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There’s a difference between songs that talk about empowerment and songs that actually feel like a turning point. Something Wilder’s “Something To Prove” lands in the second category. This isn’t polished motivation or surface-level confidence; it’s what it sounds like when staying the same stops being an option. Fronted by Los Angeles-based artist Lauren Wilder, Something Wilder leans into a modern Americana sound with traces of Lucinda Williams and Tom Petty, but it never feels like imitation. The production stays intentionally stripped back, letting the guitar breathe, and the vocal carry the emotional weight. There’s a rawness to it that feels lived-in rather than engineered, which makes the song hit harder without trying to force anything. What gives the track real weight is context. Wilder didn’t take the traditional path into music. She learned guitar at 38 and is now releasing her first EP at 44, all while balancing life as a teacher and mother and navigating major personal transitions. That perspective is embedded into the song in a way that can’t be faked. You’re not hearing someone chasing a moment; you’re hearing someone finally stepping into one. Vocally, there’s a quiet control in her delivery that works in her favor. She doesn’t oversell the emotion or try to overpower the track. Instead, she lets the lyrics do the work, which creates a more grounded and believable performance. It feels intentional, like every line is placed with purpose rather than just filling space. Lyrically, “Something To Prove” cuts through the usual motivational clichés and gets to the uncomfortable truth behind growth. It’s not about proving something to an audience or chasing validation. It’s about realizing how much time you’ve spent holding yourself back and deciding you’re done with that version of your life. Lines about not settling and making up for lost time land because they feel like decisions, not slogans. What really sets the track apart is how it handles the idea of starting over. It doesn’t romanticize it or try to make it look easy. There’s an underlying tension that acknowledges the doubt, the pressure, and the risk that come with choosing a different path, especially later in life. But instead of framing that as fear, the song treats it like momentum. “Something To Prove” feels less like a single moment and more like the beginning of something. If this is the tone going into Something Wilder’s debut EP, it’s clear this isn’t a late start. It’s a deliberate one, and it carries the kind of energy that only comes from finally choosing yourself.

Photo by Seth (@dudewithsign) Let’s get this out of the way. Crowdfunding is not “free money.” It’s not a cheat code. And it’s definitely not something you can throw up last-minute with a Canva graphic and a vague caption like “support my dream.” That’s exactly why most campaigns flop. The uncomfortable truth is that crowdfunding only works when you already have something people care about. Not just listeners. Not just followers. People who are actually invested enough to spend. That’s the gap most artists ignore, and it’s why they blame the platform instead of the strategy. That said, crowdfunding absolutely works for music. But only on the right platforms, with the right structure, and with an audience that’s been built intentionally. 5 Crowdfunding Platforms That Actually Work Kickstarter Kickstarter is still the gold standard, but not for the reason people think. It’s not about exposure, it’s about structure. The all-or-nothing funding model forces urgency, which is exactly what most artists are missing. If your campaign doesn’t hit the goal, you get nothing. That sounds harsh, but it creates real momentum when done properly. Where artists win on Kickstarter is when they treat it like a launch event, not a donation page. Albums, vinyl drops, visual projects, or full creative eras perform best. It works when there’s a clear outcome people are funding, not just “support my music.” Indiegogo Indiegogo is more flexible, which is both its strength and its problem. You can keep whatever you raise, even if you don’t hit your goal, but that also kills urgency. Campaigns tend to drag instead of explode. That said, it works for artists who already have a consistent audience and want a softer rollout. It’s better suited for ongoing funding rather than one big moment. If you’re trying to build steady support instead of a high-pressure launch, this is a lane. Patreon Patreon isn’t really crowdfunding in the traditional sense, but it’s where a lot of artists are quietly making the most consistent money. Instead of asking for a one-time contribution, you’re building a monthly ecosystem. This works best for artists who create regularly. Behind-the-scenes content, demos, unreleased music, early access, and direct fan interaction are what keep people subscribed. The biggest mistake artists make here is overpromising and underdelivering. If you can’t maintain consistency, this