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Photo by Eze Joshua Let’s set the scene: You’re spiraling. Maybe it’s a breakup. Maybe it’s a quarter-life crisis. Maybe you just saw a photo of your ex looking suspiciously happy. What do you do? You put on your headphones. You cue up the soul-crushing playlist.You press play on that song, the one that hits a little too hard, and you let it ruin you. But somewhere between the third listen and the ugly cry, a thought creeps in:Is this helping me feel better… or just making everything worse? Because in the age of curated sadness and lyric-caption culture, we have to ask:Is sad music actually self-care, or just aestheticized self-sabotage? The Case for Sad Songs as Self-Care Sad music gets it. It mirrors your heartbreak. Your emptiness. Your overthinking. It doesn’t try to fix anything. It just sits with you in the dark. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need. A well-timed sad song can feel like therapy. Like someone’s holding your hand while you unravel, and in a world that constantly tells us to cheer up, move on, and “just be positive,” there’s something radical about letting yourself feel. You don’t always need a solution. Sometimes, you just need a soundtrack. But When Does it Become Too Much? Here’s where it gets tricky. Because that same playlist that felt like a hug on Monday? By Thursday, it’s a loop of emotional masochism. Instead of moving through your sadness, you’re marinating in it. You start mistaking emotional validation for emotional progress. You let the lyrics confirm your worst thoughts about yourself. You start romanticizing the spiral. And suddenly, you’re not just feeling sad, you’re feeding it. This isn’t to say sad music is bad. But like anything emotional, it needs balance.It ’s one thing to cry it out with Sufjan. It’s another to play “Liability” every day and wonder why you haven’t bounced back yet. Are You Healing... or Just Making a Mood Board Out of Your Trauma? Photo by Matthias Groeneveld There’s also the performative angle. We live in a time where sadness is aesthetic, where pain is content. Where sharing your depressive playlist is almost a flex. (“Yeah, I’m unwell, but at least my taste in music is elite.”) Sadness has become stylized. We wear it like a jacket. Post about it like it’s branding. We start consuming our feelings like entertainment, and calling it “processing.” But feeling seen isn’t the same as feeling better. And self-awareness doesn’t always equal self-work. So, is listening to sad music self-care or self-sabotage? The answer is: yes. It’s both. It depends on why you’re listening and what you do with the emotion it pulls out of you. If it helps you cry, process, release? Beautiful. If it keeps you stuck, spiraling, numb? Maybe it’s time to hit skip. Either way, your playlist doesn’t have to be a prison. Let the music move through you, don’t let it bury you.

There was a time when albums were sacred. Tracklists were intentional. Sequencing mattered. People sat with a full project, front to back, headphones in, lyrics pulled up, no distractions. Then came Gen Z. And with them? Chaos. Shuffle mode. Mood-based consumption. Song skipped at the 47-second mark if the vibe’s off. Today, music isn’t necessarily something you sit with. It’s something you scroll past, save, or stitch to a thirst trap. So, yeah: Gen Z doesn’t really believe in albums. They believe in vibes. The Album Is Dead. Long Live the Playlist Let’s be clear. Gen Z isn’t anti-music, far from it. They’re consuming more music than any generation before them. But the format? That’s what’s changed. Albums are too slow. Too linear. Too... committed. Meanwhile, playlists? They’re personal. Fluid. Designed for micro-moods like “eating hot chips while overthinking” or “feeling like the main character but also clinically unwell.” Why listen to a 13-track album arc when you can have a shuffled experience curated by your own spiral? The Algorithm Rewards Moments—Not Narratives Photo by cottonbro studio Attention is currency, and albums don’t pay fast enough. Platforms like TikTok, Spotify, and YouTube favor the single, the snippet, the instant emotional hit. You don’t need to craft a full-length journey; you need 10 seconds that slap and loop well. Albums require patience. Playlists don’t. And Gen Z? They’ve grown up in a world where everything competes for your focus, and very few things earn your full attention. The album lost the battle to the scroll. Still, it’s not all bad. Gen Z may not worship albums the way their older siblings did, but they’ve created something new: meme-core music culture, hyper-curation, genreless soundscapes, and playlists that feel more like diaries than catalogs. You won’t find many of them repping deep cuts or defending interludes...but you will find them stitching three different genres into one playlist, sharing tracks like inside jokes, and building ecosystems of emotion through sound. It’s not polished. It’s not traditional. But it’s real. So no, Gen Z didn’t kill the album out of laziness or disrespect. They just rejected the idea that music should come in one shape, one story, one format. In a world that feels fractured and fast, they matched the medium to the moment

