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There’s a difference between songs about love and songs that actually understand what it costs to keep it alive. Turning Violet’s “The Torch” falls firmly into the second category, and honestly, it hits harder because of it. From the jump, the track wastes zero time pretending to be polished or safe. Guitars come in gritty and urgent, sitting somewhere between late 90s alt-rock angst and punchy New Wave revival energy. It feels lived-in, not manufactured. The production doesn’t overcomplicate anything either, which is exactly why it works. Every instrument has space to breathe, but nothing feels passive. It’s tight, controlled chaos. Simone Siren’s vocals are where this thing really locks in. There’s a rawness to her delivery that never tips into melodrama. A lot of artists try to sell pain, but this feels like endurance. Her voice carries both exhaustion and defiance, making the chorus land like a release rather than just another hook. And yeah, that chorus is built to stick. Not in an annoying, algorithm-chasing way, but in that classic, scream-it-in-your-car kind of way. It’s anthemic without feeling forced, which is harder to pull off than people think. Lyrically, “The Torch” doesn’t romanticize struggle; it confronts it. The whole concept of fighting off internal demons while trying to hold onto love could’ve easily turned cliché. It doesn’t. There’s enough honesty here to cut through that. You can tell this band isn’t writing from observation; they’re writing from experience. Culturally, this lands right now because people are tired of surface-level love songs. Relationships are complicated, messy, and sometimes exhausting, and this track doesn’t shy away from that reality. It embraces it. With “The Torch,” Turning Violet isn’t just teasing their upcoming Steadfast  EP. They’re setting the tone. And if this is the emotional baseline, they’re not here to play it safe.

Aman Dhesi delivers a compelling embodiment of self-love, empowerment, and the joy of living freely, showcasing an artistry that is unfiltered, powerful, and uniquely their own. Their latest album, “The Restless Night,” explores these themes by blending heartfelt ballads with liberating, dance-driven anthems. The lead single “Dancefloor Shoes” immerses listeners in the vibrant energy of the 1980s club scene, mixing driving beats with a sense of sensuality and the liberating thrill of letting go. With hands-on involvement in the production process, Aman Dhesi brings a distinct and authentic perspective to the track, resulting in a compelling reflection of individuality and the confidence to show up unapologetically at every party. Created during a transformative period of self-improvement, the album illustrates Aman Dhesi’s journey with sobriety, belonging, and deep personal reflection. He characterizes his sobriety as “a sense of clarity,” embracing the ability to fully experience life and “stand inside of it” without the need to numb his emotions. This perspective carries into “Dancefloor Shoes,” adding layers of depth and emotional resonance that set it apart from conventional club tracks. On tracks like “Time Machine” and “The Last Time,” Dhesi navigates love, heartbreak, and personal struggle, offering touching , emotional contrasts to the album’s upbeat sound. Continuing with themes of love and inner conflict, songs such as “Drive,” “The Other Night,” “Tripwire,” “Mixed Signals,” and Dhesi’s cover of Belinda Carlisle’s “Mad About You” explore attraction, dilemma, and self-reflection while maintaining an energetic tempo. Throughout the album, authenticity and a carefree spirit remain central. In “Dance or Die” and “On It,” Aman Dhesi, an artist proudly representing the LGBTQIA+ and BIPOC communities, creates space for release and celebration, while “Who We Are” champions nonconformity. Drawing deeply on the rich legacy of queer history, “Renegade Kiss” stands as both a tribute and a bold contemporary statement. The track, along with its accompanying visual, draws heavily on the 1981 film Cruising, channeling its gritty aesthetic and exploration of underground queer spaces. Through this lens, Dhesi crafts a narrative that honors the past while reinventing it for a modern audience. At its core, “Renegade Kiss” reinforces the importance of queer expression, emphasizing both its vulnerability and its power. It reflects the rebellion, resilience, and courage required to live authentically, especially in environments where such openness has historically been met with resistance. The title track and album closer, “The Restless Night,” brings the album to a meaningful and powerful finish. It focuses on the feeling of freedom that comes from truly being yourself, without fear or pressure to change. The song reflects a sense of peace that grows from accepting who you are and letting go of what no longer serves you. Blending introspective ballads with high-energy anthems, the album stands as a bold reflection of Dhesi’s distinctive voice and fearless artistry. It invites listeners into a world that celebrates queer culture, a sense of belonging, and the