model falls apart fast. Ko-fi Ko-fi is like the stripped-down version of Patreon. It’s built for direct support without the pressure of subscriptions. Fans can tip, buy digital content, or support specific drops. This works well for independent artists who don’t want to commit to a full membership model but still want a clean way for fans to support them. It’s simple, and that’s exactly why it works. GoFundMe GoFundMe is where a lot of artists go wrong. It’s designed for personal causes, not creative campaigns. That doesn’t mean it can’t work, but it requires a strong story and emotional connection. If you’re using GoFundMe, it has to be deeper than “help me fund my album.” It needs context, stakes, and a reason people feel personally invested. Otherwise, it gets ignored. Why Most Crowdfunding Campaigns Fail The issue isn’t the platforms. It’s how artists approach them. Most campaigns fail because there’s no audience foundation. If you don’t already have people paying attention, crowdfunding just exposes that. You can’t ask strangers to fund something they don’t care about yet. Another major problem is a lack of clarity. “Help me make music” is not a pitch. What exactly are you funding? A 5-track EP? A vinyl release? A music video? A tour? The more specific you are, the easier it is for people to say yes. Timing is another killer. Artists drop campaigns randomly with zero buildup and expect traction. The campaigns that work are planned weeks, sometimes months in advance. Teasers, content, and community engagement all lead into the launch. Then there’s the reward problem. If you’re offering nothing in return, or worse, things nobody wants, people won’t contribute. Early access, exclusive content, physical merch, private experiences, those are what drive conversions. You’re not just asking for support, you’re offering value. And finally, most artists underestimate storytelling. People don’t fund music, they fund people. If your campaign doesn’t make someone feel something, it’s done before it even starts. What Actually Works? The campaigns that hit all have the same DNA. They build anticipation before asking for money. They create a clear, tangible goal. They give fans a reason to be part of something, not just watch it happen. They also understand that crowdfunding is marketing. Every post, every update, every piece of content is part of the campaign. If you disappear after launching it, you’ve already lost. And the artists who win treat it like a product launch, not a donation drive. They create moments. Deadlines. Exclusivity. Energy. Crowdfunding isn’t dead. It’s just exposed. It exposes whether you actually have a fanbase or just numbers. It exposes whether people believe in what you’re building or just casually listen. And it exposes whether you’re ready to treat your music like something worth investing in. If you approach it right, crowdfunding can fund your project, grow your audience, and build a deeper connection with the people who actually matter. If you approach it wrong, it just shows you where you’re at. And honestly, that might be the most valuable part.

Let’s be real. Most artists talk about vulnerability as if it is a marketing angle. Matthew Mettias actually sounds like he is living inside it. “untitled_42.wav” is not structured in any traditional sense, and that is exactly why it hits. There is no hook trying to save you, no clean resolution waiting at the end. Instead, the track unfolds like a nervous system glitching in real time. Breath becomes percussion. Silence becomes tension. Every pause feels intentional, like your brain buffering mid-thought. Matthew Mettias sits somewhere between spoken word, fractured rap, and internal monologue, but even that feels too neat a label. This is more like emotional documentation. The kind you are not supposed to hear. The kind most artists would clean up before releasing. He did the opposite. Vocally, there is zero performance energy here. No theatrics. No forced intensity. That restraint makes it uncomfortable in the best way. You are not being entertained; you are being pulled into something that feels private. Almost intrusive. The repetition patterns and fragmented phrasing create this looping effect that mirrors anxiety cycles. It is not catchy. It is consuming. Production-wise, the track leans cinematic but stripped back enough to keep the focus on the human element. There is space everywhere, but it is not empty space. It feels like pressure. Like something is about to snap, but never fully does. That tension becomes the core of the listening experience. What makes this stand out is the refusal to resolve anything. No healing arc. No polished takeaway. Just endurance. That is a risk most artists are too scared to take because it is not easily digestible. It does not fit playlists. It does not chase streams. It does something more important. It tells the truth. This is exposure. This is what it sounds like when survival mode becomes art, and nobody edits it down to make you comfortable.

