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There’s something deeply unhinged in the best way about Queen Anne’s “Baby Girl (likes to lie).” The track doesn’t try to clean up its emotions or package heartbreak into something digestible. Instead, the Los Angeles indie duo lean directly into manipulation, rage, vanity, obsession, and the weird little ways people convince themselves they’re still winning while everything around them is actively falling apart. Built around shimmering alt-pop textures, sharp-edged guitars, and a dark post-punk pulse, “Baby Girl (likes to lie)” feels like a glitter-covered emotional spiral happening in real time. Lead singer Katie Silverman delivers every lyric with the kind of detached coolness that somehow makes the emotional wreckage underneath feel even louder. One second, the song feels playful and sarcastic; the next, it sounds genuinely dangerous. Queen Anne’s ability to blend dreamy indie-pop with gritty alt-rock instincts gives the track a personality that feels refreshingly unpredictable. There are traces of ‘80s new wave and modern indie sleaze running through the production, but nothing about the song feels overly nostalgic or forced. It feels current because the emotions are current. Everyone knows someone who weaponizes charm, bends reality, and leaves destruction behind while pretending they’re innocent. What makes the release even stronger is that the band never tries to moralize the chaos. They embrace it. The song’s references to ice cream, emotional manipulation, and the Mt. Baldy Wilderness Preserve somehow coexist naturally inside the same universe, which says a lot about Queen Anne’s writing style. It’s cinematic, messy, self-aware, and weirdly addictive. “Baby Girl (likes to lie)” sounds like getting ready for a night out while your life quietly implodes in the background. And honestly, that’s probably why it works so well. Fans can catch The Viper Room on July 17, where Queen Anne promises jokes, embarrassing secrets, and what will probably be a beautifully chaotic live set. “Baby Girl (likes to lie)” feels emotionally chaotic yet weirdly empowering. Was it important for the song to feel unresolved instead of offering closure? I've always been a sucker for an unresolved ending. I sang in a chorus for years growing up, and I remember pestering the director to cut the last chord out of our arrangements, to just let the tension hang in the air. I'm also big on cutting off the endings of our songs now, because I personally love when things feel a little incomplete. Especially for a song like "Baby Girl," I think whatever details people fill in are going to be more interesting, and obviously more specific to them, than anything I could add if I had one more verse that was like, "By the way, here's what the song's about." The track balances dark emotions with sarcastic humor and almost glamorous imagery. How do you personally navigate that line between pain and performance? For me, they fuel each other. I think of songs almost like dreams—it's probably about what happened to me that day, on some level, but the symbols are universal. And so music allows me to express things that I wouldn't necessarily be able to put into words. You reference real places and oddly specific details like ice cream flavors throughout the song. Why are those grounded details important to your songwriting? Almost everything I know about songwriting I learned from Stew (who wrote the musical Passing Strange). I've taken four of his classes in college, and one thing he always says is that in songwriting, there are no shirts. There are red shirts, and stained shirts, and crisp shirts, but never just shirts. I think of it almost like how fortune-tellers will throw out a bunch of really specific details, so people will cling to the one that's weirdly accurate to them. I'm basically betting that if I have associations with these objects and images, other people might, too—or at least feel connected to the specificity of it. Your sound pulls from indie-pop, post-punk, alt-rock, and even alt-country textures without feeling disconnected. How did you develop Queen Anne’s sonic identity? One of the coolest things about working with Sandy is that we both have very eclectic tastes in music. We never sat down and decided to "do" a genre; we've sort of just pulled what we like from different musical worlds. And so it's been very fun for us as well to hear ourselves leaning more toward alt-country on one track and post-punk on another because we're not thinking in terms of those labels when we're writing at all. You said, “winning is a mindset,” even when life is messy. Do you think modern culture puts too much pressure on artists to appear emotionally polished all the time? Not just artists—everyone. One thing that is so unprecedented is the access people have to artists now, in terms of expecting to see content from their daily lives, but everyone also feels entitled to see what everyone they know is wearing and where they are and what they ate today. There are people I haven't spoken to in over a year, but I can see their location, or I'm on their "Close Friends" story where they posted that they were really constipated. I think where this becomes a problem for artists is that there's so much pressure to have a fairly one-dimensional brand, so if you're "messy" or "real," you should be posting "messy" content all day, every day, but if you're "sexy" and "cool," you should also be able to keep that up without missing a beat. I understand that predictability sells, but I personally don't have the attention span to keep that up. I don't want to bamboozle people into thinking I'm an abstract concept that releases "content" into the world. I'm a human person who will feel and behave in various ways, and ideally will be consistent in the sound and the feel of the music I make, and my "audience" is going to be people who connect with that.