freedom of self-expression in all its forms. While deeply personal, the project extends beyond Aman Dhesi’s own perspective, shaped in collaboration with local Toronto talent, it is inspired by a shared creative energy built within the community. “The Restless Night” is a tribute to the resilience that has long defined queer underground culture; an enduring force built on courage, connection, and the refusal to be silenced. It doesn’t just tell a story; it carries a legacy forward, leaving a lasting impression of strength, unity, and unapologetic authenticity. This album sits in the tension between performance and identity. When did you realize those two things were starting to blur for you? The performance on this album is me turning up parts of my identity that I spent a long time suppressing. I think of it more as an amplification of truths that have stayed quiet inside of me. As a queer person, there’s this instinct to edit yourself, to present something safer or more controlled. The album actually started from that place, trying to sound and look a certain way, hold everything together. But as I kept working, I tapped into something more honest. There was this shift where I stopped trying to manage how I was coming across and started expressing what was actually there. That’s what shaped the record. The first half is all armor. It’s swagger, propulsion, defiance, that feeling of declaring yourself to the world. But underneath that is a kind of survival energy. Then the second half drops all of that. It’s vulnerable, exposed, emotional. So if there’s any tension, it’s not between performance and identity. It’s between protection and truth. And the album is really the journey between those two states. You explore nightlife as both a source of freedom and a form of protection. Do you think that duality is something people outside queer spaces misunderstand? I don’t think it’s misunderstood in a negative way; I think it’s just often seen at the surface level. From the outside, nightlife can look like partying or escapism. But in queer spaces, it’s historically been something much deeper. For a lot of us, the dancefloor is one of the few places where you don’t have to edit yourself. There’s a sense of freedom in that, but also protection. These spaces exist because they had to, so there’s an unspoken understanding that you’re safe to be expressive, emotional, even chaotic in a way that you might not feel during the day. At the same time, that freedom can come with armor. The confidence, the performance, and the energy can be a way of protecting yourself or seeking validation. So there is a tension there, and that’s something I was really interested in exploring. But within that tension, there’s also something beautiful. When queer people come together in those spaces, there’s this electricity, this shared restless energy. That feeling of wanting to be seen, to connect, to feel something real. That’s really the emotional core of the album. Sobriety changes how you process everything. Did it force you to confront emotions you previously avoided in your writing? Absolutely. Sobriety didn’t just change how I process things; it took away my ability to avoid them. Before, I could numb out or soften what I was feeling. My earlier writing was still personal, but it was more edited, more controlled. With this album, that filter just disappeared. I had to sit with everything as it was, and that forced a different kind of honesty. A big part of that was stepping into my identity as a gay man in a way I hadn’t fully allowed myself to before. There was a whole emotional landscape there that I hadn’t really explored in my writing, and sobriety pushed me to face it directly. So the songs go where they need to go. They get aggressive, dark, chaotic, anthemic, vulnerable, whatever the truth of the moment is. I didn’t try to make it pretty or contained. I just let it come through. In that sense, sobriety didn’t just influence the writing. It made the album possible. The production balances polish with unease. How intentional was that contrast when building the sonic world of the album? It was intentional, and that contrast is definitely part of it. For me, it was also about building a much broader sonic world that could hold different emotional states at once. A lot of the production draws from 80s influences. There’s that synth-driven sparkle, that sense of euphoria and lift, but it’s contrasted with darker textures, more aggressive rhythms, and moments of tension. There’s a bit of everything in there. Sleek, almost cold club energy, more chaotic or angsty arrangements, and then moments that open up into something softer, more atmospheric or emotional. That range was really important to me because the album is built around different emotional states that all live within queer nightlife. You have songs like “Dancefloor Shoes” that carry that euphoric, flirtatious, high-energy pulse of the dancefloor. But then you move into something like “Time Machine” where things become more introspective, more vulnerable. And by the time you get to the later tracks, the production opens up into something