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Luke Spiller has spent the better part of the last decade proving rock music can still feel massive, dramatic, and genuinely fun. As the frontman of The Struts, he helped usher in a new generation of glam-rock revivalism built on swagger, theatricality, and arena-sized hooks that refused to play small. But “When I Die Will I Miss Living” reveals a completely different side of him. Debuting after being featured on Chicago Med, the new single feels less like a rock anthem and more like a public unraveling. There’s still grandeur in the presentation, but underneath it sits something heavier. Self-reflection, fear, nostalgia, and emotional exhaustion all bleed through the track in ways that feel startlingly honest coming from someone so associated with larger-than-life performance. The song also signals a major creative shift for Spiller as he moves into his solo era. Instead of leaning into the explosive glam energy that made The Struts a global success story, he’s diving into something more cinematic, vulnerable, and psychologically exposed. “When I Die Will I Miss Living” doesn’t sound like someone chasing another hit. It sounds like someone trying to figure himself out in real time. “When I Die Will I Miss Living” feels deeply existential right from the title alone. What sparked the emotional core of this song? I was reading a lot of Billy Collins, and I was going through one of my ‘lyric phases’ where I don’t pick up an instrument. I had this routine where the first three hours of my day were spent solely on drinking coffee and writing lyrics. The concept grabbed me, and before I knew it, I was humming along while I was writing. I had the whole thing done in those three hours. Did stepping outside of The Struts give you permission to write more vulnerably than you normally would within the band? Yes, of course. There’s very little room to approach music in this way with the band. We’re well aware of what our fans love about us, and we want to give them even more of it. We’ve spent fifteen years building a following, and we want to nurture that. My songs are a doorway for existing fans to walk through if they’d like to know what’s on my heart and things I’ve personally been feeling. Your music has always had a theatrical edge, but this new material feels far more cinematic and intimate. What inspired that shift sonically? It all started with my debut solo album “love will probably kill me before cigarettes and wine” I was sick of writing rock n roll party anthems and had a lot of emotions I needed to get off my chest. So I gravitated towards artists that do it best, like Lana, Scott Walker, Adele, Gordon Lightfoot just to name a few. Hearing the song featured on Chicago Med gave it a completely different emotional weight. What was it like hearing your music in that setting for the first time? It’s never happened for me as a solo artist so it’s really encouraged and inspired me to continue to work outside of the band, as now I know my music has its own path and can be loved and appreciated in its own way. After years of touring arenas and building a global fanbase, what does success actually look like to you now as a solo artist? That’s a great question. As of now, it’s not a financial or streaming success for that matter, but I think if you can write something in your room on your own, then have thousands of people enjoy it online: that to me is success. I did a solo tour last winter, and it was a great success. I’d love to do more of that as well as take my music to film and television. Who knows, maybe somebody will even cut one of my songs and do it in their own style; it’s all possible right now.

At just 19 years old, Kenya Reese, the Colorado-raised country artist, is already writing with the kind of emotional weight most artists spend decades trying to reach. And on “Carry On Cowboy,” she delivers something far more important than another polished Nashville release. She delivers perspective. Humanity. Pain. Survival. Rooted in faith, grief, family, and the quiet emotional pressure carried by ranching communities, “Carry On Cowboy” was inspired by Kenya’s grandfather, a third-generation cattle rancher who once faced a moment so dark it nearly ended his life. During one especially difficult season for the family ranch, the emotional burden became overwhelming enough that he walked into the barn intending to take his own life before Kenya’s grandmother intervened and saved him. Instead of sensationalizing the trauma, Kenya approaches the story with an incredible amount of compassion and emotional maturity. “Carry On Cowboy” feels less like a performance and more like a conversation she wishes she could have had with her grandfather in that barn all those years ago. It’s written for the people who keep showing up despite exhaustion, pressure, grief, and the slow, internal eating away of silence. What makes the release hit especially hard is the timing surrounding it. Kenya’s grandfather unexpectedly passed away from a brain aneurysm in December 2025, shortly before the song’s release. Thankfully, he was able to hear the finished studio version before he passed, which now gives the song an even deeper emotional gravity. You can feel that weight inside every line. Musically, “Carry On Cowboy” balances traditional country storytelling with a modern emotional sensitivity that feels refreshingly genuine. There’s no forced radio polish here. No fake southern clichés. No overproduced attempts at “authenticity.” Instead, Kenya leans fully into the emotional core of the story, allowing the lyrics and delivery to carry the song naturally. The song also arrives at a moment where conversations around mental health in farming and ranching communities are finally becoming more visible. Agriculture remains one of the most emotionally isolating industries in North America, with enormous financial pressure, generational expectations, physical exhaustion, and mental health struggles often hidden behind stoicism and survival mentality. “Carry On Cowboy” doesn’t try to solve those realities, but it does something equally important: it acknowledges them openly. That vulnerability makes Kenya Reese feel like part of a much larger shift happening in country music right now. Younger artists are increasingly rejecting surface-level writing in favor of songs that actually say something meaningful about real life. And Kenya’s ability to tackle subjects this heavy while still making the song feel hopeful is what sets her apart from many artists chasing the same lane.