We like to pretend the entertainment industry is all glamour, access, and opportunity. But the closer you get to it, the more that image starts to crack. Because for every polished red carpet moment, there’s a team behind the scenes. Assistants, dancers, writers, crew, employees. The people who actually keep everything moving. And over the years, more of those people have started speaking up about what those environments really look like. This isn’t about rumors. It’s about reported allegations, lawsuits, investigations, and firsthand accounts that sparked real backlash and forced public conversations. Here are 10 celebrity workplace controversies people still talk about. ALEX COOPER Former collaborators on Call Her Daddy and employees tied to her Unwell Network have publicly alleged difficult working conditions, strained relationships, and a lack of transparency in business dealings. While no formal legal action has substantiated these claims, they’ve fueled ongoing scrutiny around influencer-led media companies. KYLIE JENNER Kylie Jenner’s brand Kylie Cosmetics has faced scrutiny over labor practices linked to third-party manufacturers, with reports raising concerns about factory conditions and supply chain transparency. No legal findings have directly implicated Jenner personally. JIMMY FALLON In 2023, staffers from The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon alleged a toxic workplace, citing erratic behavior, emotional outbursts, and high-pressure conditions. Fallon later apologized internally, acknowledging the environment and promising change. LIZZO Former dancers filed a 2023 lawsuit against Lizzo tied to her tour, alleging sexual harassment, a hostile work environment, and misconduct. Lizzo denied all claims. The case remains ongoing and continues to shape conversations around accountability in entertainment. CHRISTIAN BALE A 2009 audio recording from the set of Terminator Salvation captured Bale verbally berating a crew member. The clip went viral and sparked widespread backlash about on-set conduct. Bale later issued a public apology. LADY GAGA A former personal assistant sued Lady Gaga over her time working during The Monster Ball Tour, alleging unpaid overtime and being required to remain constantly on call. The case was ultimately settled out of court. ELLEN DEGENERES The Ellen DeGeneres Show became the center of a major workplace investigation in 2020 after employees alleged bullying, intimidation, and discrimination. The fallout led to the firing of multiple senior producers and a public response from DeGeneres. BLAKE LIVELY Former employees of Blake Lively’s now-defunct lifestyle brand Preserve described the workplace as “toxic,” citing disorganization, poor management, and emotionally draining conditions. Multiple staff members spoke out publicly about their experiences. MRBEAST MrBeast (Jimmy Donaldson) and his company, Beast Industries, are facing a 2026 lawsuit from a former employee alleging sexual harassment, gender discrimination, and a hostile work environment. The complaint also claims retaliation and wrongful termination after maternity leave. The company denies the allegations. JENNIFER LOPEZ Jennifer Lopez has faced repeated claims from former staff and industry workers describing demanding working conditions, including reports that employees were discouraged from speaking to her directly or making eye contact. Additional allegations point to strict rules and high-pressure expectations, though these claims remain largely anecdotal. Here’s the uncomfortable truth. The industry doesn’t just run on talent. It runs on power. And when that power goes unchecked, it shapes the environments people work in behind the scenes. Not every allegation leads to a lawsuit. Not every story gets investigated. But once these moments go public, they don’t just disappear. Because in this era, reputation isn’t just built on what you create.It’s built on how you treat the people around you. And people don’t forget.