more spacious and exposed. So the contrast wasn’t just about polish versus unease. It was about building a full emotional spectrum. The dancefloor can be euphoric, chaotic, romantic, lonely, and empowering, all at once. I wanted the production to reflect that, to feel cinematic, like you’re moving through different emotional environments over the course of one restless night. You do not end this project on a “high.” You end it on reflection. What made you choose honesty over resolution? I think it does end on a high, just not in a loud or explosive way. The final moments of the album are softer, more internal, more grounded. That was intentional. The album opens with “Dancefloor Shoes,” which comes in with that immediate burst of energy, that sense of arrival and release. By the end of the album, it’s a different kind of resolution. It’s quieter, more reflective. Those were very deliberate bookends. The emotional journey of the album moves from something external and explosive to something more personal and inward. So it’s still a high, it just feels earned, rather than performed. The album is a journey from armor to chaos to vulnerability, and by the end, it’s not about proving anything anymore. It’s about arriving somewhere within yourself. The final two lines are the resolution for me. It’s not about everything being perfect or tied up neatly. It’s about finding a sense of belonging, even within that restlessness. So I didn’t see it as choosing honesty over resolution. I saw it as a different kind of resolution, one that feels earned rather than performed.

Russ Irwin isn’t trying to chase relevance; he’s reminding you what real musicianship sounds like. On King of a Thousand Fools , the rock veteran leans all the way into what most artists are quietly abandoning: live instruments, raw performances, and songwriting that actually has something to say. The title track lands like a gut check, calling out a world where ego and moral shortcuts keep winning, while honesty gets pushed to the sidelines. Backed by heavy hitters like Rusty Anderson, Dean DeLeo, and Bruce Watson, the album doesn’t feel like a nostalgia play. It feels intentional. Piano-driven moments sit beside gritty rock cuts, jumping between personal reflection and social commentary without trying to smooth the edges. Irwin’s not packaging a vibe, he’s documenting a life, flaws and all. No AI, no gimmicks, just a record that actually breathes. “King of a Thousand Fools” calls out a world that rewards the wrong people. Was there a specific moment or experience that pushed you to write that song? Yes, I was walking through the East Village in NYC back in the 1990’s.  I was with someone who later turned out to be radically political.  We were walking past a group of homeless people, and the person I was with said People who are homeless are such losers.  We need to get rid of them.’  So I wrote the song after hearing that.  I thought it was one of the most arrogant and elitist things I’d ever heard.  The song is about a narcissist who needs to put other people down in order to make themselves feel superior.  Even though I wrote it a long time ago, I re-recorded and released it now because it felt very relevant to what’s happening in America right now. You’ve worked with some of the biggest names in rock history. What did you consciously avoid doing on this record to make sure it still felt personal and not industry-polished? Well, there’s no AI on the record. People keep asking me that.  Other than a few loops, this record is live.  Some of the tracks were recorded with the entire band playing at once, which doesn’t happen much anymore.  Because that live feel doesn’t happen as often anymore, I think it has a unique quality that stands out today.   You made it clear this album has no AI, no shortcuts. Do you think the industry is losing something real right now, or is this just a different evolution of music? It’s both.  Advancements in technology have always made it easier for people to make their music sound better. It makes it harder to hear the people who have natural talent.  It’s a trade-off.  Ultimately, you have to embrace evolution wherever it leads you.   This album spans different eras of your life. Were there any songs that felt uncomfortable to revisit or release now? No. Not really. I feel like the recordings really hold up and sound modern. I really like the juxtaposition of styles throughout the record.  To me, that makes for an interesting listening experience. You reference records like The White Album. Do you think today’s audience still has the patience for a full, layered album experience, or are artists fighting a losing battle against singles culture? I think many people realize that listening to vinyl records is a great experience. There are a lot of people who want to hear an entire album that tells a story and lets you really get to know the artist.  One record I really love right now is Lily Allen’s West End Girl.  The record tells a story from beginning to end.  It’s amazing.  Records like Pink Floyd's The Wall are a lost art that can really be appreciated in our fast-paced world.

