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Some songs are just songs, and others really do change everything. For Saint Mesa, “Lion” is the second kind, and this new version makes it impossible to ignore. Originally written in 2017 during a period of heavy label pressure, “Lion” marked the moment when everything started to shift. At the time, Saint Mesa was being pushed toward a more commercial direction, expected to fit into a specific sound and structure. Instead of folding into that, he created something that pushed in the opposite direction. Darker, slower, and much more intentional. That decision didn’t just shape a single track; it redefined the entire project completely. Now, nearly a decade later, “Lion” returns with a new weight behind it. This isn’t just a re-release. It’s a reclamation. With the original version tied up in a system that no longer serves him, Saint Mesa takes back control here, both creatively and symbolically, reworking the track into something that fully reflects where he is now. The sound leans deep into the cinematic world he’s built over time. There’s a sense of scale to everything: layered textures, tension that builds without rushing, and a vocal presence that feels more like it’s guiding you through a space than sitting on top of a beat. It’s not structured for quick consumption. It unfolds, pulling you into its atmosphere rather than trying to grab your attention instantly. What makes “Lion” stand out isn’t just its sound; it’s the intention behind it. At its core, the track is about stepping into your own identity and taking back control, whether that’s creatively, personally, or otherwise. That message hits harder knowing the context. This isn’t hypothetical empowerment. It’s lived. Saint Mesa’s decision to step away from his label and rebuild on his own terms continues to define his trajectory. Now based in Germany and expanding into work behind the scenes, including mixing and mastering for projects like Equilibrium, he’s clearly moving with a broader vision that extends beyond his own releases. “Lion” doesn’t feel like a comeback. It feels like closure and a new beginning at the same time, and more importantly, it feels like true ownership, and that's what hits us the hardest.

A lot of “positive” music plays it way too safe. Clean message, predictable sound, nothing that actually sticks. Jaysin Voxx doesn’t fall into that. “Keep It Real” leans into disco-pop, but it doesn’t feel dated or forced. It’s smooth, confident, and built around a groove that actually pulls you in, with a bassline that carries that classic funk bounce while the production keeps everything polished enough to live in 2026 without sounding like a throwback gimmick. You can hear the influence of the Dazz Band in the DNA, especially with Michael J. Calhoun involved, but Voxx isn’t stuck in nostalgia. He’s updating it with cleaner textures, tighter structure, and a sound that feels intentional instead of recycled, which is what keeps the track from blending into the endless wave of retro-inspired releases right now. Lyrically, there’s more going on than just “good vibes.” At its core, the track is about calling people out, specifically the ones who switch up, hide behind versions of themselves, or avoid real conversations altogether. Voxx keeps it direct. If you’re not being real, he’s not engaging. There’s no overcomplication here, just a clear stance that cuts through the polish of the production. The video leans into that idea visually, placing Voxx inside a surreal, masquerade-style nightclub where everything feels a little too perfect to trust. Masks, red-and-gold lighting, and a dreamlike atmosphere blur the line between reality and performance, reinforcing the idea that most people are playing a role. Voxx stands in the middle of it all without hiding, which becomes the entire point. While a lot of artists lean into darker themes to feel authentic, Voxx goes the other way. He chooses clarity and optimism without losing his edge, and that balance is what gives “Keep It Real” its staying power. It doesn’t try to overdo anything. It just locks into a feeling and commits, and that’s exactly why it works. You lead with positivity in a space where a lot of artists lean into struggle or darkness. Has that ever made people take you less seriously, and how do you navigate that? There’s this lazy industry narrative that pain equals depth—like being depressing automatically makes you interesting; a fashion accessory to sell records. Um, nah. It honestly makes me laugh, because the moment 'anti-establishment' becomes the trend, you ARE the establishment. We’re pioneers, choosing to set the frequency, not follow some dying trend. I lead with positivity where others low-key aren’t strong enough to go because it’s not trendy—yet. I lead with positivity because Michael J. Calhoun leads with it, and World Movement Records leads with it—that’s the DNA. My whole team is a lightning-bolt of positive vibes. To Keep It Real, it just feels good. The #glitch is the antidote for all those empty, uninspired, formulated tracks. We are the frequency of a new generation, and the VOXXER Army is proof that the culture is starving for the cure. The move is System Override. The suits clearly don't know the Bay if they mistake my glow for a lack of grit, not realizing that like all of us, my songs have infinite layers. Our CEO Lamont Patterson saw the vision, day one. I stay locked into the #VoxxFrequency and let the receipts speak: 1 Million on the Gram in 4 weeks, worldwide—and I just picked up 2 Wins at the European International Music Awards. The #VoxxOne power is manifest. So, how do I navigate? I say we #glitch the system and expose that wallowing and copy-catting the 90's vibe is just