D’ANDRÉ isn’t trying to convince you of anything on “Ghini.” He doesn’t need to. The track speaks before he does. A lot of pop R&B right now is stuck in this loop of over-explaining emotion, spelling everything out until there’s nothing left to feel. “Ghini” goes the opposite direction. It strips things down and lets energy take over. From the jump, the production locks in. It’s rhythm-first, built on repetition that doesn’t feel lazy; it feels intentional. The kind of loop that pulls you in without asking permission. You don’t sit there analyzing it; you react to it. D’ANDRÉ leans into cadence more than storytelling here, and that’s exactly why it works. His delivery is controlled, almost effortless, riding the beat instead of trying to overpower it. There’s confidence in that restraint. He’s not oversinging or forcing moments to feel bigger than they are. He understands that presence can hit harder than performance, and that awareness carries the entire record. The track lives in that instant connection space where nothing needs to be over-explained. The chemistry is there, the energy is clear, and the moment speaks for itself. It’s not about building a narrative arc or guiding the listener through a story. It’s about capturing a feeling and stretching it just long enough to keep you locked in. Sonically, this feels like a shift. D’ANDRÉ has always balanced intimacy with control, but “Ghini” pushes him further into a more global, performance-driven lane. You can hear the live influence all over this. After touring through 2024 and 2025, there’s a clear understanding of what actually moves people in real time, not just what sounds good in isolation. This is music built for environments, not just headphones. What makes “Ghini” land is how intentional it is without trying too hard. Even with its minimal structure, it never feels empty. That’s a difficult balance to hit, but D’ANDRÉ keeps it tight, focused, and replayable. As he puts it, “With ‘Ghini,’ I wanted to create something you feel instantly. It’s really about energy and presence, those moments where you don’t have to say much, but everything is understood through the vibe.” “Ghini” isn’t trying to be deep. It’s trying to be effective. And honestly, it lands harder because of it. “Ghini” leans heavily on rhythm and repetition instead of storytelling. Was that a creative risk for you, or did it feel like the most honest way to capture that kind of energy? “Ghini” was definitely a creative risk for me. My last EP was very story-driven and leaned into darker, more introspective themes. With this record, I intentionally stepped away from that and focused more on feeling than narrative. I wanted something that people could just move to—something immediate, where you don’t have to think too much, you just feel it. That felt like the most honest way to capture the energy I was chasing. You talk about presence being central to this track. How has performing live over the past year changed the way you approach making records like this? Performing live has completely shifted how I think about making music. A song can sound great in headphones, but live performance exposes whether that energy actually translates. With “Ghini,” I was very intentional about making something that hits in both spaces—something that feels just as strong on stage as it does through speakers. That sense of presence became a priority for me in the process. There’s a fine line between minimal and empty, and “Ghini” never crosses it. What’s your process for knowing when a track has just enough and when to stop adding? That’s always one of the hardest parts for me. I naturally tend to keep adding, so knowing when to stop takes a lot of discipline. A big part of my process is bringing in another set of ears—my team helps me step back and figure out whether something actually needs more or if it’s already doing enough. Sometimes the best decision is to take things away, not add more. Your sound blends pop, R&B, and global influences. What specific artists, sounds, or environments shaped the direction of “Ghini”? Tyla was a big inspiration for this record, especially in how she captures rhythm and movement so effortlessly. Producers like Rvssian also influenced the direction, just that balance of global sound with strong, clean production. I wasn’t trying to overcomplicate anything with “Ghini.” I wanted it to be catchy, direct, and something you can instantly vibe to. You’ve shown you can move between introspective and high-energy records. How do you decide which side of yourself you want to tap into for each release? For me, it’s less about each individual release and more about the era I’m in at the time. I’m constantly discovering new music and new sounds, and that naturally influences where I go creatively. Each era reflects what I’m inspired by in that moment, so the energy of the music shifts depending on what I’m experiencing and what I’m drawn to.