Most artists say they’re evolving. KUNAL actually did it. “Night Voices” doesn’t feel like a single. It feels like a closing statement with real weight. The kind that only works if you’ve actually lived through what you’re talking about. And KUNAL has. From the first hook, the track locks into this internal tension. The voices aren’t a metaphor for aesthetics. They feel real, constant, almost exhausting. Lines like “I will sleep when I’m dead” don’t come off motivational. They sound like someone who hasn’t had the luxury of slowing down. Production-wise, it leans cinematic without getting lost in its own style. There’s a steady, grounded knock that keeps everything moving, but the layers behind it carry this heavier, almost spiritual undertone. It feels intentional. Not overproduced. Just controlled. Like every sound has a job and nothing is there for decoration. What really cuts through is the messaging. KUNAL isn’t chasing trends or trying to fit into whatever algorithm-friendly lane is hot right now. He’s actively rejecting it. “Be a wave runner, not a wave catcher” isn’t just a bar. It’s the thesis of the entire track. And that’s where the Veer Baaz transition hits different. This isn’t a rebrand. It’s a separation. KUNAL as the host, the translator, the one making sure everyone felt included. Veer Baaz is the messenger, the one who doesn’t care if the truth makes you uncomfortable. That shift is all over this record. There’s also a level of social awareness that most artists tiptoe around. Lines calling out systems that keep people stuck don’t feel performative. They feel lived in. That matters. Especially in a space where “conscious rap” often feels like a costume. “Night Voices” works because it doesn’t try to be everything. It knows exactly what it is. A sendoff. A statement. And a door opening at the same time. Many artists disappear when they pivot. KUNAL didn’t disappear. He stepped back on purpose. And honestly, that’s a way bigger power move. You split KUNAL and Veer Baaz into two distinct identities. At what point did that stop being a concept and start feeling necessary for your sanity as an artist? It stopped being a concept the moment I realized Kunal carries a different set of responsibilities. There is a crown to uphold—a name and a lineage that demand a certain level of dignity. While working on this record, the clash was becoming clear. I was trying to be the person who honors that duty while being the artist who speaks with an uninhibited voice, and those two worlds were starting to suffocate each other. For my sanity, I had to separate the man from the messenger. Veer Baaz became the lane where I didn't need permission to be raw. Once that separation happened, I looked at the movement we built and realized that everything I set out to accomplish with this sound, I actually did. All praise to the eternal. The split wasn't a shield; it was the key that let me execute the vision without compromise. There’s a strong rejection of trend-chasing in this track. What’s something in today’s music industry that you think artists are blindly following that’s actually hurting them long term? I don’t think it’s about criticizing artists—we all have the capacity to create masterpieces. The real issue is the disconnect between what is glorified and what is actually consumed. There is a massive tendency for the masses to romanticize the 'classics,' but daily consumption is still driven by whatever is fast and fleeting. I think all of us are guilty of it to some extent, but it creates a real creative hurdle. You try to cook something from a place of deliberate, high-level sound, but then feel forced to shave off the edges to make it easy for a trend. When you try to make something built with that kind of intentional weight fit into a temporary box, you risk losing the very thing that made it powerful. It’s a difficult tightrope to walk, but ultimately, you shouldn't have to check your watch while reaching for the eternal; the most timeless things usually take their time to arrive. The production feels controlled but heavy with intention. What was one sonic choice you almost didn’t commit to that ended up defining the track? The biggest risk was deciding to intentionally disrupt the 'perfection' of the recording. I had a vocal take for the singing hook that felt really honest—it was clean, raw, and just had the right energy. Usually, you’re protective of a melodic centerpiece like that, but we wanted the essence of the production to align with the actual fabric of the song. We stepped away from the standard rules. We actually banked a layer of that singing hook directly into the beat—maxed out the volume, pitched it up, and threw it into this massive, wide space so it functioned more like an instrument than a traditional vocal. It felt like a gamble to mess with a hook that already felt solid, but we needed the sound to communicate those exact same emotions of anxiety and that constant striving for triumph. By letting the synths pull back and giving that processed hook the room to breathe within the rhythm, the track stopped being just a 'recording.' It became a raw emotional space that mirrors the tension of the lyrics. You talk about leadership as both recognition and burden. What did you have to sacrifice personally once people started looking at you as someone to follow? The biggest sacrifice has been the comfort of my own privacy. I’ve always been an extremely private person, and I strive to operate at the highest standards in every avenue of my life—whether that’s personal, professional, or creative. The challenge wasn't that I was a different person in those spaces; I was me in all of them. But as things grew, those worlds started to clash. Different audiences or aspects of my life wanted to see only one specific part of me, and those expectations started crowding each other out. It felt like there wasn’t enough space for everything to exist at that high standard without feeling like something was being compromised. It was an isolating experience for sure, trying to navigate that friction. I’m grateful for the growth and evolution, but at the end of the day, I do this because I love it—point blank. Music is the language I feel most confident speaking and where I feel most heard, but I’ve had to sacrifice the luxury of just blending in to make sure that language finally has the room it needs to breathe. Veer Baaz is positioned as someone who speaks without filtering for the sake of comfort. What’s a truth you haven’t said yet that you know will hit people the hardest when you finally do? The truth we all eventually run into is that the world would rather have a convenient version of us than a real one. We all feel that pressure to edit ourselves down just to make the room more comfortable—to keep our different lives in separate boxes so we don't 'crowd' anyone else's expectations. We’re told from a young age that being our whole selves is the goal, and on paper, that sounds beautiful. But in practice, it actually becomes a conflict of interest. The harder reality is that you can’t truly honor where you come from or where you’re going if you’re still asking for permission to be seen in your entirety. We spend so much energy trying to be background characters in someone else’s story of who we should be. The truth that hits the hardest is that the most expensive thing we’ll ever own is our own name—and once we decide that being whole is worth more than being understood, we stop apologizing for the space we take up. It’s a lonely path at first, but it’s the only one where we’re actually free to speak.