Photo By: Trevor Brady Lights has always had a gift for turning emotional chaos into synth-laced confessionals, but on her sixth studio album ' A6 ,' she doesn’t just open the door, she kicks it off the damn hinges. Welcome to 'A6.' This isn’t a pop record made for background noise. It's for the spiraling, the healing, and the ones who feel too much and say too little. With glittering synths and moody guitar lines, Lights hands over her most intimate chapters yet. It's raw, unfiltered, and wired with self-awareness. Tracks like “ DAMAGE ” hit like a panic attack on the dancefloor. It's cinematic, messy, and unforgettable. Then there’s “ SURFACE TENSION ,” pulling us into Berlin disco shadows with icy cool precision. Each song is a head trip: part therapy, part late-night drive. And then there's “ CLINGY , " the pre-release standout, which is unhinged in the best way. Lights turns emotional dependency into a bop with teeth. “ You could be the most confident person when that feeling creeps up, ” she explains to BUZZMUSIC. That tug-of-war also plays out in the production, shifting from breezy guitar to smothering closeness. By the time you realize you’ve caught feelings, you're already deep. But 'A6' isn’t just about losing control. “ THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR ” hits like a late-night voicemail to yourself, stripped, reflective, and just uncomfortable enough to feel like truth. Lights doesn’t want your pity. She wants you to look. With four JUNO s and nearly half a billion streams, she could coast. Instead, she’s pulling us into her latest evolution, which demands your full attention. And she’s taking it on the road with the (A)LIVE AGAIN Tour coming to a city near you. 'A6' takes us on a rollercoaster of synth-fueled chaos and deep feels. When you first started cooking up this record, were you chasing a vibe, or did it just naturally spiral into this beautiful madness? I initially set out to make a synth wave record. All of my A6 inspo playlists were heavily synthwave forward, but then it started to naturally lean more towards darkwave, and the pacing of the sonic inspiration really started shifting to something still melodic and feely but way more fast paced. I wrote Damage, Surface Tension and Alive Again and then knew I had to go back and shift some of the production in the previous songs to fit the new vibe. Drinks on the Coast, for example, was one that was originally way more synth wave and half-time, but I doubled-timed it and brought in a ton of guitar work. "CLINGY" is that brutally honest anthem we didn’t know we needed. How did you manage to make obsession sound both hot and hilarious without making us feel totally called out? I cackled reading this question! I had a summer where I found myself feeling clingy, and I’m not normally a jealous type of person. It caught me off guard, and I didn’t like how that felt, so I ended up working on myself a lot after that. But when I wrote this song, the first thing that came together was the chorus, and it was really intimate and heavy, and that is exactly how the feelings of clinginess and jealousy run through my mind, so I knew it had to go there. Facts are, no matter how confident you are, you’ll find moments of weakness, and you’ll learn so much from that! You’ve always been a genre shapeshifter, but on 'A6,' you basically said, “rules? never heard of ’em.” What sounds or influences snuck in this time that might surprise even your ride-or-die fans? A6 is equal parts old-Lights, new-Lights, dark wave, new wave, synthwave (all the waves), and Midwest emo. But the surprising influence might be some of the heavier bass sounds that I’ve perfected since really digging into my side project, LŪN. It’s much heavier and mainly instrumental, so my synth sound banks are filled with heavier sounds now, and I had a good time bringing a few of those into A6.  "THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR" hits like an emotional sneak attack. How do you walk the line between spilling your guts and keeping a little mystery for yourself? I think it’s really important to draw emotion from personal experience to inject into the music, but without making it about me. Art is meant to be absorbed and interpreted by the individual, I’m not going to make reference to very specific moments and people or places because that experience is only my own and therefore, not relatable. It’s a skill I have been honing for years, where I know exactly what that song is about, and it has shades of my pain or my experience, but still can be felt and interpreted the way the listener needs to hear it. The (A)LIVE AGAIN Tour is already causing a frenzy. What’s one moment in the set where you just know  the crowd’s gonna lose their minds? My absolute favourite moment is when we play Alive Again. It has this “you only live once, so make the most of this moment” kind of energy, and we throw beach balls into the crowd, and it just really goes off. The chorus itself has no melody or rhyme; it’s just yelling, and I think everyone can easily participate in a moment like that!