cosplaying trauma for the grid. Let's face it, some of these puppets aren't even 90 pounds wet—rip-offs of a past sound, acting all brand new. Elevating the culture is the real flex. Let’s create, not copy. The 'tortured' vibe is just a stale industry mask—we’re here to Live LOUD with #VoxxOne Voltage. “Keep It Real” calls out people who hide behind masks, but the video literally puts everyone in masks. What were you trying to say about identity versus performance? Our masks aren't for hiding; they are for revealing; they’re a mirror. The world is drowning in high-gloss filters and performative armor, always 'on' for socials—honestly, so sus. Prioritizing the grid over the soul is the ultimate trap. There’s a heavy, silent depression that comes with identity-based performance—the pure exhaustion of never being allowed to be 'off.' Just be real. By putting everyone in masks, I’m shifting the focus: who are you when the performance stops? It's a paradox. We are stripping the ego away. When everyone is curated to look the same on the outside, the only way to stand out is through your inner vibration and energy. We see so many who seem 'aesthetic' on the outside, but are they beautiful inside? In the #VoxxOne frequency, we stop subsisting on clout and start thriving in truth. Music is risk—Love is risk. We want to elevate our fans, enlighten, and empower. You have to risk being seen to truly live; only then are you ready to #KeepItReal. You’re building your own lane with Nu-Disco Pop Funk. What made you confident enough to define your own genre instead of fitting into what already exists? Fitting in is for the invisible. Don’t you wanna be seen? Nu-Disco Pop Funk—the DPF—isn't just a label; it’s a high-voltage response to the boring, grey-scale static saturating the airwaves—and let's Keep It Real, that 'grey stuff' is well-funded. We’re creating legacy. Most artists aren’t bold enough to step outside the 'meta' because they’re chasing a playlist placement, not a legacy. Hard pass. I’m not here to be background noise for someone's scroll. It’s also about showing love and respect to our own homegrown, day-one American soul that others have tried to duplicate for years. You can’t flex on the architect. DPF is classic in the best way, but we’ve #glitched it. The frequency doesn’t lie—your body reacts before your ego can even process it. That sneak-attack is part of the joy we create. I’m not interested in being a 'version' of someone else. My team at World Movement Records—Michael J. Calhoun and Lamont Patterson—didn't sign a copycat. They signed a #frequency override. I have no interest fitting into one lane; I’m paving a twenty-six-lane superhighway straight through the middle of the industry’s gated community. If you’re waiting for permission to be original, you’re already late. The VOXXER Army outbreak is the evolution. Being bold is what #VoxxItOut has been about from the start. It's time to Live LOUD. Working with someone like Michael J. Calhoun connects you to a legacy sound. What did you take from that experience, and what did you intentionally choose to do differently? Legend. Say less. Working with Michael is like hacking blueprints to the bank vault. I am the student under Unc’s tutelage. He’s the architect. What I am taking—because we are ever-evolving—from that experience is the understanding that the groove is timeless and true. You can’t fake authentic DNA. While the foundation is classic, the #VoxxOne energy is about the future. I synthesized that iconic soul-fire and standard of excellence and added my DPF #glitch to push it forward. I believe that’s low-key where most artists fail—they sample the greatness instead of becoming it. We’re here to re-wire the whole grid; to be the evolution. Locked in the lab, fusing legacy with a frequency that deletes the digital noise of today; the #DazzVoxx shimmer. Unc and I have an unmatched energy—it just flows and becomes something eternal. It’s that spot-on energy that has heavy hitters like Sony and The Orchard tapping in. They see that we aren't just making tracks or beats; this is a movement that can’t be ignored. My songs breathe. That’s how you honor a legend—you don’t just repeat what they did; you erect a superhighway on the ground they broke and dub it #DazzVoxx. No Cap No Cap No Cap. The message of authenticity sounds simple, but in reality it’s hard to live by. What’s a moment in your career where “keeping it real” actually cost you something? The cost to Keep It Real? It costs you the 'easy' path, every single time, but what is life without risk? There have been moments where the suits offered a shortcut—manufactured lanes with guaranteed 'success.' They even tried to pivot me into ghostwriting for K-pop groups, wanting to bottle my frequency, a feeder for the plants. Turning that down costs you time and early placements, and it can keep you up at night too. But honestly? Miss me with that. I’d rather lose a seat at their table than lose my soul to that well-funded 'grey stuff.' That cost is exactly what makes the #VoxxOne frequency so expensive. You can’t buy my glow, you can’t bottle it, and you can’t manufacture this authentic Bay Area grit. The receipts speak for themselves: 1 million on the Gram in 4 weeks. It turns out that 'keeping it real' didn't cost me the game; it just gave me the power to change how it’s played, to define it. The only thing I actually lost was the dead weight. In a way, I’m double-blessed because as I navigated those hollow offers, I met people who said 'yes'—their mistakes are like guardrails for me now. The #VoxxFrequency is locked in. It’s time to Live LOUD and level up to the positivity of #VoxxOne energy. We weren't meant to second-guess our calling; we are meant to risk it all to win it all.