Cris Casti isn’t just chasing a dancefloor moment on “MAL NECESARIO.” He’s recreating one that actually meant something. Let’s be honest. A lot of electronic-leaning pop right now feels disposable. Built for playlists, engineered for streams, and forgotten by the next weekend. “MAL NECESARIO” moves differently. It feels like it came from a real experience, not a strategy meeting. The production pulls you in immediately. There’s a dark, synth-heavy backbone that leans into that late-night, almost hypnotic energy. It doesn’t rush. It builds. Layer by layer, the track creates this immersive atmosphere that feels less like a song and more like a space you step into. You can hear the influence of underground electronic scenes, but it never feels like it’s trying to replicate them. It feels lived in. Cris Casti finds a balance between softness and control. His delivery doesn’t overpower the production, but it doesn’t disappear into it either. Instead, it floats just above the beat, guiding you through the track without breaking the mood. There’s a subtle emotional pull in his tone that keeps the song from feeling purely physical. “MAL NECESARIO” isn’t trying to over-explain itself. It leans into feeling over narrative. That sense of losing yourself in a moment, in a place, in a connection that might not make sense outside of that context. It captures the kind of night where everything feels heightened and slightly unreal, but you don’t question it. What makes this track stand out is how it blends movement with introspection. You can dance to it, but there’s something deeper sitting underneath. That tension between escape and awareness gives the song weight. This is where things are shifting. Listeners are craving experiences, not just songs. Tracks that feel immersive, that pull you into a specific moment. “MAL NECESARIO” understands that.

Sushee is not making background music. “QUESTIONS” demands your full attention, even when you’re trying to escape your own thoughts. Let’s get real. A lot of dance music right now is built for distraction. Big drops, recycled grooves, zero emotional depth. It’s functional. It moves your body but leaves your brain untouched. “QUESTIONS” flips that completely. It pulls you inward while still making you move. The production is where it locks in first. Hypnotic afro-house rhythms sit on top of deep, ambient bass that feels like it’s vibrating through your chest. There’s a trance-like quality to it, but it never loses control. The drums keep everything grounded while the synths drift just enough to create that feeling of being slightly untethered. It feels like stepping into another space without fully leaving reality. Vocally, Sushee doesn’t hold back. There’s a rawness in her tone that cuts through the production instead of blending into it. She’s not just riding the beat. She’s confronting it. You can hear the tension in her delivery, that push and pull between doubt and clarity. It makes the track feel alive instead of polished to death. Lyrically, this is where the track hits different. It’s not just vague introspection. It’s specific. Feeling stuck. Questioning your own direction. Listening to voices that don’t have your best interests at heart. Trying to escape that noise while still being trapped inside it. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s honest. What makes “QUESTIONS” stand out is how it balances that weight with release. This is still a dance track. It still gives you that sense of movement, of letting go, even if just for a few minutes. That contrast is what makes it powerful. This is the kind of record people are craving more of. Music that doesn’t treat the listener like they’re just there to consume. Music that actually reflects what it feels like to be overwhelmed and trying to find your way through it. You’re blending hypnotic club energy with heavy introspection. How do you decide how far to push the emotional side without losing the dancefloor? In my opinion a lot of the greatest and most widely recognized club classics and dance songs have very profound lyrics and meanings in them. I usually like the feeling of it being the first time I'm listening to an electronic song: I get captivated by the musicality and rhythm, then replay it and actually realize, "Hang on, these are sick lyrics/ vocals as well." I think being able to execute a dance song where people can groove to and relate to the lyrics is a fine balance, but it's like hitting two birds with one stone if done right. I wanted to focus on making a song that was rhythmically interesting, and then I tried to shape my vocal melody and lyrics to the instrumental's vibe. The production feels almost trance-like but still controlled. What was your process for building that balance between chaos and structure? I had some sort of idea of how I wanted to execute the production when I started. I knew that outlandish-sounding synths and heavy bass-lines were going to be my starting point in the track to bring that other realm-like feeling to the track, and once I worked out a melody, I centered the drums and percussion elements around that. There was a point during production when the blend of all the instrumentals was too much and oversaturated, so I actually backed off adding more dynamics to the track. I took a short break and returned to producing this track by removing some extra percussion layers and vocal harmonies that weren't actually serving the track, and I decided to focus on making the elements that were working alot more crystallized. I think the whole journey of making this track was about balancing chaos and structure, and in the process, I learned to peel back and avoid overcomplicating things while still achieving a full sound. Your vocals cut through rather than blend into the beat. Was that a conscious choice to make the message unavoidable? 100%! I wanted the vocals to have their own journey through the song as well. At first, I wanted the vocals to catch the listener's attention. And then, as the song progressed, I wanted to play with different melodic tones and add an RnB twang to a track that doesn't necessarily sound like a standard RnB track. I also felt like, while doing this, I was able to make the lyrics and their message clear to the listeners. For the track's crescendo, I just thought it would be fun and cheeky to chop up a vocal run I did earlier in the song and create a "call and response" scenario where the background vocals almost respond to the large, chopped-up vocals. Closer to the end of the song, I leaned more into repeating 1 sentence to really push through the track's message, and I think this added almost a hypnotic/mantra element to the song as well. I tried to manipulate my voice in multiple ways to shine through the song and complement the instrumental. You touch on self-doubt and external pressure. How do you personally separate your own voice from everything trying to influence you? I feel like there's constant noise and external pressure around us as humans, and it's completely inevitable. I also feel like, with music, I've had a lot of people try to put me in one box and suggest I should only stick to certain genres. I always value people's opinions; however, I do feel that if I had listened to them constantly, I wouldn't have started producing my own music or experimenting with genre-blending. I think constructive feedback is always important to hear and can sometimes help you grow as an artist; however, I always try to keep in mind that I need to be my own biggest supporter and back my own creative decisions. I feel like I wouldn't be the artist I am today if I hadn't allowed myself the space to grow and try new sounds. Additionally, when the distractions become too much, I sometimes go off my social media accounts and lock in on music/ reading/ sewing clothes, and other creative projects/ collaborations, and develop a temporary hermit attitude. Then when I return online, I usually feel a lot more refreshed. When people hear “QUESTIONS” in a club versus alone, what reaction do you think will be completely different? I think QUESTIONS is a guaranteed 2-stepper track in the club. I think the blend of dance influences, ranging from tech-house to Baile funk, definitely allows people to enjoy the rhythmic elements of the track and to dance, feeling release and escape on the dance floor. I think listening alone allows a person to transport themselves into a spiritual realm and focus on the lyrics and the changes in the track's dynamics that may be missed in a busy club setting. Either way, I think the track can be appreciated in a sweaty, dark club at 2am on a Saturday or on a random evening while lying in your bed with your headphones on, alone in your room.