There’s something refreshingly human about Lookin’ for a Road by Clayton Denwood. At a time where so much music feels algorithmically flattened or emotionally detached, Denwood leans fully into imperfection, vulnerability, and lived experience. The result is an Americana record that feels timeless without sounding trapped in nostalgia. Built across nine tracks that weave together folk, blues, country, and rock influences, the album feels like a reflection on survival during an era overloaded with noise, disinformation, and emotional exhaustion. Clayton Denwood’s songwriting never chases trends. Instead, it follows a more classic lyric-first tradition inspired by artists like Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and Gordon Lightfoot. The title track carries the emotional weight of the entire project. Beneath its road-worn Americana surface sits something much heavier: grief, identity, aging, and the search for meaning after personal loss. Clayton Denwood’s reflections on his late father quietly shape the emotional core of the album without ever becoming overly sentimental. What makes Lookin’ for a Road stand out most is its honesty. Clayton Denwood openly embraces not fitting neatly into one genre or scene, and that freedom gives the album its character. It sounds like someone making the exact music they genuinely want to hear, which ironically makes it far more authentic than most records trying to chase relevance.

There’s a certain kind of rock song that tries too hard to sound dangerous. The leather jacket is fresh, the rebellion feels focus-grouped, and the chaos never actually cuts deep enough to leave a scar. Hunter Road’s “The Runaway Song” doesn’t have that problem. The New York hard rock outfit comes crashing through with a track that feels genuinely unhinged in the best possible way. Dirty riffs, explosive percussion, and vocals that sound like they’ve been dragged through the aftermath of a bad decision at 3 a.m. It’s loud, reckless, emotional, and weirdly human underneath all the distortion. “The Runaway Song” lives in that ugly space between freedom and collapse. It captures the adrenaline rush of running from everything while quietly realizing you’re bringing your problems with you. The band doesn’t glamorize self-destruction here; they expose the exhaustion that comes after it. That tension is what gives the track weight. Sonically, Hunter Road leans into a sleazy alt-rock energy that feels inspired by the grime of classic hard rock without sounding trapped in nostalgia bait. The guitars from Abe Sanchez and Leland Fraser hit with enough grit to shake the walls, while Mike Goiricelaya’s bass keeps the entire thing grounded in something darker and heavier. Andre Jevnik’s drumming pushes the track forward like a car speeding toward a cliff with no brakes left. Then there’s Joe Chandler’s vocal performance, which carries the emotional burnout of someone realizing escape is starting to feel more like a loop than liberation. The strongest part of “The Runaway Song” is that it actually understands the emotional consequences behind the lifestyle it’s describing. A lot of modern rock still treats chaos like a personality trait. Hunter Road treats it like a wound that keeps reopening. “Living fast stops feeling free when there’s nowhere left to run. The faster you run from your demons, the harder they chase,” the band explains. That line pretty much becomes the emotional thesis of the entire record. “The Runaway Song” feels like it sits somewhere between freedom and complete emotional collapse. What headspace were you in when this song first came together? When the song first came together, we were channeling a real feeling of youthful invincibility free of consequence. The place in life where you feel untouchable, drifting through bad decisions disguised as unwavering confidence. This curtain eventually falls, unveiling the problems you've been running from all along. This song captures that same energy and excitement that leads to a complete collapse as you realize you can't outrun your actions forever. A lot of modern rock music feels overly polished right now, but your music still sounds raw and unpredictable. Was keeping that garage-band energy intentional? We definitely think there’s a difference between refinement and over-correction. Technology gives you the ability to make everything mathematically perfect now, but perfection was never what rock was about. Some of the most timeless rock records breathe because they left room for chaos. We try to preserve some of that. The line “the faster you run from your demons, the harder they chase” feels like the emotional core of the track. What personal experiences shaped that message? We think that message comes from a pretty universal human experience. Everyone has things they try to outrun...fear, regret, bad habits, anxiety, past mistakes. The older you get, the more you realize running doesn’t actually create freedom; it just gives those things more power. The song wraps that idea up in an outlaw story, but emotionally, it’s something a lot of people can relate to. Hunter Road has built a reputation for explosive live shows. How important is live performance to the identity of the band compared to the studio side? Live performance is everything to us. The studio is where you craft and preserve the songs, but the live environment is where the real chemistry gets tested. That’s where songs evolve, where personalities come through, and where the audience becomes part of the experience. A song on record is one version of itself; on stage, it turns into something alive. With six singles already out and an EP on the way later this year, what do you think people still misunderstand about Hunter Road at this stage in your career? I think what people misunderstand is that they’re watching a band evolve in real time, not a finished product. The six singles are snapshots of different moments in that growth. We’re proud of all of them, but the truth is the chemistry, songwriting, and vision have all leveled up significantly. What’s coming feels much more representative of who Hunter Road actually is.