Let’s be real ... there’s a special kind of chaos in knowing someone’s bad for you and diving in headfirst anyway. Lara Villani bottles that exact brand of emotional recklessness on her newest track “ Losing My Mind ,” and instead of handing us a life jacket, she straps us to the ship and lets it sink in style. The Australian pop-R&B up-and-comer isn’t just singing about temptation ,  she’s swimming in it, soaking wet with want and absolutely zero regard for consequences. This isn’t love. This is compulsion. And she makes it sound so damn good. Sonically, “Losing My Mind” rides the line between sultry and cinematic. Think dimly lit hotel rooms, mascara-stained pillowcases, and the kind of beat that feels like it was made for making terrible decisions. Lara’s vocals are smooth but layered with tension, like she knows she’s spiraling but can’t hit the brakes. There’s a subtle desperation beneath the gloss, a push-pull that mirrors the very relationship she’s singing about. It's not just addictive; it’s deliberately self-destructive. And that’s what makes this track slap so hard. Villani isn’t asking for your sympathy ;  she’s dragging you into the mess with her. We’ve all danced with danger in disguise, ignored the red flags, let lust override logic. This song doesn’t judge you for it. It hands you the aux and says, “play it again.” While previous releases saw her dabbling in pop-rock with a more emotional edge, “Losing My Mind” feels like Lara finally found the smoke-filled room where her voice belongs. It's sleek. It’s sexy. It's unhinged in the best way. Lara Villani isn’t just losing her mind ... she’s making sure you lose yours too. And honestly? We’re not mad about it. “Losing My Mind” dives headfirst into that dangerously magnetic kind of love ,  the one you know is bad news but can’t walk away from. Was this written from personal experience, and how did you channel that emotional chaos into the song? Absolutely—“Losing My Mind” definitely comes from personal experience. I think most of us have had that one connection where it feels so intense and electric, but deep down, you know it’s not right. You tell yourself to let go, but there’s something addictive about the chaos—it keeps pulling you back in. Writing this song was like therapy for me. I leaned into that emotional whirlwind, let the vulnerability spill out, and shaped it into something honest, dramatic, and a little unhinged—because that’s exactly what it felt like. You’ve evolved from emotional pop-rock into this sleek, sultry pop-R&B sound . W hat sparked that shift, and do you feel like you’ve finally landed in your creative lane? Totally—I feel like I’ve finally found the sound that feels most me. I’ve always loved emotional storytelling, but I started leaning into pop-R&B because it gave me the space to be softer, sexier, and more vulnerable, while still holding onto that catchy, melodic core I’ve always loved about pop. The shift came when I stopped trying to make music I thought people wanted me to make, and instead started creating the kind of songs I’d want on my own playlist. That change felt really freeing. Now, I’m in a space where I can be unapologetically emotional and empowered—and it feels like home. Your roots in musical theatre and blues are a unique combo. How do those influences shape the way you perform and write today, especially on a track as emotionally charged as this? My background in musical theatre taught me how to fully embody a story—how to live inside the emotion and deliver it with intention. Blues gave me that raw, soul-deep connection to feeling, where less is often more and every note matters. So now, when I write or perform something like Losing My Mind, those influences come through naturally. I approach the song like I’m sharing a story that’s deeply personal—one that I’ve lived through. It’s dramatic, it’s vulnerable, and it’s meant to hit you right in the chest. You’ve already had a sold-out debut show and landed coverage in Rolling Stone and Triple J. Do you feel pressure to keep leveling up, or are you more focused on staying true to your vision regardless of the buzz? It’s definitely a bit of both. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t pressure—when people start paying attention, you naturally want to keep delivering and growing. But at the same time, I’ve learned that chasing validation can quickly take you off track. What matters most to me is staying true to my vision, my sound, and my story. The buzz is amazing and I’m so grateful, but I try to keep my focus on making music that feels real to me. That’s what keeps it meaningful. If someone’s playing “Losing My Mind” on repeat, what do you hope they’re feeling, or confronting, when they listen? If someone’s playing “Losing My Mind” on repeat, I want it to be their anthem—the soundtrack to those wild, tangled feelings when love takes over and logic fades away. I hope they feel seen in that chaos, that mix of passion and confusion, and find strength knowing they’re not alone in the madness. It’s a celebration of vulnerability and the messy, beautiful side of being completely swept up in something you can’t let go of.

