write and record. We were under no deadlines or expectations. We're writing again now. We want to get old doing it this way.

Some songs hurt because they're too real, and  Saticöy 's latest single, " Sugar Pills ," hits exactly that nerve. The LA-based alternative rock band returns to their emotionally raw roots with a track that's deceptively upbeat and sonically radiant, until you start listening to the lyrics. Underneath the infectious guitar riffs and a wildly catchy saxophone hook lies something much heavier: a story about two people performing the motions of love while quietly coming undone. "Sugar Pills" captures that eerily familiar feeling of staying in something because it used to feel good, even if, now, it's just going through the motions. There's no villain here, just emotional fatigue. A relationship dulled by avoidance, padded with half-truths, and numbed by whatever little "sugar pills" we use to make it through another day, pretending things are fine. It's the sonic version of smiling through gritted teeth. And it hits hard. But what makes "Sugar Pills" special isn't just its lyrical honesty; it's how Saticöy delivers that honesty without ever sounding defeated. The song explodes with energy. A driving beat, shimmering guitars, and that unexpectedly perfect saxophone line give it a kind of glossy urgency that feels both nostalgic and completely now. Think Jimmy Eat World heartache meets COIN's bounce, wrapped in the emotional punch of The Wrecks or Wallows. It's a clever emotional sleight of hand. The song feels like an anthem, something you'd scream in the car with the windows down, but when you catch your breath between choruses, you realize it's not about a love that's thriving. It's about one that's barely breathing. The band calls "Sugar Pills" a return to their alt-rock roots, after experimenting with a heavier sound in recent releases, and that clarity is evident. It's confident, cohesive, and creatively daring in all the right ways. That standout sax? It doesn't just work, it defines the track, adding a layer of warmth that makes the emotional fallout feel even more bittersweet. Lyrically, the band is unafraid to sit in ambiguity. No finger-pointing, no dramatic fallout, just the honest ache of a bond stretched too thin. As they put it: "We hope 'Sugar Pills' reminds people that it's okay to admit when something's no longer working, even if there's no one to blame." And that's exactly the kind of emotional intelligence that's earned Saticöy their place in the Southern California alt scene, and beyond. With previous music placements in TV and film, editorial playlist features, and a reputation for dynamic live performances, the band continues to build a cult following by writing songs that feel like something. "Sugar Pills" is no exception. It's a heartbreak song with rhythm. A mirror disguised as a dancefloor. And proof that even emotional unraveling can sound like a revelation when it's this well-crafted. “Sugar Pills” balances heartbreak with so much sonic brightness. Was that contrast intentional from the beginning? Thanks, that contrast was intentional! We've long been interested in writing songs that are up-tempo but have mixed valence. This is an example of a song that you can move to, but also sit down and introspect to. We love making emotional weight with upbeat energy: we think it mirrors how people often try to carry on like everything's fine when it's clearly not. That duality helped us express the tension in "Sugar Pills": feeling like you're unraveling while still trying to present something polished and functional to the world, to each other, and, most importantly, to oneself. What inspired the decision to bring the saxophone into the mix, and how did that shape the final sound? We always look for ways to get our keyboardist to hop on the sax for our songs! Once the starting hook for "Sugar Pills" was finalized, we heard the skate-punk potential and found there was a natural opening for a saxophone to complement the guitar line. It ended up being the perfect voice to add: Tim made it nostalgic, emotional, and unexpected but nuanced. We feel it represents the post-processing clarity you get when you're working through a personal problem. Once we added the sax to "Sugar Pills," the whole track clicked into place. This song feels more lyrically vulnerable than your recent heavier releases. What pulled you back toward that emotional alt-rock space? Honestly, it just felt right for where we were at emotionally. Our heavier songs ("Over," "Cut It & Run") captured a kind of external chaos, but "Sugar Pills" is more about internal struggle: a bittersweet breakdown, emotional numbness tinged with hope, and the fatigue of trying to keep a relationship alive when it's already fading. Since our first release, "Faded From Color," we've always had a soft spot for personal storytelling and vulnerability, and this was a chance to tap back into that side of our songwriting. You mention that there’s no villain in the story, just emotional fatigue. Was it difficult to write from such a gray area without assigning blame? Definitely! It's way easier to write a song when someone's clearly at fault because you can focus on only the object: the perspective is assumed to be true. But "Sugar Pills" comes from a place of the subject feeling stuck, not wronged, and the perspective is less reliable and inherently more interesting. To us, that gray area is harder for the listener (and singer) to sit with, but it's also more honest. It reflects those relationships we've all had in real life where no one did anything unforgivable, but the relationship just isn't sustaining either of you anymore. Writing from that place made the song more real and required more vulnerability on Derek's part. What do you hope listeners feel when they hear “Sugar Pills,” especially those clinging to a relationship that might already be slipping away? As with all of our music, we hope "Sugar Pills" makes our audience feel seen. That feeling of clinging to something that once had meaning but now feels hollow is incredibly isolating. We've all been there; we all know that feeling! If "Sugar Pills" gives someone the clarity to say, "This isn't working, and that's okay," then we've done our job. To us, it's not about giving up; it's about choosing truth over comfort, even when it hurts. If they see hope in this song, we've also done our job: the real meaning is whatever the listener makes it out to be. Or just skate to it: be our guest!