Most artists mellow out with time. Tex Moonlight did the opposite. “Ape Shall Not Kill Ape” feels like it was pulled from a different era and dropped into 2026 without warning. It’s chaotic, slightly disorienting, and fully intentional. Instead of chasing polish, Moonlight leans into distortion, unpredictability, and that uneasy feeling that something’s just a little off. The track runs on a stiff, mechanical pulse that immediately nods to Devo, but it doesn’t sit still long enough to be labeled. The bassline stretches and snaps, the vocals feel detached and almost spoken, and the entire thing moves like it’s glitching in real time. Then the Planet of the Apes references start to land, and suddenly the chaos feels more deliberate. Not clearer, just more intentional. Moonlight isn’t trying to hand you a message. He’s throwing fragments at you. Lines about the “villain in the mirror,” strange commandments, bits of meaning that feel just out of reach. You’re left somewhere between confusion and curiosity, which is exactly where this kind of music thrives. The video doubles down on that energy. A human-sized ape roaming Fort Lauderdale alongside a French bulldog named after Johnny Ramone sounds ridiculous on paper, but that’s the point. It leans into absurdity, early-2000s visuals, and pure randomness in a way that feels oddly refreshing. At a time when most artists are trying to be hyper-calculated, Moonlight goes the other direction. Loud, weird, and unapologetically messy. It doesn’t fully make sense. But it doesn’t need to. “Ape Shall Not Kill Ape” feels intentionally chaotic and uncomfortable at times. Were you trying to make something that resists easy interpretation, or did it naturally come out that way? To a certain degree, I always want to make things that are a bit left of center and quirky/thoughtful. The song definitely didn’t start that way, but it definitely morphed as time went on. Oddly enough, the driving drum beat, which is a loop I built up, really started to take over and dictate the direction of the song and consequently the lyric. Definitely a collage piece that was cobbled together, and then at some point I thought, “oh wow, this is cool.” You pull from Planet of the Apes and flip those references into something darker and more abstract. What about that world or those themes felt relevant to where you’re at right now? COVID certainly seeded the landscape for an apocalyptic kind of vibe to take hold, or maybe I’m older and watching more news now. It just all feels very End-of-Times-y these days. That original POA movie is such a banger; pitch-perfect! So the lyric, “there’s a piece of my head, and it tells me it says, that we don’t have much time left to go,” is really capturing the current cultural zeitgeist. Your sound blends punk energy with this almost mechanical, new wave feel. How do you balance raw emotion with something that feels so controlled and robotic? I love blending genres and opposites in general. When one part of a song feels a bit clinical or antiseptic, I really try to offer a more personal/passionate vibe to offset any sterility. Also, we were feeling mad Devo vibes in the studio, so we really wanted to lean into that. You’ve talked about returning to your roots with this release. What did you feel like you lost in your “mellow” era, and what made you want to reclaim this version of yourself? Standing! Hahhaha. The mellow stuff really made it easier to sit and deliver songs. I think I really just got tired of sitting and chilling out. I was known as an energetic fellow back in the day, so I guess I just wanted to make sure I still had it. The video leans into absurdity with the ape, the dog, and that early-2000s aesthetic. Do you see humor as part of your message, or is it more about distracting people before they realize what you’re actually saying? Both. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of humor to remind me not to take myself too seriously. Especially when I was writing the mellower stuff, as I naturally tend toward morose and downtrodden themes. Also, though, I love trying to sneak a little bit of social commentary in there without hitting people over the head with it. Ultimately, it feels like a fun, upbeat song, so that’s kind of what really dictated how the video was going to appear. Thanks for including me on BUZZMUSIC.