Photo by Yulia Pribytkova Remember when “industry plant” meant something? Like, when it actually referred to an artist fabricated by labels to look underground while being quietly boosted with major-label resources and smoke-and-mirror backstories? Yeah. Now it means: "This artist is successful and I personally don’t like it." "They got too popular too fast." "They’re hot, well-dressed, and didn’t record on a cracked version of Ableton in a laundry room like me." In 2025, “industry plant” has become the most overused insult in music culture, and it’s not just tired, it’s lazy. From Legit Critique to Internet Buzzword There was a time when the label made sense. Think: artists with suspicious backstories, fake indie aesthetics, and shady label ties they pretended didn’t exist. That critique mattered, especially in an era where labels were co-opting underground movements for clout. But now? The second an artist blows up on TikTok, lands a big collab, or—God forbid—has good lighting and a cohesive rollout, the “plant” accusations fly. It’s not about integrity anymore. It’s about envy disguised as analysis. Just Because They Have a Strategy Doesn’t Mean They’re Planted Let’s be clear: not every artist with a label, team, or viral song is a puppet. Most of your favorite artists, yes, even the ones you think are “indie to the bone," have marketing budgets, stylists, sync deals, and social media strategy. That’s not selling out. That’s called working smart in a broken-ass industry. Meanwhile, the people calling them industry plants are often just as image-conscious, just as strategic, and would 100% take the same deal if it landed in their inbox. The Real Problem? You Just Don’t Like Pop Music Let’s be honest: a lot of “industry plant” accusations are just thinly veiled genre elitism. You don’t like clean vocals, catchy melodies, or anything that feels too polished, so you label it fake. You want “real” artists to struggle. You want their art to come with visible pain and poverty. You want them to make zero money until they hit 500k monthly listeners on Spotify. And if they don’t go through that crucible? Suddenly, they’re manufactured. It’s not a personality to hate success. Get better critiques. Also… You Might Just Be Mad They Got There First A lot of “plant” accusations are just projections. Let’s be real: you’ve been grinding for years. You’ve played the dive bars, released the EPs, and begged your friends to share your link. Then someone you’ve never heard of gets a sync on Euphoria and drops one moody TikTok and now they’ve got a tour and merch. You’re not mad they’re planted. You’re mad you’re not blooming. Final Chorus Is label manipulation still a thing? Absolutely.Should we be critical of fake narratives, repackaged “DIY” branding, and artists who pretend to be grassroots while backed by major money? Of course.But if everyone who gets a boost is a plant, the term means nothing anymore. So maybe stop calling every rising star a plant, and start calling them what they are: artists doing their damn job in an algorithm-obsessed world. Let’s stop using “industry plant” as a knee-jerk insult and start having smarter conversations. Because the real fakes? They aren’t in the spotlight. They’re just loud in the comments.