The Lethargics are not interested in comfort. Or trends. Or genre, for that matter. This Knoxville-based collective has long prided itself on dodging labels, and with their latest release, ' Here It Comes Again ," they offer something even more radical: honesty. Brutal, brave, and beautifully bleak, this track is a raw conversation with clinical depression, a lifelong companion that refuses to be ignored. “If you got it, you get it. If you don’t, let me explain.” That’s not just a lyric. It’s a mission statement. This is not your typical sad song. It’s not a breakup ballad or a gloomy aesthetic. It is a visceral, lived-in depiction of what it feels like to be haunted by something you can’t see but always feel. Depression here isn’t just an emotion. It is a character. A stalker. A shadow that never leaves. The track captures this with slow-burning intensity: sparse instrumentation, jagged textures, and a vocal delivery that sounds like it is pulling itself out of the dirt. There is no flashy production. No studio gloss. It's just stark, sincere storytelling. And that makes it hit even harder. What the Lethargics do so well is take the unspeakable and give it shape. The song doesn’t romanticize mental illness. It doesn’t hide it in metaphors or wrap it up with a hopeful chorus. Instead, it lingers in the fog, inviting listeners to sit with the discomfort, the confusion, and the quiet terror that it all evokes. For those who live with clinical depression, this track will feel painfully familiar. For those who don’t, it’s a rare and much-needed dose of perspective. It asks listeners to pay attention, to listen more closely, and to acknowledge a type of pain that doesn’t always appear obvious from the outside. The Lethargics remain a fiercely independent, shoestring-budget operation. But what they lack in polish, they more than makeup for in purpose.

Photo by Meghan Marshall Yas Akdag’s ' Home, Anywhere ' isn’t just a debut EP; it’s a cinematic, emotionally rich diary entry carved in alt-pop gold. The London-raised, Brooklyn-based songwriter and producer delivers a tightly knit five-track project that’s deeply personal yet universally resonant. Written during her final year at NYU’s Clive Davis Institute and the year that followed, the EP is a reflection of that in-between space, the blur of youth and adulthood, of place and purpose. Akdag threads these themes with startling clarity, carried by her warm vocals and a production palette that feels both intimate and expansive. The opener, “Without You,” sets the tone immediately. It is a synth-laced, emotionally raw track that leans into MUNA’s influence without losing Akdag’s distinct storytelling voice. Co-produced with fellow Clive Davis alum emory, the song’s pulsating rhythm and atmospheric synths swirl beneath confessional lyrics, capturing the dizzying weight of vulnerability. “White Picket Fence” and “The Way You Love Him” lean more toward folk-pop, yet maintain the ethereal tone that defines the EP. There’s something especially cinematic about these tracks. Perhaps it’s the 6/8 time signature or the way Akdag lingers on memory like a film still. Caroline Meade’s production on “The Way You Love Him” adds a dreamlike layer that elevates the track into heartbreak territory without ever sounding bitter. Standout contributions from Sarah Goldstone (Lucy Dacus), Sam Everett, and Bobby Wooten inject richness into the live instrumentation, keeping the sound grounded even in its most ambient moments. The project doesn’t attempt to offer a linear narrative. Instead, Akdag explores different relationships and moments through the lens of what makes a space or a person feel like home. That idea that “home” can be fluid and ever-shifting is the beating heart of the EP. 'Home, Anywhere' is a stunning debut that showcases Akdag’s deft ability to merge lyricism with production, crafting songs that feel like lived-in spaces. She doesn’t just write tracks; she builds emotional architecture. You mentioned that you didn't set out with a specific theme, but the songs organically revolved around the idea of "home." What does that word mean to you now, post-EP? When I titled the EP, I wanted to invite listeners to come up with their definitions of what "home" meant to them. That's what I was thinking about after the EP — how a home can be a physical place, but also people (your friends, family, etc.) and other things, like a special object or a memory. It really can be whatever you make of it, and that's the concept I wanted to highlight with "Home, Anywhere." Can you tell us more about your collaboration with emory on "Without You"? What was that creative process like? Emma (emory) and I went to college together and were both working together as TAs one summer. I had just written "Without You" and took it into the studio. I brought up my sonic references, and Emma had some really great ideas on how to start the song. We tracked piano first (with me playing), and then Emma came up with those