Most breakup records still follow the same tired arc. Pain, reflection, empowerment, done. Wrapped up neatly so the listener doesn’t have to sit in anything uncomfortable for too long. Jody Glenham doesn’t play that game on Still Here. Instead of chasing resolution, this EP leans into something way more real: emotional endurance. Not the dramatic, life-is-over kind. The quiet kind. The kind where you wake up, go through your day, and slowly piece yourself back together without announcing it to the world. That shift alone makes Still Here hit different. The project feels intentional without trying too hard. Hazy guitars drift in and out of focus, door-chime synths add this subtle, almost disorienting texture, and Glenham’s vocals sit right in the middle of it all, never overpowering, never hiding. It’s restrained in a way that feels mature, like she knows exactly what the songs need and refuses to over-explain them. “Love Deficiency Syndrome” is the clearest entry point into that world. On paper, it’s a post-breakup track. In reality, it’s about that weird in-between stage where you’re not fully broken, but you’re definitely not okay either. The production keeps things light, almost deceptively so, while the writing leans into that feeling of “grinning through the pain,” where you’re rebuilding your identity in real time. It’s bittersweet without being heavy, which is harder to pull off than it sounds. Across tracks like “Overtime” and “Good Fruit,” there’s a noticeable pull toward patience over urgency. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels like it’s trying to prove a point. Instead, Glenham lets moments breathe, which is rare in a landscape where artists are constantly trying to hold attention instead of earning it. By the time you reach “China Shop,” the emotional tone has shifted without forcing a clean resolution. There’s growth here, but it’s subtle. You don’t get a big “I’m healed now” moment. You get something more believable. After nearly two decades in the game, Glenham isn’t trying to reinvent herself for the sake of relevance. If anything, Still Here feels like the result of someone letting go of that pressure altogether. The cinematic indie rock elements are still there, but they’re more focused now, less about atmosphere for the sake of it and more about supporting the emotional weight of the songs. That’s where the EP really lands. Not as a comeback or a reinvention, but as a reminder that you don’t need to be at your peak to make something meaningful. You just need to be present enough to tell the truth. Still Here feels less about “moving on” and more about learning how to exist in the aftermath. At what point did you realize the EP wasn’t about closure, but about endurance? I don’t think there was a single moment; it was something I noticed in hindsight. When I put the songs together, older ones like “The Local” and “China Shop” felt just as present as the newer ones. Life doesn't really resolve (hah until it really does, it just… continues. We have this idea of becoming who we’re meant to be, or arriving somewhere, but for me, this record felt more like staying the course. I went through a period during the pandemic where I’d been promoting Mood Rock for almost two years, shows weren’t coming back, and trying to hold it together as a bandleader and a person was crushing me. This EP came out of finding a way to keep going anyway. “Still Here” isn’t about closure; it is about endurance and choosing to believe there’s something ahead, even if you can’t fully see it yet. I also think there's a message in there that is truly "It's going to be okay". Eat, sleep, rave, repeat. You self-produced this project. How did having full control change the emotional honesty of the songs compared to your earlier work? It’s the closest my music has sounded to me. Not because anyone was pushing me in a different direction before, but because I think I was still figuring out my voice, and sometimes the production leaned toward the style of other artists instead of fully landing somewhere that felt like "me" in the songs. Self-producing gave me the space to trust my instincts more. I wasn’t trying to shape things for anyone else in the room. I could let songs breathe, hold tension longer, or stay simple when they needed to. There are moments from earlier records I still love, like “Try” on my first record, or “Between You and Me” from the Dreamer EP, but this feels more cohesive. The production on Still Here is really in conversation with the songs, instead of sitting on top of them. “Love Deficiency Syndrome” balances light, almost playful production with heavier themes. How intentional was that contrast, and what were you trying to make the listener feel in that tension? It was really intentional, but it took a while to get there. I originally wrote it with my friend, the musical artist, Georgette, as a ballad, and it felt very Death Cab / Postal Service-coded. And then over time, it started picking up energy when I played it live. The turning point was when I had Jay Arner playing bass for a Sled Island set (Calgary festival). She brought this bassline in that just lifted everything. That’s when it clicked that it could be this shiny little pop song. From there, I leaned into that contrast. The synth hook is meant to sound like one of those long, drawn-out doorbells, like you’re waiting alone for Uber Eats to arrive. So depressing! There are all these small production moments that mirror elements of the lyrics, like the synths and percussion for “the sunlight, in the city.” And on the bridge, there’s a bit of a homage to the song "One" by Harry Nilsson. I read that the opening organ in that track was meant to mimic a telephone busy tone, really emphasizing the loneliness of the singer. So I tucked something similar under the bridge as a subtle nod to that. After nearly two decades in music, what did you have to let go of creatively to arrive at the restraint and patience this EP carries? I’m learning that I take a long time to do things. Blame it on my Gemini moon, but it can take me a while to decide between two things… or multiple things. I function well with concrete deadlines, but being my own producer also meant I was the one creating those deadlines, so that was a bit of a learning curve. But a little bit at a time feels right for me. I’m usually working on a lot of things at once, and I’ve had to learn to trust that they’ll get finished in their own time. I think part of what I let go of was the pressure to rush that process, or to force things into being done before they’re ready. This record came from allowing things to unfold more slowly and being okay with that. There’s a cinematic quality to your sound, but this EP feels more grounded and intimate. Were you consciously pulling back, or did that shift happen naturally as you were making it? Thank you so much for saying that. It was a conscious effort. I think what was missing from some of my earlier recordings was intimacy. I had these big cinematic arrangements, but they didn't always let the listener get close enough. With Still Here, I wanted to pull things back just enough so the songs could speak more directly. Not stripping them down completely, but being more intentional about what needed to be there. I’m definitely someone who loves adding layers. I’m a synth player; it’s hard not to, but this felt like well-applied restraint. I’ve always loved how artists reinterpret their own work too, like St. Vincent's Masseduction or Angel Olsen's All Mirrors, and that’s something I’d love to explore more of in the future.