Every once in a while, an artist comes along who isn’t just here to sing; they’re here to say something. And with her debut single “ Never the Same ,” 21-year-old pop powerhouse A rina Di is making it clear that she’s one of them. No fluff, no filter, just raw, emotional storytelling wrapped in bold production and an unforgettable vocal presence. Arina Di describes herself as a storyteller first. With a background in both theater and film, she’s no stranger to building emotion, tension, and transformation through her art. “Never the Same” captures all of that. From the very first line, “Shhh... can you hear that? The sound of the woman who built herself from nothing," you know you’re in for something deeper than your average breakup song. The track is an anthem of personal rebirth. It’s about taking your power back after being underestimated, dismissed, or broken down, and doing it without apology. Arina Di’s lyrics cut sharp, but they’re also deeply relatable. She walks us through a journey from darkness to defiance, turning pain into fuel, silence into voice, and survival into strength. And it’s not performative, it’s personal. “ I want anyone who listens to this to feel stronger, like this song puts words to something they couldn’t say out loud. That’s the whole point of doing this, ” says Arina Di. Musically, “Never the Same” balances dark pop production with big, emotionally charged vocals that land somewhere between Billie Eilish’s haunting vulnerability and Lady Gaga’s theatrical fire. There’s sass in the bridge, drama in the build, and power in every line. You don’t just hear this song, you feel it. More than anything, this release marks the arrival of an artist who is ready to own every part of her story. And the best part? She’s just getting started. “Never the Same” is such a powerful introduction. What made you choose this track as your debut? It just felt right. “Never the Same” is the most honest reflection of where I am right now — it’s emotional, raw, and full of energy I’ve held in for years. I’ve been dreaming of doing this since I was a kid, recording covers in my room, and when it finally came time to release something of my own, I knew it had to be this song. It’s more than music for me — it’s me finally stepping into my power and saying, “I’m here, and I’m not hiding anymore.” The song moves through pain, empowerment, and transformation. How much of this was drawn directly from your own life? Honestly? Most of it. Every part of this song comes from a real place — from feeling like I had to stay quiet, from heartbreak, from being underestimated. Writing it was like pouring my journal into lyrics. But at the same time, it’s also about healing. It’s me turning all that pain into something powerful. That shift from “they broke me” to “I built myself” — that’s real. That’s mine. You’ve mentioned your roots in theater and film — how do those experiences shape the way you write and perform music? A lot. I grew up on stage, so performing has always felt like home. Theater taught me how to fully feel something and tell a story with it — not just act it, but really be it. That definitely shows up in how I sing and write. I don’t care about sounding “perfect” — I care about making people feel something. Every time I perform, I try to step into the story and live it out loud. There's a strong message of divine feminine energy and self-worth in the lyrics. Who inspires that side of you? So many women. Artists who share their truth unapologetically. And honestly, I inspire myself sometimes, too. There’s a version of me I used to hide — softer, emotional, intuitive — and I’ve realized that’s actually where my power lives. This song helped me reconnect with that side of me. That inner voice that knows her worth and doesn’t need to explain it to anyone. What would you say to someone who feels stuck in their own “before” moment, not quite in their power yet? You’re not broken — you’re just in the middle of becoming. It’s okay not to feel powerful all the time. Start small. Be honest with yourself. Take one step, then another. The version of you that’s waiting on the other side of all this? She’s already there — you just haven’t met her yet. But you will. And once you do, everything changes. What's next for you? I’m just getting started. More music is coming — songs that go even deeper, with visuals and performances that bring it all to life. I want to build a world around this energy. This year is all about showing up fully as myself and creating things that help other people do the same.

Photo by Airam Dato-on Let’s get something straight: being independent doesn't just mean you're not signed. It means you're moving with intention. You're building something. You're choosing your art over trends. You’re defining success on your own terms, not waiting for the algorithm to crown you. But in 2025, “independent” has become just another buzzword. Another badge. Another aesthetic artists slap on their profiles while spending 90% of their time trying to go viral on TikTok. You can't call yourself independent if your career hinges on the next 12-second trend. There’s a Difference Between Strategy and Survival Look, we get it. Visibility matters. Going viral can change lives. A million plays can turn into a fanbase, a sync deal, a tour. But chasing virality as your main  strategy? That’s not independence. That’s gambling. And worst of all? It’s not sustainable. If your art only exists to feed the algorithm, are you even building a career, or just reacting to one? Indie Isn’t About Going Viral, It’s About Ownership The real definition of independent isn’t “unsigned.”It’s: who controls the art, the rights, the messaging, and the timeline? It’s: Writing the songs you want to write Dropping when you want to drop Curating your community—not just chasing clout Knowing your worth beyond numbers You can be indie and still go viral. But you can’t be indie if virality is the goal. TikTok Isn’t the Enemy, But It’s Not the Mission Let’s be clear: we’re not blaming the platform. TikTok has democratized discovery in a way nothing else has. It’s given voice to artists who never would’ve been heard by gatekeepers. It’s a tool, and a powerful one. But when your whole artistry is reverse-engineered to “hit” on TikTok, something shifts. You start writing content, not songs. You start branding instead of building. And suddenly, you’re not an artist anymore, you’re a product in search of a shelf. And ironically? That’s the same system most indie artists claim they left behind. The Aesthetics of Indie Without the Backbone Photo by lua.JPG We’ve seen it: the “indie” branding, the lo-fi single covers, the handwritten captions that all read like, “I made this in my bedroom at 3 am with no expectations 🖤 pls stream.” Meanwhile, there’s a team in the background running ad spend, targeting trends, and optimizing hook length for TikTok loops. Independence means betting on yourself, not the feed. It means building slowly, honestly, and intentionally—even if no one’s watching (yet). It means knowing your worth, whether you’re getting 1,000 views or 1,000,000. So if you're serious about being an independent artist, ask yourself: Are you building a legacy, or just praying for a spike? Because chasing virality is easy.But building something that lasts? That’s the real flex.