skittery, arpeggiated synth parts (using the Moog Little Phatty) you hear in the song. Our session together definitely built the foundation for where I took "Without You" production-wise. "White Picket Fence" feels so cinematic; was there a particular image or moment that inspired it? I was thinking about the clashes couples can have and how if you've been together for a certain amount of time, you may grow to want different things, but it's hard to know what to do next because there's a lot of love and you've been a massive part of each other's lives until then. What if one of you wants a life of domesticity and "settling down," and the other seeks adventure and travel? How do you meet in the middle with such opposing desires? At the same time, I was listening to MUNA's "Live at Electric Lady" album and had been especially drawn to their version of "Taken." I was drawn to the lilting 6/8 feel of the song, as well as its organic, live energy. With the lyrical concept I had in mind, as well as my sonic inspiration from MUNA, I started writing "White Picket Fence." Since I had such a strong vision of what I wanted to say in the song, it came together really quickly; I probably wrote it in an hour total.  How did studying at the Clive Davis Institute shape the sound and ambition of this project? Through studying at Clive, I felt a freedom to explore various sonic approaches to the project, both through the inspiring nature of the program as well as the people I studied alongside, but also thanks to the resources of having free studios and a bunch of instruments, microphones, and other equipment to use. It meant I recorded a lot more live components than I would have had I not had access to these studio spaces. I also experimented with real hardware synths, which were incredibly cool and lent a retro feel to the project. I definitely couldn't afford any of that equipment in my studio at home, so I was really grateful for being able to play around with it.  As a producer and songwriter, which part of the creative process excites you the most, building the track or telling the story? My first love has always been writing. Before I made music, I wrote short stories all the time as a kid. I even wanted to be an author at some point. So, for me, songwriting is my favorite part. I love crafting a strong story and building from there, I want listeners to be able to visualize the song and story as they listen and have it play out like a movie in their heads. If the lyrics lend themselves to that happening, then I know the song is done.

Let’s get one thing straight: Angel Dweh isn’t here to chase trends; he’s building his own world. And his Scorpio EP isn’t just a project; it’s a cultural flex wrapped in rhythm, passion, and purpose. Born in Monrovia and raised in the States, Angel Dweh, aka the Afro-Prince, blends his Liberian roots with American influence so naturally that it feels like a genre of its own. On Scorpio , he doesn’t just fuse Afrobeat, pop, and R&B, he owns  them, weaving his identity into every melody, beat, and lyric like someone who knows damn well where he came from and exactly where he’s going. From the jump, the EP feels intentional. The production is crisp but still lets the rawness breathe. You’ve got tracks that move, like actual dancefloor bait, and others that sit in your chest like a confession. Dweh’s vocal range isn’t just technical, it’s emotional. He glides from smooth melodies to vulnerable falsettos without ever losing control. That kind of dynamic storytelling? That’s rare. Let’s talk collabs: Nuchie Meek and J Slught don’t just guest star; they add weight. Their contributions elevate the project, not just because of name value, but because Dweh knows how to create space for other voices without losing his own. That’s a sign of a real artist, one who’s not insecure about sharing the spotlight because he knows it’s still his stage. The lyrical content digs deeper than your average "vibe" project. It’s not all about love or lust (though that Scorpio  energy is definitely present); there’s emotional reckoning, legacy-building, and a clear mission: Angel’s ambition is rooted in service . As he puts it: “My ambition goes beyond just being a star. I’m committed to inspiring and nurturing the next generation of Liberian musicians and artists.” That’s not just talk. The Scorpio  visual film, set to drop with the Deluxe version, is proof. He’s not just releasing an EP; he’s building an era . The film isn’t an afterthought; it’s a cinematic counterpart that brings his sonic universe to life. Gorgeous visuals, thoughtful direction, and themes that go beyond surface-level aesthetics. It’s a project made with heart, not hustle. So here’s the verdict: Angel Dweh isn’t just doing Afrobeat. He’s reshaping it through his own lens. Scorpio EP  is what happens when cultural pride, genre mastery, and authentic storytelling collide. It's polished, it's personal, and it doesn’t pander. If you’re sleeping on this, that’s on you.