The Black Karl blends Afrobeats, R&B, and alternative soul on ENTITLED UPPITY AFRICAN, a fearless album about identity, empowerment, vulnerability, and reclaiming pride. There’s something refreshing about an artist who doesn’t water themselves down to make people comfortable. On ENTITLED UPPITY AFRICAN, The Black Karl leans directly into identity, confidence, contradiction, and vulnerability without trying to smooth any of it over for mainstream approval. The result is a project that feels personal, politically aware, emotionally messy, and honestly, very needed right now. Inspired by online discourse surrounding South African superstar Tyla and the way Black and African artists are often dissected once they enter Western spaces, ENTITLED UPPITY AFRICAN flips language historically used as an insult into something empowering. The title itself feels intentional. Confrontational, even. But underneath that confidence is an album carrying a lot more emotional weight than people might expect at first listen. The Black Karl continues building the genre-bending world he’s been carving out since Six Elah. Afrobeats rhythms collide with atmospheric R&B, alternative soul, pop melodies, and hip-hop textures in a way that never feels forced or algorithmic. A lot of artists claim they’re “genreless” when really they just lack direction. This project actually understands how to merge influences while still sounding cohesive. Tracks like “BADASSERY” radiate confidence and liberation. It’s the type of record that feels designed for reclaiming your space loudly after spending too much time shrinking yourself for other people. But the album gets deeper once it allows itself to crack emotionally. “PLAY PRETEND” stands out as one of the project’s most vulnerable moments, framed as a conversation between Kerith and a past version of himself. There’s grief in it. Reflection too. It feels less like performance and more like witnessing someone unpack themselves in real time. That balance is what makes ENTITLED UPPITY AFRICAN land. The Black Karl isn’t just making empowerment music for the surface-level Instagram caption crowd. He’s exploring what empowerment actually costs emotionally, especially for people navigating identity, expectation, pride, and survival all at once. The title ENTITLED UPPITY AFRICAN immediately grabs attention. At what point did you realize you wanted to reclaim those words instead of avoiding them? My family moved to Canada about 10 years ago, and after the honeymoon phase, I started realizing that the way I saw myself wasn’t always the way people perceived me. I went through a lot of experiences — even in relationships — where it felt like people wanted me to “stay in my lane” just because I’m a proud Black man. The real switch happened when I realized that if I had been white, certain behaviors, confidence, or ambition would’ve been received completely differently. Instead of shrinking myself to make people comfortable, I decided to reclaim those words and own them fully. That’s why ENTITLED UPPITY AFRICAN means so much to me, because every layer of that title comes from something real I had to live through. “PLAY PRETEND” feels deeply personal and emotionally layered. What was the hardest part about writing that conversation between yourself and your past alter ego? To be honest, the hardest part was having to revisit a period of my life that really broke me mentally and emotionally. I got unjustifiably convicted because of a song I wrote from that alter ego perspective, and I truly believe the color of my skin played a part in how people perceived me. That experience drowned me in a state I wouldn’t wish on anyone, so writing that conversation with Da’Quan Corvonte forced me to face a lot of demons I had buried. But at the same time, it became healing because I finally confronted that version of myself instead of running from it. In a way, that song was me letting Da’Quan go a little and allowing Kerith to take back control — at least for now. Your music blends Afrobeats, R&B, alternative soul, and pop naturally without sounding calculated. How do you approach genre when creating music? I’ve never really approached music from a “genre” perspective. I just love sound in general, since I'm in tune with the universe — everything around us has a frequency, and I think I’m very connected to that energy when I create. The first thing I usually focus on is the bass line because it sets the record's emotion and soul for me. From there, I just let inspiration flow naturally instead of trying to fit into one specific lane. I think that’s why the mix of Afrobeats, R&B, alternative soul, and pop feels organic in my music — it’s really just a reflection of my versatility and the way I experience sound. Everything just aligned for me, even down to my artist name. “Karl” means “free man,” and when you add “The Black” to it, the message becomes complete. It fully represents who I am — a proud Black man embracing his freedom, identity, and truth without apology. You mentioned wanting women, especially, to feel empowered through this project. How have the women in your life shaped the emotional perspective behind this album? Throughout this project, I really kept my mom in mind, because she’s the parent I moved to Canada with, and I got to witness her growth firsthand. I saw her evolve from someone very soft and quiet into the incredible, resilient woman she is today, even though life was never easy for her. My sisters shaped me a lot too — they’ve always protected me, grounded me, and nurtured my soul in ways I can’t fully explain. I even made a song called I Wish I Was Like My Sister on my first album because that admiration has always been there. I think the women in my life taught me that being balanced as a man also means embracing sensitivity, empathy, and other traits people unfairly label as “feminine.” Across this project, there’s confidence, but also vulnerability underneath it. Do you think people misunderstand vulnerability in artists, especially Black male artists? Definitely. As a Black man, I was raised to believe that showing vulnerability made me weak, but staying closed off made people see me as heartless, too. I think Black male artists are often misunderstood because people expect confidence and toughness without realizing there’s real emotion underneath it. Music has always been the place where I could honestly express my sensitive side, even when it came with judgment. For me, being vulnerable in my art isn't a weakness — it’s one of the strongest things I can do. That mix of confidence and emotion is really at the core of this project.

There’s a certain type of album that doesn’t try to impress you immediately. It doesn’t arrive polished, pristine, or engineered for virality. It slowly settles into your bones instead. That’s exactly what Trickshooter Social Club accomplishes on Porchlight Pie, a gritty, whiskey-soaked blend of Americana, dirty blues, garage rock, country, and cowpunk that feels refreshingly unconcerned with modern music trends. This is an album built for real life. Late nights, empty kitchens, front porches, and those long drives with the windows all the way down. Moments where exhaustion and reflection start bleeding together. Trickshooter Social Club taps into that emotional space with songs that sound worn-in rather than overworked. Every fuzzy guitar tone, stomp-and-clap rhythm, and rough-edged vocal performance feels rooted in lived experience instead of performance aesthetics. What makes Porchlight Pie hit harder than many modern Americana records is its refusal to romanticize struggle while still acknowledging its weight. The album doesn’t present resilience as something glamorous. Instead, it celebrates the quiet, often overlooked victory of simply making it through another day. There’s heartbreak here. Loneliness. Frustration. But there’s also humor, swagger, connection, and redemption buried underneath the grit. The band’s understanding of rock and roll history also adds depth to the album. You can hear traces of blues, punk, bluegrass, country, and bar-band rock woven naturally into the DNA of these songs without it ever sounding forced or overly nostalgic. Trickshooter Social Club isn’t recreating the past for aesthetics. They genuinely believe in the communal spirit that built these genres in the first place. That communal energy becomes one of the album’s defining strengths. Porchlight Pie constantly feels like an invitation rather than a performance. The band isn’t trying to posture as untouchable rock stars. They sound like people standing shoulder to shoulder with their audience, trying to survive the same chaos together. At a time when so much rock music feels emotionally detached or algorithmically manufactured, Porchlight Pie serves as a reminder that the genre still matters when it’s rooted in truth. Sometimes people don’t need perfection. They just need music that understands them. Porchlight Pie feels deeply tied to late-night reflection and emotional survival. What personal experiences shaped the emotional tone of the album? It wasn't any one specific event or experience - it's more about the movie we all live - the road we all travel - it is littered with disappointment, trauma, bad surprises - but also beauty, magic, and love. This album celebrated the whole hot mess, the unpredictable circus of our existence. The record embraces imperfection in a way that feels intentional and human. Do you think modern music has become too obsessed with polish and image? Not at all. Everyone’s entitled to see their music through how they envision. And whatever form or articulation that gets shaped is really what serves their soul. For us, it’s always just been organic to our writing. We naturally found a space that feels raw and authentic. Something that we hoped the listener could connect with in some small way. Your sound pulls from blues, country, punk, garage rock, and Americana without sounding overly nostalgic. How do you preserve those traditions without becoming trapped by them? It all circles back to drawing on our various heroes (Cash, Mike Ness, Neil Young, Tom Petty, etc.). We have such a palette of influences to draw on that we never feel confined to come up with a Trickshooter song. If anything, it pushes us to broaden the idea of what a Trickshooter riff/song/video can be. There’s a strong sense of community running through this album. Was creating music that makes people feel less alone part of the mission from the beginning? Community is exactly the word we used when we plotted out what we wanted this band to be. It wasn’t going to be four dudes in a room staring at their shoes. We wanted it to be a never-ending community of like-minded souls that brought their thing or their “trick” to what we were doing. Nothing was out of bounds. We’ve had rappers, spoken word artists, and dancers be part of our shows. And we wanted to extend that energy to the listener. To be part of it in any way they can. It could be having them sing with us, or it could just be connecting in a moment with us. That to us is everything. You’ve said rock and roll is still alive. What do you think people misunderstand most about where rock music exists today? Rock is always relevant. Or at least it should be. Rock n Roll is about rebellion and making music from your heart - it is unpolished, untamed, and imperfect. In a world of AI and digital perfection, rock n roll is a reminder that the best things are worthy but beautifully flawed. Just like people.