Photo by Jakayla Toney Let’s cut the industry fantasy for a second. You’re not “one meeting away” from everything changing. That mysterious label scout who “likes your vibe” isn’t the missing puzzle piece to your success. And no, your entire career isn’t going to magically take off the second you sign your name on some dotted line and start calling yourself “industry.” What do you actually need? A therapist. And a content strategy. The Label Deal Delusion Somewhere along the way, too many artists got the idea that signing to a label was the ultimate goal. The finish line. The arrival. The reward for grinding. And sure, label deals can help if they’re fair, if you have leverage, and if the team behind you actually gives a damn. But more often than not, they’re not offering salvation. They’re offering structure. And if you haven’t built a foundation for yourself yet? That structure will collapse with you inside it. Because here’s the truth: if you don’t know who you are, what you want, and how to show up online, you’re not ready for a label. You’re just handing over the steering wheel and hoping someone else drives better than you. Let’s Talk About the Therapist Part This isn’t a punchline. It’s real. So many artists are out here trying to make music from a place of lack. Craving validation. Chasing numbers. Getting crushed by comparison. And thinking that if a label picks them, the impostor syndrome will go away. (Spoiler: it won’t.) Before you hand over your art to anyone else, ask yourself: Are you making music for yourself, or for someone to finally say “you’re good enough”? Are you constantly sabotaging your own momentum because you’re scared of success? Are you chasing fame to fix something internal that no amount of streams will touch? A label can help build your brand. But only you can unpack the mess that lives under it. Now, About That Content Strategy Let’s get blunt: you don’t need a manager, a publicist, or a label if you haven’t even mastered consistency. You need: A clear aesthetic. (Not perfect—just real.) A plan for how you show up online. A rhythm to your releases. A reason for people to care. And most importantly, a way to talk about your music that isn’t just “new song out now, link in bio.” You don’t have to be an influencer. You just have to be intentional. If you’re not building your own platform, you’re just waiting to be picked, and that’s no longer a viable career strategy in 2025. The Artists Who Are Winning? They Built First Photo by Aj Collins Artistry You know the ones. The artist who filmed all her own visuals for two years before anyone noticed, and now her videos go viral every drop. The artist who released ten songs to no fanfare before one finally caught on, and now he’s got a real audience, not bots. The artist who showed up online every day was weird, consistent, and unapologetically themselves, and now has brand deals, sync placements, and freedom. They didn’t wait to be signed. They signed themselves. Mentally. Emotionally. Creatively. And the world caught up. You want a label to save you. You want someone to invest in you, believe in you, and tell you what to do. But maybe, just maybe, you need to invest in yourself first. Believe in yourself before you ask strangers to. Build a brand that doesn’t rely on industry handouts. Because real power? It’s not in signing the deal. It’s in being the kind of artist who doesn’t need one.