Let’s be real. A lot of indie rock right now feels like it was made on a laptop at 2 am with 47 plugins and zero actual risk. Witty Tarbox just walked into a church, hit record on tape, and dared themselves to mean it. “The Nowhere” doesn’t ease you in. It drops you straight into a room with four musicians who sound locked in, slightly unhinged, and completely uninterested in being polished. Recorded live to a 16-track reel-to-reel at Dreamland Studios, you can feel the room in every second. Not metaphorically. Literally. The air, the imperfections, the tension. Alex Khoury’s guitar tone cuts sharply but never sterilely. There’s a surfy edge buried under the grit, like it could spiral out at any second. Cody Tarbox holds everything down on bass with this steady, no-BS presence that keeps the chaos from collapsing in on itself. Colin Gray on drums is surgical without feeling robotic, which is a rare balance most bands never figure out. Then there’s Seth Bykowski on sax, which completely flips the band’s dynamic. It doesn’t feel like an add-on. It feels like the moment the band stopped playing it safe altogether. The sax lines drift in and out like they’re arguing with the guitars, adding this unpredictable texture that makes you lean in harder. Vocally, nothing is overcorrected. No glossy tuning, no safety net. And yeah, that means it’s not “perfect.” Good. That’s the point. You’re hearing a performance, not a revision. Culturally, this lands at a time when AI-assisted music is starting to blur everything into the same overproduced haze. Witty Tarbox pushing back with a live-to-tape record feels almost rebellious. Not in a gimmicky, nostalgia-bait way, but in a “we actually trust the music” kind of way. “The Nowhere” isn’t trying to impress you. It’s trying to make you feel something. And whether you like it or not, it succeeds. You chose limitations over endless digital control. At what point did that stop feeling risky and start feeling necessary? Not sure if it felt too risky, just another viable option. However, it did feel necessary. Due to the time constraints of money and life outside of music, we only had 3 10 hr sessions to record the album. The limitations of analog to digital meant we recorded to tape with a 30-minute limit. Each song we did 30 minutes of takes, all recording simultaneously in one room, and chose the best take of the bunch. Each take had warts, each take had mistakes, but this was real, live music. We were excited to put out a record that wasn't overly polished like most music today. Between the takes and some vocal/auxiliary instrumentation overdubs, we finished the record with about 2 minutes to spare on our 30 hrs of studio time. We don't think there's any other way we could've gotten this done. What was a moment during the live recording where everything almost fell apart, but you kept it anyway? The track "Fentanyl Crawl" was an idea for an interlude. We didn't have much there besides jamming on that main guitar riff a few times prior. So for our takes, we just improvised to see what came out. This was day 2, minimal sleep, nonstop work since we arrived. The improv wasn't going great, and we were getting frustrated with each other without vocalizing it. Tensions were a bit high. Eventually, one of us lashed out that the song was a waste of time. It turned out to be a pretty fun track and was the only one on the album to show the funkier / jammier side of our sound. The sax changes the band’s chemistry completely. Was there ever hesitation about how far to push that shift? No, there's no hesitation with the saxophone. As an accompaniment instrument, unfortunately, it doesn't really fit in every moment of every song, but the brass definitely adds a unique sound, and we love it. Seth joined the band a yearish into our existence, and we haven't looked back. Seth brings the juice. How do you define “mistakes” now after making a record that refuses to fix them? That's an interesting question. The tempos are inconsistent, with a push and pull depending on the moment in the song; strings are plinked instead of plucked, horns squawk instead of being smooth, and bass fuzz overtakes the drums. It is what it is, and we think it provides character and realism. In a day where AI is taking over everything from art to people's jobs, we hope this record can stand out amongst the overproduced and soulless mass of trash. The mistakes are there, and they're definitely mistakes. But we love 'em. If someone says this record sounds “imperfect,” what do you think they’re actually reacting to? Probably all of the mistakes we made, to be honest, haha! That and the sound of a band being recorded together in a room. With recording it live rather than multi-track, we were hoping it could provide the listener with a sense that they were in the room with us. This record was a frenzied thrash of artistic endeavor. We hope people can appreciate it as a moment of realism in an increasingly unreal world.