At a time when so much pop music feels obsessed with minimalism, detachment, and aesthetic coolness, NÆ and Blizz are doing something way more interesting: they’re making art that’s unapologetically imaginative. Their latest single, “Anti-Gravity,” doesn’t just sound like a song. It feels like stepping into a fully-built universe where sci-fi storytelling, emotional honesty, camp, and groove all exist in the same orbit. The Chicago-based duo leans fully into their cosmic identity without letting the concept overpower the music itself. That’s the difference. A lot of “art pop” collapses under its own ambition. “Anti-Gravity” actually lands because underneath the intergalactic aesthetics and playful world-building is a genuinely well-crafted record with real emotional weight. Built around live drums, warm synth textures, pulsing basslines, and one of the most unexpectedly satisfying trumpet solos you’ll hear this year, the track feels cinematic without becoming overly polished or sterile. There’s still texture here. Humanity. You can hear the physicality of the instruments and the collaborative chemistry between the band members in a way that makes the song feel alive instead of digitally assembled. Lyrically, “Anti-Gravity” explores escapism, but not in the self-destructive sense. The song frames imagination as survival. Floating above the noise of modern life becomes less about avoiding reality and more about reconnecting with wonder, empathy, and emotional balance during overwhelming times. That emotional undercurrent gives the track surprising depth beneath all its colorful spectacle. The NPR Tiny Desk Contest entry tied to the release only strengthens that identity further. Instead of chasing hyper-polished perfection, NÆ and Blizz embraced the handmade imperfections of their DIY NASA-inspired set design, creating something that feels personal, tactile, and genuinely creative in a digital era where authenticity is becoming increasingly manufactured. What’s especially smart is how the duo continues extending the world of “Anti-Gravity” beyond streaming platforms. Through ongoing sci-fi sketches, narrative social content, and serialized visual storytelling online, they’re building an actual universe around the music instead of relying on disposable promotional cycles. With “Anti-Gravity,” NÆ and Blizz prove that fun, theatricality, and artistic substance don’t have to exist separately. Sometimes, the most radical thing artists can do right now is let people feel joy again. “Anti-Gravity” feels escapist on the surface, but there’s also a deeper emotional undercurrent about isolation, connection, and survival. When you were writing the song in 2021, what emotional realities were you both trying to process through this sci-fi lens? NÆ: Hi BUZZMUSIC! Thank you for hosting this interview and diving deeper into our music and art. I’m glad you asked about this; when we were writing “Anti-Gravity”, Blizz and I were reflecting on our sense of dissociation during the global events in 2021. At the same time, we were connecting with artists and musicians in online spaces, sharing stories, finding community, while valuing new and old friendships. We’re still close with many of the creatives we met at that time. Blizz: When writing Anti-Gravity, we were focused on finding a calm space mentally, in a world that had been in upheaval due to COVID, income disruptions, and family and friend restructuring. This song was a reflection on the surreal experience of navigating these complex and emotional landscapes personally, while existing as a part of this experience globally. We were searching for calmness. Anti-Gravity expresses these thoughts that while “calm” can be found in floating away, it is paradoxical because that leaves one ungrounded, without connection, possibly peaceful, but always temporary. The song reflects that paradox. This idea of disconnecting to find calmness, to survive the stresses that one finds themselves in, but knowing that the groove must come to an end, the song must come to its conclusion, and we will fall back to the world below, which is indicated in the last seconds of the song with the pitch-falling horn chords and massive tempo slow down. NÆ: Yeah, good point, Blizz, the song structure definitely reflects that sentiment. Buzz Music, you also mentioned the “sci-fi lens” in our work. We use that to explore various social and cultural realities as a part of the world-building we began around the time of writing “Anti-Gravity”. It started with our series, Saturnae, which was a monthly show we produced and performed live on YouTube. It became a practice of script-writing, puppet-building, and set-designing as we began to draft the backstory of our characters in an alternate universe. A lot of artists use world-building as pure branding, but with NÆ and Blizz, it genuinely feels tied to the music itself. At what point did you realize this project needed to exist as an entire universe rather than just a band releasing songs? NÆ: That’s a good observation. For us, it comes back to this idea of speculative imagination. We want to ask, “What if things could work differently?” or “What if our identities, society, technology, and relationships weren’t trapped by the current rules and norms?” As a larger conceptual arc to the ideas we explore in the music, this allows a space to push the boundaries of what’s possible and introduce new ways of approaching or thinking about problems. Blizz: I’d add that the NÆ Universe started before the music. We had the idea of building something campy and fun; “Magic School Bus”-meets-” Wayne's World” energy was foundational to the live streaming we started doing during the pandemic. The songs and music became a soundtrack throughout the Saturnae series of shows. We wrote new songs oriented around interviews with experts in various scientific and humanities fields. The NÆ experience, when we perform live, extends the world that we built in a studio and brings it to the live stage. We write a new script for each show we play live, and we often have characters join us through audio clips (like our supercomputer Kionius) or we puppet them during the live shows (like Sparkleface the unicorn, or our new friend Xob). If they've dug into the lore, our fans will recognize the characters and talk to us about the story after the show. We want to reflect a range of emotions and experiences in a way that the audience leaves with an adventure story more than a sing-along experience. NÆ: Totally, Blizz. In the NÆ universe, each chapter of the adventure introduces NÆ and Blizz to an alien culture or a puzzle to solve. In some instances, the duo reaches out for help from experts in a specialized field - from biology to history to philosophy. And they often rely on their Ice Cream Advisors (fans in the online and offline world) to help them generate musical fuel to power the spaceship. Our themes come back to community and working together, instead of trying to endure difficult situations alone. Your NPR Tiny Desk entry intentionally embraced the handmade, imperfect nature of the set design instead of hiding it. In an era where everything online is hyper-curated and polished, was that decision partly a statement about authenticity and creativity? Blizz: Yes! Part of the ethos around the NAE Universe