Photo by Anthony Celenie Catchy, clippable, and completely devoid of soul? Welcome to the new music economy. It starts with a hook. Ten seconds long. Usually something vaguely sad or way too confident. It’s delivered over a synthy beat that feels like someone googled “TikTok-core template.” Then comes the drop, if you can even call it that, followed by a chorus designed not to move your soul, but to loop seamlessly under a GRWM video or thirst trap #2749. Sound familiar? Yeah. Every song on TikTok sounds the same right now, and we need to talk about it. Music by Algorithm, Not by Heart There was a time when a “hit” song came from sweat, touring, and late nights spent wondering if you were wasting your life chasing melodies. Now? A hit can come from someone testing 14 different hooks in a spreadsheet and picking the one that sounds the most like a sad text message. Art has been replaced with strategy. Emotion replaced with optimization. Artists are being told by managers, platforms, and even labels: “Write the part that’s gonna go viral first." Forget the bridge. Forget the narrative arc. Forget the second verse entirely. Just give us a hook that works under a 12-second makeup tutorial. Songs Are Getting Shorter The average length of a pop song is now under 3 minutes. In some cases, under 2. That’s not an accident. Streaming platforms reward replayability. TikTok demands immediacy. And the almighty algorithm does not care about your artistic process. You’re not writing for an audience anymore. You’re writing for momentum. And if that momentum doesn’t catch in the first 5 seconds? You're toast. Scroll. Forgotten. Deleted like a bad draft in CapCut. Is TikTok Making Music Worse? Let’s be clear: TikTok has changed the game for emerging artists. It’s broken careers wide open. It’s democratized discovery. And some of the best songs of the last five years got their first breath from TikTok. But here’s the issue: the platform’s dominance has flattened the soundscape. Everyone’s chasing the same aesthetic. The same tempo. The same mood board of emotionally vague lyrics wrapped in just enough synth to make it replayable, but not too much to make it interesting. And the worst part? It works. The Artist vs. The Content Machine Photo by Najafi Photos Real ones know: the song always came first. The visual? The performance? The fit? That came later. But now, artists are being told to think like content creators first, and musicians second. Write for the loop. Film for the feed. Be digestible. Be clickable. Be algorithm-friendly. If you’re not all of those things? Good luck. It’s no longer “what do you want to say?”It’s “what part of this song will someone lip-sync to while crying in a hoodie?” Look, we’re not here to gatekeep. There’s room for catchy. There’s space for trends. We love a good viral bop as much as the next music junkie. But when every song starts to feel like it came off the same assembly line, something gets lost. The rawness. The weirdness. The parts that weren’t meant for public consumption.

Brooklyn-based indie-Americana artist Kaneb Andrews is done whispering—on his newest single, “Midnight Medicine,” he turns up the volume and charges headfirst into reckless desire, chasing connection like it’s the only thing that matters. And in this moment, it is. Following a string of softer, acoustic-driven releases, “ Midnight Medicine ” marks a sharp left turn for Andrews. The track is his first full-band release in years, and it shows. From the opening down-strummed guitar in drop-D to the pulsing, distorted energy that follows, this is the sound of an artist stepping out of his introspective shell and throwing himself into the fire. Thematically, “Midnight Medicine” captures that universal hunger to feel something, anything, in the face of numbness. “You got a feeling the rest can’t fake / Your midnight medicine’s making me shake,” Andrews sings, teetering between lust and dependency, romance and destruction. The lyrics blur the line between drug imagery and sexual tension, creating a woozy, desperate atmosphere that’s as addictive as the person he’s chasing. This isn’t about love. It’s about adrenaline. It's about the thrill of running toward someone you know might ruin you, because that feels better than feeling nothing at all. Musically, Andrews shows off a side we haven’t quite seen from him before. The melodies are deceptively bright, almost pop-punk in spirit, while the instrumentation leans into indie rock with hints of Americana grit. It’s an emotionally raw, yet radio-ready offering—a balance that’s hard to strike and even harder to make feel this effortless. Andrews, who cut his teeth performing at NYC staples like Rockwood Music Hall and Mercury Lounge, has spent the last few years refining his sound, and it shows. “Midnight Medicine” isn’t just a single; it’s a statement. A reminder that artists grow, stretch, and occasionally set themselves on fire in the process. “Midnight Medicine” feels like a big departure from your previous acoustic material—what inspired this shift toward a more electrified, full-band sound? I honestly think I just wanted people to have more fun with my music. I don’t want people to think that they can only listen to my music when they’re alone, reading in a coffee shop, or sitting on their couch, sipping tea and thinking about heartbreak and poetry. I of course am proud of all of the soft acoustic stuff I’ve made, but I think it gives people the sense that I’m a bit of a downer, that I’m all soft slow and introspective and my music doesn’t have a place in a club or a dive bar on a night