Ryan Nico is not here to play genre politics, and honestly, that’s exactly why “Nevada” hits. Country’s flirtation with hip-hop and pop often feels like a label-approved experiment: safe, predictable, made for playlists. “Nevada” changes that. It feels lived in. The production moves like the Strip at night, flashy, and controlled. A driving hip-hop pulse underlies everything but never overpowers the melody. Instead, it elevates it. Guitars shimmer, the beat knocks, and the whole track builds toward something bigger. Vocally, Nico moves differently. One second, he’s leaning into smooth R&B phrasing; the next, he’s pushing into a sharper, almost rap-adjacent delivery. It shouldn’t work this cleanly. It does. That versatility is what sells the record. He doesn’t sound like he’s blending genres for the sake of an aesthetic. He sounds like someone who actually grew up in all of them. Lyrically, “Nevada” plays into that high-risk, high-reward mindset without sounding corny. Lines about chance and changing your life could’ve easily felt cliché, but there’s conviction behind them. You believe he’s lived that grind. You believe the stakes. Zoom out, and “Nevada” feels like the mission statement for Urban Cowboy. This whole hybrid lane of pop-country, hip-hop, and R&B only works if the artist can hold it together. This record thrives in motion: windows down, city lights blurring, feeling like tonight might actually change something. You’re blending country, hip-hop, and R&B without watering any of them down. Where do you draw the line between fusion and losing identity? I think the line is drawn by my authenticity. Forcing a sound that isn’t organic to me waters down the identity. I would never lose my identity because I strongly know who I am and where I came from. All of these different genres fused into one make up who I am as a versatile person. “Nevada” leans into risk and chance. What’s the biggest real-life gamble you’ve taken that shaped who you are right now? Putting out my debut album was a great risk and gamble because you never know how it’s going to be perceived. But you can’t be afraid of failure because that’s part of the process. Life is a gamble, nothing is promised, so enjoy every moment. Your vocal delivery switches lanes mid-track. Is that instinctive, or are you consciously structuring those transitions in the studio? It’s a little of both, but more of it is instinctive. I just do what feels and sounds right and let the music take control. I let the music speak to me. Before I even go into the studio to record, I already have a clear vision and plan for how and what I want the song to sound like. There’s a lot of talk about genre walls breaking down, but most artists still play it safe. What made you comfortable going all in on this sound? Because music is universal, some people may like it, some may not. The overall goal is to bring good vibes to every listener and potential fan. Also, I like a challenge, I look to push myself in every situation I can. When you’re comfortable, you become complacent and less creative. Great risk can bring great rewards. Some tried to influence me to play it safe, but I’m a trendsetter and go with what feels right in my spirit. When fans hear Urban Cowboy, what part of your story do you think they’re going to misunderstand the most at first? That being a cowboy is really a state of mind. It’s how you deal with your everyday life struggles. I was born and raised as a blue-collar person, and I love it. Most assume you have to be from a certain place to be a cowboy, but a true cowboy is in the spirit of a person. You deal with adversity and don’t let it deter you. A cowboy is someone who earns everything, nothing is given.

Photo by Amber Smith There’s a difference between covering a jazz standard and actually saying something new with it. Most artists don’t clear that bar. Åsa Orbison does, and she makes it look almost effortless on “Lullaby of Birdland.” This isn’t some safe, polished throwback trying to impress purists. It’s a deliberate reframing of a song people think they already understand. Coming out of her larger Swedish Jazz Standards project, “Lullaby of Birdland” sits right at the center of what Åsa Orbison is trying to do. The concept sounds simple on paper. Take classic American jazz standards and reintroduce them through the Swedish language and perspective. But in execution, it hits way deeper. These aren’t translations. They’re reinterpretations shaped by a completely different cultural lens, and that shift changes everything about how the song lands. Åsa’s voice is the anchor here. It’s controlled, precise, and rooted in traditional jazz phrasing, but it never feels stuck in the past. There’s a softness to her delivery that pulls you in, then a quiet confidence that keeps you there. She’s not over-singing or trying to prove anything. If anything, she’s doing less than most vocalists, and it works in her favor. It forces you to actually listen to the phrasing, the space between lines, the emotion that isn’t being spelled out. Then you’ve got Ulf Wakenius on guitar, and honestly, his presence alone raises the level of this record. His playing is clean, intentional, and never intrusive. It’s the kind of musicianship that doesn’t beg for attention but ends up owning the entire atmosphere anyway. There’s a real conversation happening between his guitar and Åsa’s vocals, and it’s subtle in a way that most modern jazz releases don’t even try to be anymore. The production from Roy Orbison Jr. keeps everything grounded. No unnecessary layers, no overthinking it. Just enough space for the performance to breathe. That restraint is what gives the track its weight. It trusts the material instead of trying to modernize it into something it’s not. What makes “Lullaby of Birdland” actually stand out isn’t nostalgia. It’s perspective. Åsa Orbison isn’t reviving jazz standards. She’s shifting how they’re experienced. By letting the song exist in Swedish, she strips away familiarity and forces you to hear it differently. And in that space, something clicks. The melody hits harder. The emotion feels less predictable. A lot of artists talk about bridging cultures. This actually does it without making a big deal about it.