is that we are not hiding the seams. We want people to see the edges, to think about the craft, see the paper cut out, the strings on the puppet, and the pitch-changer for doing character voices. In our NPR Tiny Desk submission, we show the intro take, the hand-built to-scale NASA console, and the loop pedal for the bass so that I can jump over and play trumpet! NÆ: To add to what Blizz mentioned, we’re really interested in a sense of honesty in handmade materials and practical effects. We want our audiences (online and at our live shows) to see the human hand in our world-building. For us, it makes the experience of our work more accessible, but doesn’t necessarily interrupt the magic of being in the world we’re creating. The wires, clamps, paper textures, and foam NASA console are all a part of the visual language we’re creating, but also feel like something you could build yourself at your kitchen table. Blizz: One of the most fulfilling things for me is when we see fans creating their own fan art, unleashing their creativity around the ideas that we are exploring. While we’ve created characters and this alternative universe as a place for commentary on various situations and human emotions, the act of creativity is an umbrella that encompasses every aspect of the reason we create. And under that umbrella is the invitation to create with us; we extend it to folks who experience our art. The pre-production, set design, camera shots, lighting cues, and timing for our NPR Tiny Desk video took about 40 hours. Then we brought in the amazing musicians that performed with us, Lucas Gillan on drums and Dan Murphy on Keys, cinematographer Kristen Smith, and our production assistant Lilith Sleater, for the day of the shoot. That is time well spent if folks can see the seams, enjoy the music, and dive into the story! NÆ: Speaking of that, one of my favorite moments in our NPR Tiny Desk entry is at the beginning, when Dan (our keyboardist) takes a bite from an ice cream cone while the camera pans. I made the ice cream prop from craft materials in my kitchen, but for a quick moment, there’s a sense that it’s real! The combination of camp aesthetics, trumpet solos, synth-pop, comedy sketches, and emotional storytelling shouldn’t work as naturally as it does, yet somehow it does. How do you balance experimentation without losing the emotional center of the music? NÆ: For us, we don’t approach comedy solely as entertainment. Historically and in the ancient world, comedy was considered a serious cultural technology (you can look at Frogs by Aristophanes, or even Homer’s The Odyssey). Comedy has long been a way to endure crisis and speak out against systems of power. In this way, humor becomes a survival tool. We use sci-fi, absurd situations, and comedy to process modern anxieties. I mentioned earlier in our conversation about world-building that we invite viewers into a space with rules and social norms that may not make sense. For example, could two defecting Ice Cream Ambassadors travel through space and escape a black hole by fueling their tank with comment emojis submitted by their social media followers? In our universe, it is possible. The emoji commenters demonstrate that they, too, are a part of a community with a common goal (saving the ship). The sketch, comedy, and the participatory aspect of it, we hope, offer a means of remaining oriented within uncertain times. I think that is emotionally quite powerful. Blizz: That’s a great point, NÆ. To speak a little about how this plays out on a live stage, we create the show we would want to experience! Rarely do we spend time aiming at any specific “commercially-viable bullseye”. We feel like our approach creates a unique experience, where people see the intent, love the music, and experience the live story unfold in a 20-minute set, 1.5-hour show, on a big stage, or in a small bar. We hope audiences will remember the show with the giant blow-up unicorn, or the glowing supercomputer, or the disco-ball artifact in the 1960s suitcase… for decades. I approach every show with the intensity of putting on a great performance at a massive venue for a million people, no matter the size of the room. When we’re building a performance, I’m always asking: how can the story become a thread that ties together all the experimentation, weird ideas, arts and crafts so it feels connected and cohesive? “Anti-Gravity” talks a lot about freedom and floating above the noise of the world. As artists creating during such politically, socially, and digitally overwhelming times, what does freedom actually mean to you now compared to when you first started making music? NÆ: This is a great question, and nods to the fact that we’re constantly evolving as artists (and as humans). I think creative work, in many ways, is about reclaiming agency. We live in systems that constantly ask us to consume: content, products, experiences, attention. It can feel overwhelming and nonstop, like you mentioned. For me, creating is almost the opposite of that. It is a way of resisting consumption and reconnecting with something human. When you make something, you step outside of the cycle of constantly taking things in, and instead contribute something of your own. I don’t know if I could have articulated that as clearly when I first started making music and art. Over time, I’ve realized that creativity begins as instinct and then deepens through research, investigation, experimentation, and self-reflection. There’s a real sense of freedom in that process. Blizz: When I started creating music, it was something I just did. Pretty much every day. I didn't think about the impact of creating; I didn't think about why I was doing it. I was a kid, and it was enjoyable. All of it. The work, the time, the friends that were as into it as I was, the craft and progress, studying the professionals (in my case, the 1960’s jazz greats) who came before me... All of it was just fun. To add to what NÆ was saying, we are creating in a current environment where social media has made shaming people a norm, political opinions and health advice are expressed behind pseudonyms on online forums - then amplified and taken seriously by news outlets, “leadership” as inspirational, dignified, and thoughtful, something to aspire towards, has been trampled by people in positions of power. In this space, it seems even more important to encourage the folks around us and ourselves to create! To find the voice and the things that each individual loves, and jump into the process. To explore, not scroll, human emotions and one's own experience. To dip our collective hands into paint and glitter, grab scissors and paper, stack with rocks and mud, build stories with typewriters and puppets, and make something that is meaningful to the individual and the people they love. NÆ: Well-said, Blizz. I’d also mention that we’re not trying to escape politics, social realities, or digital noise - we actually actively engage with those things, especially with social media and performance. But through the sci-fi world of the “Unaeverse”, we can reimagine ideas around desire, identity, mobility, style, and belonging. When the real world feels too broken to fix directly, I think comedy and imagination can become ways of inventing something new. That being said, we acknowledge that even the most imaginative worlds can reproduce the same hierarchies and contradictions of the real world. That is totally a part of our bit. The “Unaeverse” reflects many of the same systems, absurdities, and inequities we experience in everyday life. We don’t pretend to exist outside of those systems. We’re acknowledging that we are a part of them, too. Blizz: Exactly. And by creating, by bringing one's own experience and identity, we will build more trust, more unity, more acceptance, better understanding, better communication, and more discernment. As people, we must create. It acts as a form of rebellion against systemic structures that are designed to benefit those who control the narrative and purse strings. So, in today’s environment, building for the sake of building, exploring art and music that have come before, and just doing it because it’s enjoyable is as important as ever… And it’s fun. Which is as good a reason as any.