out. And that’s not really true. Yes, I make plenty of quiet, emotional, introspective music, but I also love listening to rowdier, upbeat stuff – I love the electric Dylan albums, the Rolling Stones, Springsteen, etc. And I’ve written a lot of upbeat electric stuff too, it’s just that I’ve never released it. So it’s a big departure from my previous material, as compared with what I’ve already released, but for me as a writer, it doesn’t feel like as much of a departure because when I’m writing, I am always going back and forth between softer, acoustic material and faster, more upbeat, full-band stuff. And likewise, as a listener, I’ve always loved both the soft acoustic stuff and the harder electric stuff. I want to show people that this full-band sound is as much a part of me and my music as the softer, acoustic stuff is. And I want to show people that I can have fun, provide some excitement, get my feet moving, that I belong in a dive bar just as much as I belong in a quiet café. Also, it took me a while to become comfortable enough with my band and with my production knowledge to be able to go into a studio and record live to get the messier kind of rock n roll sound that we have here. After a year or two of producing more acoustic music in my bedroom and playing live with my band in bars in New York, I felt like I had developed enough knowledge of the recording process and live sound so that we could go into a studio and get some good work done. The lyrics walk a fine line between emotional vulnerability and reckless abandon. How much of the song is autobiographical, and how much is character-driven? I think the feel or emotional core of the song is very autobiographical – loneliness, wanting to break out of it, wanting to make a connection, willing to take great risks to do so, that is all very real and true to me now, and it was true to me when I was writing it last year as well. In terms of the actual plot events of the song, most of those are character-driven. That’s me imagining a night out where I run into someone, or something, that could actually wake me up, and change up the monotony of my life, and I just choose to go along with them regardless of what happens. That’s usually how it goes for a lot of my songs – a mixture of real feeling and autobiographical events with some embellishment and imagination. You mentioned initially struggling with this track creatively—what ultimately helped you unlock the version we hear today? I think I sort of stopped trying and just allowed my natural musical preferences and inclinations to take control over the song’s direction. I don’t mean that I stopped trying to write the song; I just mean that I stopped trying to force it to sound a certain way. I stopped trying to push it intentionally one way or another. I had been trying to make it all bluesy and dark. But I don’t really write bluesy music, and my harmonic and melodic choices tend to be brighter, more major, mostly due to subconscious preference. So it was totally forced, and I just hated it. I remember telling my roommate, as I went back into my bedroom to keep working on the song, how bad I thought it was. Eventually, I just decided to let myself go and stop trying to make something that wasn’t really true to how I like to sound. So, for instance, I stopped trying to force these bluesy chords into it, because I don’t really use bluesy chords, it’s just not me, and instead I started playing the kinds of chords that I naturally gravitate towards. And I started singing a melody that was more natural to me, rather than forcing myself to find some harsher, darker melody that seemed more rock ‘n roll. And then pretty soon I realized that all of these lyrics that I had written and told myself were terrible, sounded much better when I was singing them to a tune I liked over chords that I liked. And then I started having a lot more fun. There’s an emotional duality to the track—pleasure and pain, thrill and regret. What do you hope listeners take away from that tension? Obviously, the song is more concerned with short-term pleasure at the price of longer-term pain tomorrow, or at some later point, wanting to feel good now, not worried about what that means for the future. So there’s a risk there – will this be worth the potential pain? Will this actually make me feel good? How much will this hurt tomorrow? The song’s answer to those questions is, ‘I don’t care,’ and I think we should all think a little more like that. I think we all should take more risks. Nothing good happens if you don’t take any chances, personally, romantically, professionally, whatever. That’s where the fun is. We’re all being babies because we’re afraid of regretting something, and I’m sick of it. Be brave and make a mistake! It’s not the end of the world. As you roll out more full-band singles this year, how do you see your sound evolving, and where do you want to take listeners next? I just want to keep developing the electric sound! The next single I release will be from this same session, so the sound will be generally similar, with some slight differences in sonic palette and instrumentation. We’ve already got another date booked at the same studio for two more singles, so we’ll keep moving in this direction. The sound on this track is pretty vintage, pretty classic 60s/70s rock with a few alterations – as I move forward, it would be cool to start adding some more modern elements like synthesizers to that rock and roll foundation. So maybe that! But who knows? Depends on what happens on the day that we record. That’s why I love playing with a live band.