Son Kuma isn’t easing back into music; he’s forcing his way back in, and “Inertia” makes that clear immediately. This isn’t one of those safe, polished intros artists use to reintroduce themselves. It feels raw in a way that suggests it had to be made, like if this song didn’t exist, neither would the version of him still chasing music. As the opening track for Keep That Energy, “Inertia” doesn’t just set the tone; it explains why the project even exists. The concept is rooted in Newton’s First Law, but instead of coming off like a gimmick, it lands as something personal and lived-in. A body at rest stays at rest unless acted on by an external force. Most people hear that once and forget it. Son Kuma built a comeback around it. After hitting a real career high in 2020, momentum didn’t just slow down; it collapsed. COVID shut down opportunities, plans stalled, and a traumatic night that still lacks clear answers left him waking up in a hospital with more questions than closure. That same morning, the world lost Kobe Bryant, someone whose mentality shaped how he approached growth and discipline. That combination pushed him into a depression that distanced him from music entirely. He stepped away, finished his degree at Stanford University, and essentially left the Son Kuma identity behind. Coming back wasn’t clean either. His second album was pulled from streaming just days after release, wiping out the momentum he was trying to rebuild. For a lot of artists, that’s where the story ends. “Inertia” is what happens when it doesn’t. Sonically, the track lives in that emotional grey area between hip hop and R&B. The production stays restrained, almost intentionally so, letting the weight of what he’s saying carry the record instead of drowning it in unnecessary polish. There’s a hazy, reflective quality to it that mirrors the theme of being stuck, but aware you need to move. The hook initially plays like a love song, but it flips once you catch what he’s really saying. This isn’t about another person. It’s about his relationship with his own artist identity. “Drunk in love ‘cause I keep seeing double you” works as wordplay, but it’s also the thesis. He and Son Kuma are separate, but neither survives without the other. What makes “Inertia” land is that it doesn’t pretend everything is resolved. There’s no forced redemption arc here. It’s still messy, still uncertain, but it’s moving forward anyway. And honestly, to us, that makes it hit harder than most comeback records, trying too hard to prove something.

A lot of artists flirt with dark pop aesthetics, layering gothic visuals and surface-level religious references, then call it depth. Elnoir isn’t operating in that space. “Bless His Name” doesn’t lean on aesthetic shortcuts; it interrogates the structure itself. Not the imagery, not the symbolism at face value, but the systems those symbols were built to uphold. There’s no subtlety in that intention, and more importantly, there’s no attempt to soften it. Elnoir, an Italian dark-pop artist who spent years ghostwriting for globally recognized records before stepping into her own project, approaches this release with a sense of clarity that feels fully realized. Following her debut EP ALIAS, this track marks a deliberate shift into something more confrontational and far less concerned with accessibility. It doesn’t ask to be liked. It asks to be understood on its own terms. “Bless His Name” is constructed around tension. The production moves through dark, atmospheric layers that initially feel almost sacred, before gradually distorting into something heavier and more unsettling. That contrast is intentional. Moments that resemble a hymn are disrupted just as quickly, reinforcing the instability the track is built around. Lyrically, the focus is direct. Elnoir is not critiquing spirituality itself, but rather the institutions that have historically weaponized it. Systems that elevated obedience, restricted autonomy, and positioned submission as virtue are placed under scrutiny. The anger present in the record is controlled, not explosive. It builds with precision rather than spiraling, giving the message weight without losing focus. Underlying the track is a broader concept of generational rage, though here it avoids feeling reductive or trend-driven. Instead, it presents as something grounded in lived experience, extending beyond the individual into something more collective. There’s a sense that the narrative being expressed is both personal and inherited. The visual direction reinforces this framework with equal intention. Filming at Cly Castle, a site historically connected to early witch trials in Italy, reframes the setting from a place of persecution into one of confrontation. Symbolic elements such as veils, crowns of thorns, and ritual candles are recontextualized, shifting from markers of control into instruments of reclamation. The approach is not rooted in provocation for its own sake, but in deliberate reinterpretation. What ultimately defines the release is its sense of authenticity. The concept holds because it feels informed rather than constructed. Recognition from platforms like Rolling Stone UK reflects that distinction, not as a result of trend alignment, but because Elnoir is operating within a space that resists simplification. “Bless His Name” is not designed for passive consumption. It demands engagement. In a landscape where much of pop music is engineered for neutrality, that alone positions Elnoir in a category that feels increasingly rare. You spent years ghostwriting for other artists before stepping into Elnoir. What was the breaking point where you realized your own voice needed to be heard unfiltered? There wasn’t a single dramatic moment; it was more of a slow erosion. Ghostwriting taught me structure, discipline, and how to translate emotions into something functional. But over time, I