Most artists flirt with “important.” Enjelique walks in and flips the whole table. “Blood on the Throne” doesn’t feel like it was made for playlists. It feels like it was made because it had to exist. That alone already puts it ahead of 90 percent of what’s dropping right now. Let’s start with the obvious. A 75-track orchestral session, fully self-written, produced, mixed, and mastered. No label. No safety net. That’s not just impressive, it’s borderline disrespectful to an industry that keeps pretending you need a team of ten to make something cinematic. Enjelique just proved otherwise. Sonically, this is huge. Not “big for an indie artist,” huge. Actually huge. Strings swell like they’re scoring the end of the world, drums hit with controlled aggression, and the entire arrangement moves like a slow burn explosion. You can hear the influences, sure, but it never feels derivative. It feels intentional. Calculated. Personal. Her voice is where things get uncomfortable in the best way. There’s no begging for attention, no over-singing for effect. It’s controlled, almost surgical. Like she’s not asking you to listen, she’s delivering a verdict. When she hits lines like “there’s blood on the throne,” it doesn’t feel poetic. It feels accusatory. And yeah, the subject matter goes there. Corruption. War. Cultural theft. Systems that benefit from silence. The kind of topics most pop artists avoid because they’re too busy chasing sync deals. Enjelique leans straight into it without turning it into a lecture. That’s the difference. She trusts the listener to feel it instead of spoon-feeding the message. What really lands is the universality. She never names names, and that’s exactly why it hits harder. The “throne” becomes everything. Governments, industries, idols, and even the systems we participate in daily. It’s uncomfortable because it’s supposed to be. Outside the music, the story matters. A Black woman building a fully orchestrated, genre-blurring record from scratch while working a full-time job in New York is not just inspiring; it's transformative. It’s disruptive. Especially in a space that still underestimates who gets to be “technical” or “visionary.” “Blood on the Throne” isn’t trying to be liked. It’s trying to wake people up. You built a 75-track orchestral record completely solo. At what point did it stop feeling like a song and start feeling like a responsibility? I don't see it as a "responsibility"; it was a necessity for me to do it myself. I've been like this since I was 11 years old, when I taught myself to produce on GarageBand. I would write a song, but then I would NEED to hear what it would sound like fully produced, like my heroes'. That's where it came from, and funny enough, I actually loved producing. I've produced orchestral records before, but just like when I was eleven, I needed to hear what it sounded like with professional-level engineering. I couldn't hand that over to someone less invested in it than I was. And I'm not saying I won't hand my creations over to engineers who actually do this for a living, but for this first one, I needed to know that I could do it myself. You avoid naming specific figures in the lyrics. Was that about protecting the message from becoming dated, or making sure no one could dodge it? Definitely making sure no one could dodge it. It's not a "timely" message; it's a message applied to every generation. And there are just too many to name, haha. Just turn on the news, and you'll see 10% of them. I also don't want to give them any more power than they already have by naming them. It also allows the audience to assign a name based on their own background and experiences. I want people to have that power to call out who they want to call out. Fans call you “The Female Prince.” Do you see that as alignment, pressure, or something you’re actively trying to break away from? It's an honor and a privilege. I feel it aligns because Prince advocated for self-production, elite showmanship, and expert musicianship—qualities that I believe I embody. I get comments all the time that Prince would've loved me, so I humbly hold that in my heart. I want to continue his legacy, not to be him, but to keep the torch lit for what he stood for. You’re talking about corruption, power, and cultural theft in a pop format. Did you ever worry about alienating listeners, or was that the point? HA! Yes, absolutely, it was the point. I have 0 interest in appealing to corrupt conservative white men. They are not my audience in the slightest. My audience is the fellow underdogs, the ones who are left out, told no every day of their lives, the ones who silently fight. So I believe that this will resonate with them. You balanced a full-time job, industry work, and a completely independent rollout. Be honest, what nearly broke you during this process, and why was it still worth it? If I stop to think about it, I'll probably start crying, haha. I am so passionately driven about my music and career that I'm always working. Always. Even on a "day off," I'm brainstorming, reaching out to people, and writing a new song... I have to physically turn off my phone to get some peace. But yes, it's incredibly difficult for your brain to always be on, constantly switching between corporate America, then as an assistant, and then as an artist, which already requires at least five roles. But... It's worth it because 1. people need this song. It didn't come from me; it came from the universe to share, and I have to do my best to share it. 2. I do have a deep sense of pride to know I'm using every drop of my energy and my time to move my career forward. If this doens't work and I don't achieve my dreams, I know i did my ABSOLUTE best. No question. 3. It's worth it because if i DO keep going, I will be able to achieve my dreams and fufill my life's mission: to use my light to light the inner candles of others. So it's hard, but yes, it's worth it.