On “In The Morning + Frank Rolando,” the Dallas-born, California-based artist pulls together afrobeat rhythms, dancehall bounce, electronic production, and alternative pop melodies into something that feels genuinely fluid rather than forced. At its core, “In The Morning + Frank Rolando” is built around passion, attraction, and emotional escape, but it avoids becoming overly sentimental by constantly keeping its energy moving forward. The production feels warm and immersive without becoming sleepy. Kiaatti’s vocal performance is one of the strongest aspects of the record because he understands restraint. Instead of overloading the track with unnecessary vocal acrobatics, he leans into melody, rhythm, and tone to carry emotion. That decision gives the song a more hypnotic quality. The hooks settle in naturally rather than demanding attention immediately, which ultimately makes the replay value stronger over time. The addition of Bolivian artist Frank Rolando adds another layer of personality and movement to the record. His Spanish verse arrives at the perfect moment, injecting fresh momentum into the second half of the song while broadening its global feel organically. A lot of multilingual collaborations today feel strategically assembled for streaming markets, but this one actually sounds like two artists existing comfortably within the same creative space. The chemistry feels natural, and that authenticity matters more than ever in modern pop music. What makes Kiaatti particularly interesting right now is his refusal to stay boxed into one sound or identity. While many emerging artists spend years trying to fit into existing lanes, Kiaatti seems more interested in building his own. Knowing his influences range from alternative metal and EDM to hyperpop and indie pop makes this release even more compelling because you can hear traces of those worlds underneath the surface without the track losing cohesion. There’s experimentation happening here, but it never comes at the expense of songwriting or listenability. If this single is any indication, Kiaatti’s upcoming rise won’t fit neatly into one genre, one scene, or one audience, and that’s probably exactly why people are starting to pay attention. What inspired the sonic direction behind “In The Morning”? What inspired the sonic direction for the single was my wanting to branch out to a genre and sound that I felt I could expand and gain a new audience from. I love all music, so I want to develop my sound in all genres of music. I work with a lot of genres as an engineer, so that helps as well. How did the collaboration with Frank Rolando first come together? When I listened to the original version of ‘In The Morning,’ I believed that if I found someone who brought a different culture to the single, it could have more appeal. Then, luckily, I met Frank, who happened to live in the same city as I do, so we instantly became friends and collaborators. Both have a genuine love for music. You blend so many genres naturally in your music. Do you consciously think about genre while creating, or do you ignore those boundaries entirely? I think I try to target a genre, then I’ll experiment with my own sound and style in that genre and see what it leads to. Alternative is the new major thing in all upcoming artists . That’s how I believe evolution will always be. And that’s pretty much who I am. As both a recording engineer and artist, how involved are you in shaping the final sound of your records? I'm always heavily involved in my final sound. I fully record and track myself and spend a lot of time getting my mix right and perfecting the final sound. With your first full U.S. tour planned for 2027, what do you want audiences to experience from a Kiaatti live show? I want them to experience a community and a show they have never seen before. I’m very interactive with my shows, and I truly want everyone to feel a connection with me while I perform. Performing is really my true passion, and I always put my all into my performances.

AI music used to sound like something trapped inside a broken elevator. You could hear the idea, but you also wanted to apologize to your ears. Then, almost overnight, AI tracks started showing up with real hooks, real controversy, and real numbers. Suddenly, people were asking uncomfortable questions like: “Wait, is this song fake?” and “Why is the fake one kind of catchy?” This selection was created as a culture-and-tech roundup by https://joi.com/chats, looking at how synthetic voices, virtual artists, and prompt-made music are changing online entertainment. And honestly, the weirdest part is not that AI can make music. The weirdest part is that some of it is getting stuck in people’s heads. Below are three AI-related tracks from the last few years that show where the trend is going: viral parody, fake celebrity vocals, and full-on AI artist branding. 1. “BBL Drizzy” — King Willonius / Metro Boomin Rating: 9/10 Best for: meme culture, hip-hop history, and people who accidentally dance to internet drama. “BBL Drizzy” should not have worked as well as it did. On paper, it sounds like chaos: a comedian uses AI to make a fake retro-soul diss song, Metro Boomin samples it during the Kendrick Lamar and Drake beef, then the beat becomes a remix challenge. That is not a normal release strategy. That is the internet throwing spaghetti at a ceiling fan and somehow inventing a genre. The original “BBL Drizzy” came from comedian King Willonius, also known as Will Hatcher, who used AI music tools to create a 1970s-style soul parody. Reporting around the track identifies Udio as the AI music generator behind the original sample, while Metro Boomin later turned it into the instrumental “BBL DRIZZY BPM 150.mp3.” The numbers are not small either. Metro’s SoundCloud upload shows around 9.14 million plays, and the original King Willonius YouTube upload shows around 1.8 million views. What makes this track important is that it did not feel like a sterile AI demo. It felt like a joke, a sample, a beat, a meme, and a cultural moment all at once. That is why it traveled so fast. It had the messiness of a human joke and the speed of AI production. The machine helped make the sound, but the timing, concept, and punchline were very human. Programs/tools used: Udio for the AI-generated original track; Metro Boomin’s production turned it into a hip-hop instrumental. Why it matters: “BBL Drizzy” showed that AI music does not have to arrive as a fake pop star in silver sunglasses. It can sneak into mainstream music through sampling, memes, producer culture, and remix challenges. 