started feeling a disconnect between what I was writing and what I actually wanted to say. The breaking point was realizing I had spent years shaping other people’s identities while avoiding my own. At some point, that becomes unsustainable. I knew I had found my voice when I stopped being comfortable hiding it. “Bless His Name” directly confronts religion as a system of control. Did you ever hesitate releasing something this unapologetic, knowing how polarizing that conversation is? No, because hesitation usually means you’re about to dilute something that matters. I was aware it could be polarizing, but that’s also the point. The song isn’t an attack on faith itself; it’s about questioning systems that use belief as a tool for control, especially over women. If a piece of music like that feels uncomfortable, it’s probably touching something real. I’m not interested in being safe if it means being silent. You talk about “generational rage” in your work. How much of that comes from personal experience versus what you’ve observed and inherited culturally? It’s both, and I don’t think they can really be separated. Some of it is personal, things I’ve experienced directly, dynamics I’ve had to navigate. But a lot of it comes from patterns that existed long before me and will probably continue after me if they’re not challenged. “Generational rage” isn’t just anger; it’s recognition. It’s understanding that certain experiences aren’t isolated; they’re systemic. Once you see the pattern, you can’t unsee it, and you can’t stay quiet about it. Filming at Cly Castle is heavy symbolism. What did it feel like physically being in that space, knowing the history of what happened to women there? At the time of the shoot, I didn’t actually know the history of the castle. We had originally chosen a different location, but it suddenly became unavailable, so we ended up at Cly almost by accident. It felt random, but not entirely. While we were filming, I remember feeling something I couldn’t fully place. There was a kind of emotional weight that didn’t feel mine entirely. A sense of anger, but not personal, almost like it was already there, embedded in the space. A few days later, I was having coffee with a friend of mine, Bianca, who’s an anthropologist, and she told me about the castle’s history. It was the site of one of the earliest and most violent witch trials in the 1400s. That was the moment everything clicked. For a second, it genuinely gave me chills. Then it shifted into something else, a sense of responsibility, but also a strange kind of honor. It felt less like we chose that place and more like we answered something that was already there. You’re subverting religious imagery instead of rejecting it completely. Why was it important to reclaim those symbols rather than abandon them? Because those symbols were never neutral to begin with. They’ve been used to define, control, and judge, especially in relation to women. Rejecting them entirely would mean leaving that power structure untouched. Reclaiming them means rewriting the meaning. I’m more interested in distortion than rejection. If a symbol was used to control you, reclaiming it is a form of power.

There’s a fine line between confidence and performance in drill right now, and most artists are either playing it safe or copying whatever’s trending. Tee Official doesn’t sound interested in either. Coming out of Southeast London, he’s stepping into the UK rap and drill space with a track that doesn’t pretend to be deeper than it is, but also doesn’t dumb itself down. His latest single, “Sexyy Redd (Into You),” leans into the chaotic, unapologetic energy popularized by Sexyy Red, but instead of imitation, it feels like translation. Different scene, same raw nerve. The concept is simple on the surface. It’s loud, confident, and intentionally unfiltered. But underneath that, there’s something more calculated happening. Tee Official is playing with the idea of how people perform identity, especially when it comes to desire, confidence, and what society labels as “acceptable.” He’s not framing it as a fantasy. If anything, he’s doing the opposite. This is about stripping things back to instinct. That’s where the track actually lands. It taps into the reality that people don’t always say what they want, or show who they are, until something gives them permission. Artists like Sexyy Red built a lane off saying the quiet part out loud, turning what could be judged into something powerful. Tee Official takes that same energy and reframes it through a UK lens, where drill often leans colder, more guarded, more coded. Sonically, he keeps it sharp. The production doesn’t overcomplicate things, which works in his favor. There’s space for his delivery to carry the weight, and he uses it well. His flow moves between direct and melodic without losing tension, which is where a lot of newer drill artists fall off. It feels controlled, not forced. Lyrically, he’s not trying to be overly poetic. He’s trying to be understood. That matters more in a track like this. The message isn’t hidden. It’s right there: stop apologizing for who you are, or what you want. That’s the whole point. And it’s a message that hits harder coming from an independent artist who’s still building, not someone already insulated by industry backing. What makes this release interesting isn’t just the energy. It’s the intention behind it. Tee Official isn’t just making a song that fits into the current algorithm wave. He’s testing how far authenticity can go when you stop filtering it for approval. And honestly, that’s the real question around him right now. Not whether he can make a viral moment, but whether he can build something that sticks without watering himself down to get there. If this track is any indication, he’s betting on staying real and seeing who follows. You’re pulling inspiration from a very