TARUKI is pushing deeper into emotional and sonic chaos with “Fading Light,” a raw alternative release that strips away polished perfection in favor of something far more human. Led by Joe Jones alongside collaborators with credits tied to Powerman 5000, ONE OK ROCK, and Beartooth, the project leans heavily into live instrumentation, vintage gear, tape recording, and emotionally unfiltered performances that feel intentionally resistant to today’s hyper-processed rock landscape. Rather than framing pain through dramatic clichés, “Fading Light” focuses on the exhausting pressure of chasing a version of yourself that may never actually exist. From the opening line, “Chasing the shadow of a fading light,” the song immediately establishes its emotional weight, pulling listeners into themes of identity collapse, self-comparison, and emotional burnout. Nothing here feels theatrical for the sake of sounding deep. The emotion lands because it feels lived-in. Sonically, the track balances atmosphere and aggression without ever feeling overproduced. There’s tension sitting inside every vocal strain and distorted guitar layer, giving the song an emotional realism that feels impossible to fake. Instead of smoothing out imperfections, TARUKI leans directly into them, allowing the cracks in the performance to become part of the experience itself. The production feels heavy without becoming bloated, chaotic without losing control. Lyrically, “Fading Light” becomes increasingly devastating the deeper it goes. Lines like “Constantly searching for meaning in who I’m not” capture the specific kind of self-destruction that comes from measuring yourself against impossible standards shaped by outside expectations, relationships, and internal pressure. The repeated question, “Can I put an end to this?” lingers throughout the track without ever fully resolving, which makes the emotional tension hit even harder. TARUKI never offers an easy answer because real emotional collapse rarely arrives in clean, organized thoughts. The bridge fully detonates the emotional weight of the track. “Whispers in my head that I’m not enough” builds into a final eruption that feels less like a performance choice and more like someone finally losing their grip on silence itself. In an era where so much modern rock feels algorithmically optimized for passive listening, “Fading Light” demands emotional presence. It’s uncomfortable, vulnerable, chaotic, and painfully human from beginning to end. “Fading Light” deals heavily with identity erosion and chasing versions of yourself that may not even be real anymore. Was there a specific moment in your life that forced you to confront that feeling head-on? Honestly, it is two-sided for me. On one hand, I look at the world we are living in right now, and I see people constantly being pushed toward versions of themselves that may not even be real. We are surrounded by perfect moments, perfect lives, perfect outcomes, and your brain starts measuring itself against something that was never a natural baseline for any human being. But the more personal side is that I spent a lot of my life trying to be somebody. Trying to leave a mark, trying to matter enough that I would not be forgotten. That is a heavy thing to carry. The longer you carry it, the sadder that reflection in the mirror gets. These days, I genuinely do not care as much what anyone thinks of me. The strange irony is that caring less about being important to the world has probably made me much happier as a person. There is a real freedom in letting go of the version of yourself you thought you had to become. To me, “Fading Light” is two sides of that coin at the same time. It is about the illusion the world sells you, but it is also about the illusion you sell yourself. A lot of modern rock and alternative music feels heavily polished or emotionally filtered. TARUKI almost does the opposite. Why was preserving rawness and imperfection so important for this project sonically? Most of it came from reaching a place in my life where I just wanted things to be as real as they could be. For this project, I was not interested in making something that felt plastic or overly sanitized. I did not want every edge rounded off until there was nothing left that could make someone uncomfortable. I think that matters more now than it ever has. With the rise of AI and endless digital perfection, we are getting further away from what being human actually sounds like, and that is not just a technology problem. It has bled into art, into music, into the way people present themselves and their lives. We are so used to the curated version of everything that a rawer version almost feels wrong to people now. Ya know, I miss records where you could hear someone actually trapped inside the moment they were singing about. You could hear the breath, the strain, the pain, and the imperfections that made the performance feel alive. I also miss when records had fingerprints. Before everything started being pushed through the same tools and the same production habits, you could hear a guitar tone or a drum kit and instantly know who it was. There was an identity to it, a voice. I feel like so much of that has been lost. That is the connection I care about. Not perfection for the sake of perfection, but one flawed human being reaching another flawed human being. We are still working hard on these recordings. We still polish, and we still care deeply about tone, arrangement, performance, and production. But we try to do it in a way that protects the human part instead of sanding it away. The moment you polish out all the humanity, you have not necessarily made something better. You have just made something safer, a product. And safer has never been what TARUKI is about. The line “Constantly searching for meaning in who I’m not” feels like the emotional core of the song. Do you think social media and modern culture have made that kind of self-comparison harder to escape now? One hundred percent, and I think most people, whether they realize it or not, are constantly comparing themselves to something they perceive as greater or better off. The grass is always greener. That is not a new feeling, but social media has poured gasoline on it in a way that I do not think we have fully reckoned with yet. I have been stuck in that place. And if I am being honest, I