2. “How Was I Supposed to Know?” — Xania Monet Rating: 8.5/10 Best for: people interested in AI artists that are no longer just internet jokes. Xania Monet is one of the clearest examples of the “AI artist” era. She is not a human singer in the traditional sense. She is an AI-powered R&B persona created by Telisha “Nikki” Jones, a Mississippi poet and creator who writes the lyrics and uses Suno to turn them into songs. “How Was I Supposed to Know?” is the track that made people pay attention. It is emotional, polished, very much in the adult R&B heartbreak lane, and exactly the kind of song that makes listeners argue in comment sections. Some hear a moving ballad. Others hear the beginning of a music-industry headache while wearing lip gloss. The track has real numbers behind it. Kworb listed 14,098,420 Spotify streams for “How Was I Supposed to Know?” as of its April 30, 2026, update, while the official YouTube video shows more than 3.17 million views. The controversy is part of the story. Jones has said she writes the lyrics from personal poems and then works through prompts in Suno, generating many versions until she finds the one that fits. That makes Xania Monet different from a lazy “press button, get song” stereotype. There is still human direction, taste, editing, and emotional input involved. Whether that makes the final result “authentic” is exactly the argument everyone is having. Programs/tools used: Suno AI for music generation, with lyrics and creative direction by Telisha “Nikki” Jones. Why it matters: Xania Monet shows the next stage: not just AI songs, but AI-branded artists with catalogs, fan bases, deals, and chart activity. This is no longer just a novelty clip. It is a business model. 3. “Heart on My Sleeve” — ghostwriter977 Rating: 8/10 Best for: anyone who wants to understand why the music industry started sweating. “Heart on My Sleeve” is probably the most infamous AI track of the current era. It appeared in 2023 and used AI-generated vocals that sounded like Drake and The Weeknd, even though neither artist was involved. The track was uploaded by the anonymous creator ghostwriter977, went viral, and was later removed from major platforms after Universal Music Group objections. Before it was taken down, the track reportedly reached around 600,000 Spotify streams, 15 million TikTok views, and 275,000 YouTube views. Guinness World Records also notes that the #heartonmysleeve hashtag had accumulated 52 million TikTok views during the viral peak. Musically, the song worked because it sounded plausible. Not perfect, not fully human, but close enough to make people do a double-take. That was the scary part. It was not some robotic novelty with obvious seams. It felt like a leaked collaboration from an alternate timeline where copyright lawyers wake up screaming. The exact software used was not publicly confirmed in the same clean way as Udio for “BBL Drizzy” or Suno for Xania Monet. Reporting described it as AI voice-model work trained or built around the artists’ vocal styles, which is precisely why it became such a legal and ethical flashpoint. Programs/tools used: exact tool not reliably disclosed; the track used AI voice-cloning / vocal-model techniques imitating Drake and The Weeknd. Why it matters: This was the warning shot. “Heart on My Sleeve” made the industry realize that AI music was not only about fake bands or funny experiments. It could imitate a superstar identity, generate huge attention, and create legal problems before breakfast. Final Take These three tracks show three different futures for AI music. “BBL Drizzy” is the fun one: AI as meme fuel, sample culture, remix bait, and internet comedy with a beat. “How Was I Supposed to Know?” is the business one: AI as a branded artist project with real streams and a serious push. “Heart on My Sleeve” is the dangerous one: AI as voice imitation, controversy, and a copyright nightmare in a hoodie. The ratings are not just about whether the songs are “good.” They are about impact. Did the track move culture? Did it start arguments? Did it show a new use case? Did people actually listen? By that standard, all three matter. AI music is still messy. Some of it is forgettable. Some of it feels like a demo made by a microwave with confidence issues. But the best-known tracks prove something important: listeners do not only care whether a song is made by a human or a machine. They care whether it hits, whether it surprises them, and whether it gives them something to talk about. That may be uncomfortable for traditional music culture, but it is already happening. The next big AI track might be a parody, a virtual R&B ballad, a fake duet, or something nobody has a name for yet. And yes, someone will probably say, “This is the future of music,” while someone else replies, “No, this is the end of music.” The truth is probably less dramatic and more annoying: it is both a tool and a problem.