bold, unfiltered energy. Where’s the line for you between authenticity and performance? For me, there isn’t really a line between authenticity and performance. Everything I write or perform comes from a real place, my own experiences, thoughts, or emotions. The bold, unfiltered energy I draw from is rooted in that truth, not just mine but other people’s too. So when I step into performance mode, or I’m in the booth, it doesn’t feel like I’m putting something on. Drill can be pretty guarded emotionally. What made you lean into something more expressive and almost provocative with this release? Honestly, I’ve never really tried to follow the typical drill formula. I like to sit slightly outside of it—close enough to still be part of the scene, but with the freedom to approach it differently. With this release, the instrumental had softer elements that felt a bit more expressive and, in a way, more tuned to a different kind of listener. Leaning into something more provocative just felt natural with that sound—it wasn’t forced, it just matched the energy of the track. You talk about people hiding parts of themselves. Do you think music is one of the only spaces where people feel safe being real? I think any form of creative art gives people a space to be real—music is definitely one of them, but it’s not the only one. Whether people actually feel safe enough to open up in that way is a different conversation. I wouldn’t say everyone does, but a lot of people probably find some level of comfort in it. At the end of the day, all art carries emotion, experience, and perspective, it’s just a matter of how willing someone is to tap into that. A lot of artists chase trends in this space. How do you make sure you’re not just riding a wave but actually building your own identity? I’ve never really been someone who follows trends. It always comes back to authenticity; if something doesn’t feel real to what I’m experiencing or thinking, I can’t write it, let alone perform it. It definitely helps me stay true to my identity and make music that shows who I am, but at the same time, it can make things more challenging creatively, especially if I’m not in a place where I feel something strongly enough to speak on it. If someone hears this track and feels uncomfortable, do you see that as a failure or proof that you hit something real? With this track, it’s kind of a love-it-or-hate-it situation, and I’m okay with that. If it makes someone uncomfortable, maybe it’s just not their taste, or maybe it’s hitting something they’re not fully ready to engage with. Either way, a strong reaction means it’s connecting on some level, and that matters more than trying to make music. Whether people love it or not, it leaves an impression, and that’s real.

On “XP,” the Maryland rapper Kace leans into a concept that could’ve easily come off corny if handled wrong. Life lessons, pain turning into wisdom, the whole “everything happens for a reason” angle. But instead of forcing it, Kace grounds the track in lived experience. You can hear the shift from younger chaos to present-day clarity without him needing to over-explain it. The structure feels intentional. It moves like leveling up in real time, with each bar stacking perspective instead of just flexing it. There’s a noticeable maturity in how he approaches storytelling. He’s not trying to sound like he has all the answers. He’s showing you how he got some of them. What stands out most is the mindset behind it. Kace isn’t glorifying struggle, but he’s not running from it either. He frames those moments as necessary. Not aesthetic. Not for content. Actually necessary. And in a genre where people either romanticize pain or completely detach from it, that middle ground hits harder than expected. His core message lands clean. Loss doesn’t exist unless you decide to stay down. That idea carries the entire track without feeling preachy, which is harder to pull off than it sounds. It feels like advice that came from taking hits, not reading quotes. Sonically, “XP” stays focused. No unnecessary distractions, no overproduction trying to compensate for weak writing. The beat gives him space, and he uses it. Every line feels like it’s there for a reason, which makes the replay value come from the message, not just the sound. What makes this release more interesting is the context around it. Kace isn’t treating this like a one-off drop. He’s building something. Five releases in two months, each with its own message, and a plan to keep dropping every two weeks is either insanely disciplined or borderline obsessive. Either way, it’s working in his favor. There’s a clear intention behind the rollout, not just noise. You talk about experiences turning into wisdom on “XP.” Was there a specific moment in your life where you realized something painful was actually shaping you for later? Yes, there were many moments, but one that I spoke on at the end of “xP” was the one that really made me realize that these negative experiences are here to help me, not hurt me. It was 2021, and I had no job, no way to make any music, and no way to enjoy life. I knew I needed a job because I needed money, but I wanted a remote job because I knew that would allow me to still create while working. If I went into an office, I knew it would be over for finding my freedom. People around me kept telling me to just stop and settle for what I can take, but I heard a voice in my head telling me to keep going forward, and that was all I needed. I got some loans from everyone. My mother, my friends, and I could at least be in the studio while waiting for this job that I knew was coming. I started my EP, Temporality, on the money of those around me. Eventually, I needed more and had no one else to ask, so I was about to give up, and that’s when the opportunity presented itself. A remote job that saw potential in me. I knew this was all I needed, so