still get stuck there sometimes. It does not fully go away. But what started pulling me out of it was finally realizing that none of it actually matters. Being a copy of a copy of something else is not living but rather a performance, and I would rather fail completely and be myself than succeed as another link in this world’s never-ending funhouse mirror. No version of that trade makes sense to me anymore. I think that is what the line is really about. Not just the comparison itself, but the way it robs you of the only thing you actually have: your own life, your own story, and your own version of what it means to be here. TARUKI functions more like a trusted creative collective than a traditional band. How does working with longtime collaborators and friends change the emotional honesty of the music compared to working in more industry-driven environments? For me, it has always been about relationships. You can find someone any day of the week who can play a part. There are so many incredibly talented people in the world. But talent was never the only thing I was looking for. Obviously, everyone involved in TARUKI is insanely talented, and many of them are better musicians than I am, but the thing that matters most to me is shared vision. Genuine care. Especially Greg M. Johnson and Graham Rowell, we are long-time creative partners. What I love about the people around TARUKI is that they bring that care without being asked. Greg, Graham, Connor, Denis, Ben Cato, Bradley Pallone, and Thomas all understand what we are building and what it is supposed to feel like. Some of them are on this song, some are elsewhere on the record, but they all bring something that feels really personal. Because of that trust, I give everyone a tremendous amount of freedom. I do not usually walk in and say, “Here is the fill you need to play,” or, “Here is the bassline I want.” I try to give people the emotional center of the song and then let them respond to it honestly. Most of the time, I just say, “Do what you think it needs.” What comes back is almost always more honest and more alive than anything I could have prescribed. To me, that is the difference between a creative collective and a band for hire. One is executing a part. The other is adding a real pulse to something alive. “Fading Light” never really offers listeners a clean resolution or hopeful ending. Was it important for you to leave the song emotionally unresolved instead of forcing closure onto something that still feels ongoing in your own life? Life does not offer clean resolutions, and neither does this feeling. That is the honest answer. The pursuit of who you think you are supposed to be does not have a finish line. It does not have a moment where the music swells, and everything clicks into place. It is ongoing. It is a process, and I think forcing a hopeful ending onto something that is still very much alive in my own life would have been a lie. What the song is really asking, what I am still asking myself, is where am I at? Who am I? Am I being as real as I can be right now, or am I still chasing some reflection of something that keeps passing me by? That is not a question you answer once. You answer it every day. Sometimes you get it right, and sometimes you don’t. I wanted the song to live in that place because that is where I actually live. Putting a bow on it would have been the most dishonest thing I could have done to it.

There’s a certain type of artist the internet loves to tear apart before they even get the chance to fully arrive. One viral clip, one awkward moment, one performance people decide to meme for engagement, and suddenly the conversation becomes bigger than the music itself. But what makes artists interesting is what they do after that backlash. Madam Sutra’s new single “Call Him Daddy” feels like the sound of someone refusing to disappear after becoming the target of public criticism. The New York-based artist leans fully into a darker, nightlife-driven electropop lane here, trading safety for confrontation. “Call Him Daddy” doesn’t try to make itself digestible for everyone, and honestly, that’s part of why it works. The production is hypnotic and cold in all the right ways, pulling influence from underground club culture while still carrying enough pop structure to stay stuck in your head long after the track ends. Lyrically, the song operates on confidence, seduction, and power dynamics, but underneath the provocative delivery is a deeper sense of reclamation. Madam Sutra’s story matters to the context of this release. After leaving abusive relationships and rebuilding herself in New York City, her music carries the energy of someone actively trying to take ownership of her identity in public, even when the audience isn’t always kind. What makes “Call Him Daddy” stand out is that it doesn’t feel overly manufactured. A lot of electropop artists chasing edgy aesthetics end up sounding algorithmically assembled. Madam Sutra still sounds rough around the edges in places, but that imperfection actually gives the record personality. You can hear the hunger in it. You can hear someone trying to evolve in real time. The internet already gave Madam Sutra millions of views during a moment designed to embarrass her. “Call Him Daddy” feels like her response to all of it: louder, more self-aware, and completely unwilling to shrink herself to make strangers comfortable. After your viral performance received heavy criticism online, was there ever a moment when you questioned continuing music entirely, or did the backlash push you deeper into your artistic identity? Nope, not questioning that all well-known artists and celebs have moments like that! All artists receive criticism. “Call Him Daddy” feels provocative on the surface, but underneath it, there’s a strong sense of reclaiming power. How much of this record was inspired by your personal experiences with survival and reinvention? Growing up, I was never really supported despite trying to find ways to move to Nashville or New York to get studio time as a teenager. When I was in early adulthood, I really had trouble because I eventually got the role of family caretaker that I didn't want. Now I have the freedom to express myself and live how I choose. Live my life for myself, not others. Moving from West Virginia to New York completely changed your environment and your opportunities. What parts of your personality do you think only existed because of that move? I became a better person when I moved to New York, more positive and open to new opportunities. A lot of artists become more cautious after going viral for controversial reasons. Instead, you leaned harder into boldness and individuality. Was that intentional rebellion against public perception? Yes! I'm living my life for myself and don't care too much about what others think. I mean, I'm grateful for the critics, because they are the ones who made me viral anyway. Electropop right now can feel extremely polished and manufactured. How do you balance creating something visually and sonically glamorous while still keeping it emotionally real? When I was writing the lyrics, I wanted to be as genuine, realistic, and detailed as possible. Polished production in the studio and balancing it with powerful real lyrics. The bold contrast overall.