“Unalive” by BAKSH isn’t subtle, and that’s exactly why it works. The track doesn’t try to package pain into something digestible or inspirational. It’s chaotic, heavy, and emotionally honest in a way that almost feels invasive at times. Listening to it feels less like hearing a polished single and more like overhearing a conversation not meant for you. At its core, the song plays out like an argument within himself. Multiple versions of BAKSH collide instead of forming one clean narrative. Anxiety pulls one direction, distraction pulls another, while something deeper sits underneath both. Rather than forcing clarity onto the emotion, he lets the tension exist in real time. Sonically, “Unalive” leans cinematic without abandoning its hip-hop foundation. The production feels spacious yet constantly on edge, like it’s holding something back the entire track. Piano melodies drift in and out, creating an eerie calm, while BAKSH’s vocal delivery cuts through with urgency. He doesn’t sound like he’s performing emotions. He sounds like he’s actively processing them while the song unfolds. That’s what separates “Unalive” from the wave of overly curated “mental health rap” dominating social media right now. This doesn’t feel manufactured for relatability. It’s messy, contradictory, uncomfortable, and deeply human. The song also ties into BAKSH’s larger “Tripolar” concept, where identity is split across multiple internal dimensions. It sounds abstract on paper, but the way he translates it emotionally is what makes it land. You don’t need to fully understand the philosophy to feel the conflict running through the track. The accompanying visuals push that idea even further, using division and fragmentation as metaphors for losing yourself and the people around you. Thankfully, it never turns preachy. It simply presents the emotional consequence and lets the weight of it sit there. What makes “Unalive” hit hardest is knowing it came from a real breaking point. You can hear that reality baked into every line and every pause. There’s no distance between the artist and the emotion. “Unalive” may not be an easy replay, but it’s incredibly difficult to forget. Honestly, to us, that matters more. You let different versions of yourself clash openly on this track. Was there ever a moment when you considered simplifying that narrative for the listener? I didn’t wish to simplify the narrative for the listener, instead I chose to believe in the audience to be intelligent, intuitive and expressive themselves (not to mention dramatic). Humans have layers, and some of those layers are primal. Music often inspires that layer of people who are primal, who respond to emotions when they listen to music about themes such as laugh, cry, love, sex, fight, fail, persevere, dance, abolish, demolish, jealousy, greed, etc. Problem is that the marketing of music is segmented by demographics, and if the music constantly only appeals to one layer of their primal instinct, and they “simplify the narrative” to do this effectively, the audience becomes less diverse and sadly also less accepting of music that speaks on wider topics, eventually leading to their communities exiling members for talking about specific topics in real life. As an artist, I chose to speak my mind freely, as I don’t write my lyrics; I produce a beat for the feeling, and then I record into a mic line by line if I must, therefore my language is more spoken word than written rap sometimes, which makes it digestible to the audience, however my themes will always be multi-layered, like humans. The idea of “Tripolar” reframes how people think about identity. What’s one misconception about mental health that you think this project directly challenges? The misconception this directly challenges is the label of illness on people who have constant polar opposite thoughts, feelings, and reactions, or those who “talk to themselves”; it instead suggests self-consultancy and giving room for both sides to exist, which is a far healthier and more realistic outcome than trying to feel just one of them. Every human is multipolar, which means they can feel different things, be different people (some people do things online they would NEVER do in real life, but part of their nature exists there). The goal is to understand our two selves and be the third self to keep ourselves in check. The way it happens is through self-awareness. I was clinically diagnosed with anxiety and adhd, but now I know that one side is the depression that sees the world and my own traumas and things I can’t control and breaks, then the 3. 4. adhd kicks in to be like “nah man don’t look at that look at these things that are cool infront of us right now”…granted when I do focus on those cool things infant of me like music, I get distracted every 20 seconds with random thoughts running up and down the stairs haha; but the point is they both work in tandem to protect me, one tells me threat that is very real, and one tells me diversion strategy, and if I can let both sides exist, the side that choses to balance both becomes the new boss; the third side only wants balance. The idea is to accept yourself, don’t be one thing over the other, be both, and understand both. You blend cinematic elements with raw hip-hop delivery. What’s one production choice that made the song feel more real instead of more polished? One production choice was mixing the final version of the song in surround sound instead of stereo through Dolby Atmos. Music is designed for stereo left and right, but a lot of new equipment is being coded to handle Spatial Audio. And as for me personally, the sounds of the real world are happening spherically around me, so to capture the essence of sound in the natural world in music means, every word every drum line every bass line has an impact that feels like you’re inside the song, not listening to it…the lyrics doesn’t sound like your’e hearing them, it sounds like you’re speaking them, from the stomach. And as a mixing engineer, the final version in surround, the right way, gives a lot of room, so the distortions that may happen in stereo will not happen in surround mixes. There’s a fine line between honesty and overwhelming the listener. How do you decide how far to push before it becomes too much? There’s a fine line between honesty and overwhelming the listener. How do you decide how far to push before it becomes too much? This is a real problem. I have tried to control this force before, but it doesn’t work too well for me. I am usually at an emotional point of overwhelm; therefore, the people who listen to me and understand usually come from that place of being overwhelmed as it is. Now, for capturing a new audience, with these themes alone, I have had multiple reviews about my songs, making them feel dreadful. It wasn’t the intention, however, as an artist, I can only make people feel what they feel may be personal to them. I am trusting the audience to decide what they like and skip over what they don’t, rather than forcefully supporting an artist because everyone tells them to, while making millions talking about how they’re so much better than everyone. A lot of mainstream artists use that theme, to create favouritism amongst audience and move chart metrics by creating competition, but when rappers say I am better than “YOU” in a song they’re probably thinking about one competing artist in their head…but the listener takes it as, Oh he is better than me I guess, which causes the bully syndrome, where they find someone else to make em feel that way. I don’t do that in my music. It has been carefully crafted to make people hopeful and inclusive, while also showing them healthy expressions of fire and darkness…so if I, as an artist, can exist in the music space, then I am grateful because it’s not about me; it will show that art, artists, and audiences have evolved. I don’t want or need the credit nor the blame, to inspire nor overwhelm. Thematically, my music may have depth, but to make it easy for the listener, I make it melodic and musical, with tones and words to inspire, but also, I reduce frequencies I have researched, such as 250Hz and 111Hz, linearly, as I have primarily tested them to cause anxiety within the self. Usually, a lot of music causes aggression due to spikes in these low frequencies, which become prevalent during concerts, so if some songs rile the crowd up too much, it may be someone messing with frequencies that are harmful. I believe in ethics, I'll tell dark stories, my life was dark AF, but I learned to live and love and create through the darkness, and that is what I intend to project to the audience; not just trauma, but healing. When someone hears this song at their lowest point, what do you want it to interrupt in their thinking right then? At someone’s lowest, the problem is they feel alone, exiled, and isolated. From personal experience these are the thoughts that come to mind If I died, others life would be better Non existence would be better than living in this cycle When I’m gone they will realize what they lost / When I’m gone everyone that knows me will move on My debts will be forgiven if I die (this is dangerous due to binding impulse to logic) I want it to directly interrupt their thoughts of wanting to unalive themselves from the title and know they’re not alone. Then from the first line of the song, “Is it god or is science the truth? I do not look for the proof, I rather believe in real s*** like the systematic destruction of youth. which actually absolves them, saying a lot of the things you’re feeling are due to systemic socio-economic failures that the youth invading you from a younger you have been put through. THEN, the second line is supposed to bring those two parts of themselves that are divided between the nouns “life” or “death” together, and translate the language into a verb for “live” and “die”…the line is as follows “I might wanna die, but I don’t wanna kill, sometimes I’m divided by two”…translating the nouns of life/death to the verb of live/die creates space for Action based thought, which tells them they have the control and choice over their actions, returning the power to them. The goal is to interrupt the pattern that is mentally draining, feeling bad for themselves and about themselves, and instead help them to understand that even if someone else did this to provoke us, the choice to act on being provoked is on us; so if we can understand that we didn’t cause the problem yet we ARE part of the problem…it makes us immediately part of the solution. My hope is that this will return the power to the listener, who may have had it taken away from them by some other force.