I could keep making music and begin really building my life. That moment made me realize that as long as you believe, as long as you hear God telling you where to go, and you trust that, then you can do anything. I knew in that moment I was building wisdom, but everyone was looking at me like I was just dumb; all new things seem dumb until they work. A lot of artists either glorify struggle or avoid it completely. How do you find the balance between being honest about pain without turning it into something performative? I feel that conversation has to be genuine. At the end of the day, whether your upbringing was hard, you lost your job, lost someone important to you, or even just had a bad day. If you are genuine in how you feel, then it will never be performative. For myself, I do overthink most of what I make because I feel that it’s not as bad as someone else’s pain, but the situations I deal with are heavy for me so I speak on them no matter what anyone says, but I always make sure that its from a place of "this is what I learned" so if anyone else runs into it you can learn a way of how to maneuver whether you take that way or not, you know it exist. You’re dropping music every two weeks, which is intense. Is that pace driven by discipline, pressure, or something internal you’re trying to prove to yourself? That pace is driven by pure discipline and want to be something more by the end of this year. We live in a world where everything moves extremely quickly. I love making full-length projects, but I know that in this fast-paced society, I have to keep up. With social media and streaming, there are thousands, shoot millions of artists putting out music every day. If I put out a song every two weeks, not only am I reaching different people all the time, but Im now someone who you are always going to see. The plus is that those who are fans can always eat. Your message is “Trust Your Potential.” Be real, have there been moments where you didn’t believe that at all, and how did you push through that? Oh, of course. It’s easy to say Trust your potential but it’s difficult to live it all day, every day. Honestly, last year was a time when it seemed impossible to trust my potential because life was ok. Everything I wanted in 2021 came to fruition in 2025, but a job to me is just a check. I needed to be free from this machine, and I felt that was out of reach. I have thoughts of doubt that always like to creep in, and they were louder than ever to the point where I was stagnant. It wasn’t until I said out loud that the only person stopping me is me that it really set in that if I want to be able to see the fruits of my labor, I need to push myself, because at that point, I didn’t have anyone around. So I had to wake up every day and put 1% of work in every day, and that proved to be the greatest example of trusting my potential, as now I see that life that I will live, and Im getting closer to it every day. With your next single “Perfect Cells” focusing on perfectionism, do you think that mindset helps you level up, or does it hold you back more than people realize? It helps me in being a leader in my day-to-day life because most things that I do are pretty good, but with my overall life, it definitely holds me back. My brain actually creates reasons why I can’t do something because the moment isn’t perfect, and this holds me back in every facet of life. I made this song as an explanation of why my brain seems to be wired that way and how to combat it with just doing rather than preparing, planning, and trying to find that perfect moment.

There’s a difference between writing about love and actually understanding it. Most artists touch on it in passing, using it as a theme, a storyline, something to build around. Michael John Ahern approaches it from a completely different place on “Heart Shaped World.” This isn’t surface-level reflection. It feels lived-in. That context matters. Ahern isn’t coming into this as a new artist trying to define himself. His career stretches across decades, from performing and producing to experiences that exist far outside the typical music industry path. NASA Mission Specialist, educator, animal keeper, street performer in Paris. It sounds almost unreal, but that range shows up in the music. There’s a perspective here that can’t be manufactured. “Heart Shaped World” leans into Americana, but not in a way that feels locked into tradition. The song carries a sense of openness, where storytelling and instrumentation work together to create something more expansive. It doesn’t rush to make its point. It unfolds, letting each moment sit long enough to resonate. What stands out most is the intention behind it. Ahern frames love not as something abstract, but as a guiding force, something that exists across time, experience, and perspective. That idea could easily come off as cliché, but here it doesn’t. It feels grounded in everything he’s seen and lived through, which gives it weight. The recording process adds another layer to that. The project was developed over two years across Sonoma and Nashville, with space to experiment, refine, and even test the songs in front of live audiences before landing on their final form. That kind of patience shows. Nothing feels rushed or overworked. It feels considered. There’s also a clarity in how Ahern presents his message. He’s not trying to complicate it or disguise it behind metaphor. “Heart Shaped World” is direct in its belief that love is the answer, but it earns that simplicity. It doesn’t feel naive. It feels intentional. At a time where a lot of music leans toward immediacy and quick impact, Ahern moves differently. He builds something that asks you to slow down and actually sit with it. “Heart Shaped World” isn’t trying to chase relevance. It’s operating on its own timeline. And because of that, it ends up feeling more timeless than most.