There’s a quiet kind of devastation running through Mia Jade’s new single “Outer Thoughts.” Not the dramatic, explosive kind. The slow kind. The kind that builds after hearing subtle criticism enough times that eventually it starts sounding like your own voice. That emotional tension sits at the center of the independent artist’s latest release, and it’s what gives the song its weight. Blending alternative R&B with indie-pop textures and neo-soul vocals, Mia Jade creates a sound that feels intimate without becoming overly polished or emotionally sanitized. “Outer Thoughts” doesn’t beg for sympathy. Instead, it documents the psychological aftermath of constantly being underestimated, doubted, or quietly diminished by the people around you. What makes the song land so effectively is how honest it feels. Mia Jade isn’t pretending confidence comes naturally. She openly explores how external opinions can distort self-image, especially for artists trying to hold onto their identity while navigating relationships that slowly chip away at their self-worth. Whether romantic or platonic, the emotional damage feels universal. Vocally, Mia Jade carries the track with a softness that never loses control. Her neo-soul influences shine through in the phrasing, while the production leans into atmospheric indie-pop and moody R&B rhythms that give the song a dreamlike emotional haze. Nothing feels forced. The vulnerability is what drives the record forward. What’s especially promising about “Outer Thoughts” is that it doesn’t sound like an artist chasing trends. Mia Jade approaches genre fluidly, blending sounds in a way that feels natural to her perspective rather than being algorithmically calculated. That freedom gives a release personality. At its core, “Outer Thoughts” captures the exhausting process of trying to separate your real identity from the negative voices surrounding you. And in a culture where everyone constantly performs confidence online, that honesty feels refreshing. “Outer Thoughts” feels emotionally vulnerable without sounding defeated. Was it difficult to be that honest in your writing? It was rather difficult to be as honest as I was in my Writing for “Outer Thoughts” because I felt exposed. When I wrote it, I kept thinking of how to word things with other people's opinions and interpretations in mind, but towards the end of my writing process, I focused less on other people's interpretations and more on saying what it is I need to say. You blend neo-soul, indie-pop, and alternative R&B very naturally. Do you consciously think about genre while creating, or do you ignore those boundaries completely? I do think about genre to a degree before creating my songs. I mainly think about my goal of integrating the genres I love into something new, but during the process, I tend to think less about the genre and allow whatever melody, style, and lyrics I think of to channel through. The song explores how negative opinions can reshape self-perception. At what point did you realize those outside voices were affecting how you saw yourself? I realized the outside voices I kept hearing were affecting how I perceived myself once I got into high school. I encountered a lot of criticism about my looks all throughout middle school and in high school, but high school was when I became more aware of how much my confidence had decreased over the years. When guys would want to talk to me, I would take it all as a joke and found myself even being mad at them for liking me because it just felt like a prank. I also realized how much it affected my performance as an artist. My confidence had gone down so much that no matter how many people showed genuine appreciation for my voice, I felt like it wasn’t enough, and I would be terrified to sing in front of people. There’s a softness in your delivery that contrasts with the heaviness of the lyrics. Was that emotional balance intentional? The emotional balance between my soft delivery and my heavy lyrics in “Outer Thoughts” was not intentional, but I think it does represent me really well as a person. As someone who tends to feel so much, my reaction is usually never fully aligned with how I feel. While experiencing the intense subject I wrote about, I maintained a soft persona regardless of how much it bothered me. Instead, my reaction came off as quiet/introspective instead of reflecting the intensity of what I felt. I do hope to expand outside of that in my music to come. As an independent artist developing your own sound, what do you think people misunderstand most about vulnerability in music? As an independent artist, I would say the most misunderstood thing about vulnerability in music is differentiating an attack/exposing people and things from venting and not filtering your emotions in songs. I never write my songs with the intent of making someone feel bad (unless they really deserve it). Instead, when I write my songs, I write from a place of how my brain processes things. A lot of people hear how you feel about a situation and assume you’re attacking someone when really I’m just writing about how my emotions and brain processed everything, which people don't understand how hard it is to really be vulnerable enough to dig into those emotions and share with the world on top of that.

Summer shows rarely fail because of the music. They fail because of timing, poor seat choices, or rushed decisions made too late. Getting tickets is no longer just about access; it is about how early and how smart you act. Fans who plan even slightly ahead usually end up with better views, better pricing, and far less stress. The difference comes from how they approach the search, not how much they spend. Smarter Search, Better Seats Most people still browse tickets randomly, jumping between dates and venues without a clear filter. That approach makes it easy to miss strong options that sit just outside obvious choices. Looking through concert tickets on Fanatix helps narrow the field in a more structured way. Instead of scrolling endlessly, you can quickly compare seating, availability, and timing without losing context. That clarity changes how decisions are made. Once the noise is gone, the focus shifts to quality. You start picking experiences, not just filling a slot on the calendar. Why Timing Beats Price Hunting Waiting for the “perfect deal” often backfires. As demand builds, good sections disappear first, leaving behind overpriced or poorly positioned seats. What looks like patience is often just delayed compromise. Buying earlier does not always mean paying less, but it usually means choosing better. You control where you sit and how the night will feel, rather than adapting to what is left. There is also a psychological edge here. Once tickets are secured, the event becomes something to look forward to, not something to chase. What Actually Makes a Ticket Worth It Price alone does not define value. Two tickets can cost the same but deliver completely different experiences depending on placement, acoustics, and crowd density. When comparing options, a few factors matter more than people expect: Viewing angle and distance from the stage Sound quality based on venue layout Entry and exit flow, especially in large arenas Crowd type, which affects the overall atmosphere These details are easy to overlook when rushing. Slowing down just enough to check them often leads to a noticeably better night. After applying these filters, the idea of a “good deal” changes. It becomes less about saving money and more about avoiding regret. The Shift in Live Event Demand Live events are no longer occasional развлечения. They have become a core part of how people spend their free time, especially during peak seasons. This shift has pushed demand to levels that were rare just a few years ago. The role of a ticket has evolved alongside that demand. It now represents timing, access, and positioning all at once, not just entry. Missing the right moment often means missing the best version of the experience. Recent ticket sales trends show how quickly events can sell out when interest spikes. This applies to concerts just as much as sports, especially for major tours and limited shows. Turning a Concert Into a Full Experience A concert rarely stands on its own. It connects with the rest of your evening, where you go before, how you arrive, and what kind of energy you bring into it. Choosing tickets with intention makes everything else easier to plan. You know when to arrive, where you will be, and how the night will unfold. That sense of structure removes friction. Instead of reacting to the event, you move through it with a clear expectation. Why Last-Minute Rarely Wins Last-minute buying creates pressure. Options shrink, prices fluctuate, and decisions become reactive rather than thoughtful. Even when you secure a ticket, it often feels like a compromise. Planning ahead avoids that entire cycle. You trade urgency for control, which almost always leads to a better outcome. Over time, this approach changes how you experience live music. It becomes less about catching whatever is available and more about choosing what actually fits. You also have more time to plan transport, arrival time, and who you want to go with. That matters because the ticket is only one part of the night. Better planning usually makes the whole event feel smoother.