Touring life means long days and nights on the road. Many artists forget that daytime hours pose a real threat to their health. Outdoor stages and load-ins put you directly under the sun for hours. Staying safe requires a smart plan to avoid painful burns and long-term skin damage. Mastering The Load In Process Loading gear into a venue takes a lot of time and effort. High-quality clothes, like Men’s Long Sleeve Sun Protection Shirts, offer a shield against harsh rays as you work. Quality garments help manage heat so you do not overheat before the set begins. Find a shady spot to stack your road cases whenever possible. Standing in direct light for hours drains your energy quickly. It makes the physical work much harder on your body than it needs to be. Keep a cold water bottle nearby to stay hydrated during the heavy lifting. Heat exhaustion hits fast when you are moving heavy amps. Take short breaks in the shade to let your heart rate settle down. Understanding Skin Health Trends Younger generations of performers are seeing a rise in skin issues. An article noted that nearly 50% of Gen Z and millennials experienced sunburns. The trend shows why protecting your skin is more than just a suggestion for modern artists. Burned skin makes it hard to wear stage costumes or move freely. Painful blisters can distract you from your performance during the show. No musician wants to deal with a peeling face in front of a large crowd of fans. Many roadies and musicians ignore the risks until they see permanent damage. Start a routine now to keep your career going for years. Healthy skin is a part of maintaining your professional image on and off the stage. Picking The Best Fabrics For Outdoor Stages Standard clothing does not always block the light effectively. A separate study found that UPF 50 garments allow only 2% of UV rays to reach the skin. Protection is much higher than what a normal thin cotton tee provides on a hot day. Choosing the right materials involves looking for specific ratings: Check for a UPF 50 rating on the tag. Look for moisture-wicking properties to stay dry. Select lightweight knits that allow for airflow. Choose dark or bright colors for better defense. Cotton shirts often have a very low rating of 5 to 7. This means most of the harmful rays go straight through the fabric. It is like not wearing anything at all for protection from the elements. Avoiding Peak Intensity Hours The timing of your soundcheck or festival slot matters a lot. One report explains that workers exposed to sunlight between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. face the highest risk of UV-induced DNA mutations. Sunlight during this window is much more powerful and dangerous. Try to schedule your outdoor setup for early morning or late afternoon. If you must be out at noon, seek cover under the stage roof. Using the architecture of the venue can save you from a nasty burn. UV rays are strongest when the sun is directly overhead. Use this time to rest inside the tour bus or a green room. Staying out of the heat helps preserve your voice and energy for the performance tonight. Strategic Use Of Sunscreen And Hats Some skin remains exposed to the elements even with good clothing. Apply a high SPF cream to your face and neck before heading out. Reapply the lotion every few hours if you are sweating under the lights or moving heavy gear. A wide-brimmed hat protects your scalp and ears from burning. Many musicians forget these spots when they are focused on their instruments. Lip balm with sun protection is another helpful tool for singers. Cracked lips make it difficult to hit those high notes during the bridge. Keep a stick in your pocket for quick use throughout the day. Creating A Safety Kit For The Road Keeping your gear organized makes it easier to stay protected daily. Put your sunblock and extra shirts in a dedicated bag near the van door. It keeps your safety tools within reach during every stop on the tour route. Ask your tour manager to include shade structures in the contract rider. Having a tent over the merch table helps the crew stay cool. It prevents your physical media and vinyl from warping in the summer heat. Encourage your bandmates to follow the same safety rules on every tour. Staying healthy together keeps the show on the road without any delays. A full band of healthy players delivers a much better performance for the audience. Protecting your skin is a part of being a professional musician. Taking small steps today prevents major health problems in the future. Stay cool and covered so you can focus on the music. Your fans want to see you healthy and performing for many years.