There’s no pretending to be cool on “Jukebox Brawl.” That’s exactly why it works. On the latest release from Coleman Easterly, the Tennessee native leans fully into the rough-edged charm of Southern storytelling, delivering a rock-country track that feels sweaty, loud, and impossible not to picture unfolding in real time. From the first stomp of the rhythm section, the song throws listeners directly into the middle of a bar fight brewing beside a jukebox, where pride, alcohol, and country music collide with no chance of a peaceful ending. Easterly’s voice becomes the song’s secret weapon. Gravelly, weathered, and undeniably authentic, he sounds less like someone performing a story and more like the guy sitting three stools down recounting exactly what happened last Friday night. That lived-in delivery gives “Jukebox Brawl” an undeniable personality many modern country-rock songs struggle to capture. Musically, the track barrels forward with distorted guitars, driving percussion, and enough rowdy energy to practically smell spilled beer through the speakers. It never tries to overcomplicate itself. The goal here is simple: create a good time and make people move. Mission accomplished. What makes the song even more entertaining is its connection to real-life inspiration. Based loosely on an actual fight over a jukebox song selection, “Jukebox Brawl” taps into the kind of absurd Americana moment that instantly feels cinematic. At 64, Coleman Easterly isn’t chasing trends or reinvention. He’s finally stepping fully into his voice, and honestly, it sounds like he’s having the time of his life doing it What made “Jukebox Brawl” the right song to help introduce this new chapter of your career? It was exciting, funny, and very fun to sing, plus it had a lot of interesting vocal elements. How much of your own experiences growing up in Tennessee influenced the personality of this track? I guess my southern accent fits it well and totally came from growing up in Tennessee. Your vocal delivery feels incredibly natural and lived-in. Did stepping into singing later in life change how you approach storytelling? Thanks for the compliment. It feels natural, now, after a lot of coaching from Randall Lee Richards this past year. I do feel like I really try to soak up the story and sing accordingly, like telling the story, instead of just singing the words. What was the most fun part of filming the “Jukebox Brawl” music video? It was very organic. We pretty much just did it, playing out the song. It was great fun being a real team where everybody had great ideas, including the star actresses: my wife Katherine and Randall’s wife Maribeth, who led to other great ideas, and the very talented, creative, artistic, and skilled Lauren and Stacy Hogan put it all together awesomely. After spending years focused on piano and instrumental work, what has surprised you most about becoming a frontman? I’ve always enjoyed performing and recording, playing the piano, but did not sing, until a few years ago, and never realized I had a pretty good voice, until more and more people began to tell me, and it just kept getting better, so I feel quite comfortable now singing lead, especially with such great coaching from Randall.

Photo by Josh Beech Petti Hendrix isn’t trying to clean up the chaos on “APESHIT.” He’s celebrating it. Released exclusively through YouTube via MDDN Records, the Milwaukee-shot video feels less like a traditional music rollout and more like a snapshot of real life, showing everyone that success doesn’t need to change everything. Directed and edited by Erik Rojas, the visual was filmed in the places where Petti Hendrix actually grew up alongside childhood friends and relatives. That authenticity is what gives the video its emotional weight underneath all the destruction and chaos. Nothing here feels manufactured for aesthetic points; the energy feels completely organic, and we’re all for it. There’s a clear “don’t forget where you came from” and “don’t forget to have fun” spirit running through the entire video. Even while the walls feel like they’re about to collapse around him, Petti Hendrix never comes across like someone trying to escape his past. If anything, “APESHIT” feels like he’s taking his entire world with him on the way up. Beneath the screaming, crowd surfing, and total disorder, there’s a weirdly emotional core holding everything together. The road to success here doesn’t look glamorous or industry-approved. It looks like air miles, Uber Eats, shared hotel rooms with childhood friends, chaotic house parties, and making art because you genuinely love and give a shit about it. “APESHIT” blends distorted guitars, punk energy, rap influence, and DIY aggression into something that feels intentionally impossible to box in. It’s the kind of release that explains why artists like Travis Mills and Daniel Carter have already shown support for Petti Hendrix before much of the industry fully caught on. Written during a Nashville session with songwriter and producer Nick Bailey alongside Andy K, the track carries the same explosive energy as the video itself. That rawness extends into how the video was actually made, too. According to the team behind it, “APESHIT” came together through favors, passion, travel points, and genuine friendship rather than massive budgets or label intervention. Erik Rojas, who previously directed Petti’s videos for “Be OK,” “Better Off Dead,” and “Last Night,” worked on the visuals purely out of belief in the project. Keeping “APESHIT” off streaming services entirely may have been the smartest choice, because this doesn’t feel like a song meant to sit quietly in a playlist. It feels like a moment to live freely in. A moment built from chaos, friendship, memory, and the kind of DIY energy the music industry keeps pretending it still understands but doesn’t have a clue.