There’s something almost painfully sincere about “Starlight Fever,” and honestly, that’s either going to completely pull people in or make them uncomfortable. In a music landscape where everybody’s hiding behind irony, aesthetic branding, or detached one-liners about heartbreak, Isaiah Angel Hubbird goes in the exact opposite direction. No emotional armor. No pretending to be unbothered. Just raw feeling from beginning to end. Weirdly enough, that’s exactly what makes this album work. “Starlight Fever” unfolds like an emotional timeline documenting the rise, collapse, and aftermath of a relationship. But instead of framing love through toxicity or revenge-fantasy songwriting, Hubbird focuses on something much more human: attachment. The desperate, confusing, all-consuming kind that lingers even when both people already know things are falling apart. The album opens with “Butterflies” and “Fire in the Distance,” two tracks that capture the almost delusional optimism of early love. The songwriting leans heavily into warmth, softness, and idealization. Lyrics like “Every moment we share feels like a secret meant for two” feel innocent in a way modern music almost seems embarrassed by now. That innocence slowly begins unraveling as the album progresses. “How I Feel” captures the anxiety of emotional vulnerability with surprisingly effective simplicity. There’s no complicated metaphor hiding the emotion. The song is literally about not having the courage to tell someone you love them, and that straightforward honesty gives it weight. Hubbird’s songwriting works best when he stops trying to sound poetic and just says exactly what hurts. By the middle of the project, tracks like “I Am Dead (Without You),” “Jump Right In,” and “Dreams Of You” spiral through obsession, denial, grief, and emotional dependency in ways that feel uncomfortably real. “If loving you’s a free fall, I jump right in” stands out as one of the album’s most self-aware moments because it fully acknowledges the danger while surrendering to it anyway. What makes “Starlight Fever” compelling isn’t technical perfection. It’s emotional consistency. The album never feels like it’s chasing a hit or trying to reinvent acoustic singer-songwriter music. Instead, Hubbird commits fully to documenting emotional aftermath as honestly as possible, even when that honesty becomes repetitive, messy, or self-destructive. Ironically, that repetition strengthens the album’s realism because heartbreak itself is repetitive. Toward the end of the album, songs like “The Mess We’ve Become,” “Stability,” and the title track begin shifting toward reflection instead of desperation. Not perfect closure. Not cinematic healing. Just exhaustion slowly turning into acceptance. “Starlight Fever” feels less like a polished commercial release and more like emotional documentation. It’s vulnerable, messy, occasionally overwhelming, and deeply earnest in a way most artists are too afraid to be now. Isaiah Angel Hubbird may not be making music for the algorithm, but he is making music that people with real emotional scars will probably sit with longer than they expect. A lot of artists romanticize heartbreak after the fact, but “Starlight Fever” feels like it was written while still emotionally trapped inside it. Were there moments making this album where revisiting those feelings actually became unhealthy for you? Making this album definitely forced me to sit with emotions I probably would have avoided otherwise. There were nights when replaying certain memories over and over stopped feeling creative and started feeling self-destructive. I think that’s why the album sounds so raw, because I wasn’t writing from hindsight; I was still in the middle of it emotionally. At the same time, music became the only way I could make sense of what I was feeling without completely shutting down. Looking back now, I had to learn where honesty ends and where emotional self-harm begins. Songs like “Jump Right In” openly acknowledge toxic patterns while still emotionally surrendering to them. Do you think self-awareness actually helps people escape unhealthy relationships, or does it sometimes just make the pain easier to justify? I think self-awareness is complicated because sometimes you can know exactly what’s hurting you and still not be ready to walk away from it. “Jump Right In” was me admitting that contradiction out loud instead of pretending I had it all figured out. There’s a line in the song where I say, “Every red flag feels like déjà vu again,” and that really sums up the cycle of recognizing the damage while still emotionally chasing the connection. I think awareness is the first step, but it does not automatically heal you. Sometimes it just makes you painfully aware of the choices you keep making. Modern music culture rewards emotional detachment and “coolness,” but this album is extremely sincere and emotionally exposed. Were you ever tempted to hold parts of yourself back to avoid seeming too vulnerable? Honestly, yeah, there were moments where I wondered if I was revealing too much. A lot of music right now leans into being emotionally untouchable, and this album does the opposite of that. But I realized pretty quickly that if I started filtering the uncomfortable parts, the album would lose what made it real. I wanted these songs to sound like actual late-night thoughts, not polished versions of pain. Vulnerability can feel risky, but I think people connect more deeply when they can tell you are telling the truth. “Stability” feels bigger than heartbreak and starts touching identity, burnout, and mental exhaustion. Did this relationship change who you were outside of romance, too? Absolutely. The relationship affected way more than just romance for me; it started changing the way I saw myself and the way I moved through everyday life. “Stability” came from feeling mentally exhausted and disconnected from the version of myself I used to recognize. Lines like “Where is my youth, I’m missing the torch” were really about feeling burnt out emotionally and creatively at the same time. I think heartbreak can slowly bleed into your confidence, your energy, and even your sense of identity if you stay inside it long enough. That song was me trying to hold onto myself while feeling like parts of me were slipping away. The album ends more with acceptance than closure. Do you personally believe people ever fully move on from relationships that deeply shape them, or do they just learn how to carry the memories differently? I do not think you fully erase relationships that genuinely change you. I think some people leave fingerprints on your life that stay there no matter how much time passes. For me, acceptance feels less like forgetting and more like learning how to carry those memories without letting them control you anymore. That’s why the album ends the way it does, because life rarely gives you perfect closure. Sometimes healing is just reaching a point where the memories stop feeling heavier than you are.