Some songs are made for the aux. Others feel like they are the drive. “Ridin' Around” sits in that second lane. Toy Brandon leans fully into a Southern sound that doesn’t feel forced or borrowed. It feels lived in. Baton Rouge roots with a clear nod to Houston car culture, but instead of copying the blueprint, he filters it through his own headspace. The result is something smooth, reflective, and quietly confident. Coming off “Losing,” which sat heavy in betrayal and introspection, this track feels like the reset. Not a full resolution, but that moment after everything falls apart where you start putting yourself back together without announcing it. The energy is different. Less emotional chaos, more controlled movement. The production does a lot of that work. Warm basslines, slowed-down bounce, and melodic layers that feel like they’re built for long drives with no destination. It’s not trying to hit hard, it’s trying to sit with you. And it does. There’s space in the beat, which gives Toy room to actually talk. Lyrically, he doesn’t overreach. There’s no fake motivation or forced “I made it” energy. It’s more observational. You can hear him thinking in real time, recalibrating, figuring out where he stands after everything he’s been through. That honesty is what makes the track stick. It’s not loud, but it’s intentional. Vocally, Toy Brandon sits comfortably between melody and rap, keeping things fluid without losing clarity. The delivery feels natural, like he’s not trying to prove anything, just documenting where he’s at. That’s a hard balance to hit, especially in a lane where a lot of artists either overperform or disappear into the beat. What makes “Ridin' Around” land is the perspective. It understands that growth is not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just movement. Driving, thinking, letting time do its job. That’s the space this track lives in. If “Losing” was the storm, this is the aftermath. Clearer, calmer, but still carrying everything that came before it. And honestly, that’s where the real work starts. “Riding Around” feels like a reset instead of a reaction. Was there a specific moment where you realized you needed to shift your mindset after “Losing”? Honestly, yes. There was a moment. After I dropped ‘Losing,’ I had to sit with everything I’d been doing. That song came from a real place and once it was out, I realized I didn’t want to stay in that place. I needed to shift my mindset from reacting to what happened to being who I am. ‘Riding Around’ came from that experience. It’s me choosing peace and myself again. You’re pulling from Houston car culture while being rooted in Baton Rouge. How do you make sure you’re channeling that influence without losing your own identity? For me, it’s all about intention. I’ve spent time living in Houston and I respect the culture. I understand that sound and the energy of the city. But I’m from Baton Rouge. That’s my voice. My stories and perspectives come from there. So when I tap into Houston’s culture, I’m not trying to imitate it. I’m letting it inspire me in the moment. This track feels very internal, like you’re thinking out loud. Do you approach writing as self-reflection first, or are you thinking about the listener while creating? It always starts with self‑reflection. I’ve got to be real with myself before I can be real with anybody listening. When I’m writing, I’m usually working through whatever’s on my mind in that moment. But at the same time, I’m aware that people are going to hear it and connect their own stories to it. So once I get my raw emotions out, I think about how to shape it in a way that still feels personal but also relatable. A lot of artists try to make “big” statements after a heavy record. You went quieter and more controlled. Was that intentional? It was. After ‘Losing,’ I felt like a lot of people expected me to try to prove something. But that wasn’t where my spirit was. I didn’t want to force anything. I wanted to move with purpose instead of emotion. ‘Riding Around’ is quieter, but sometimes the loudest statement you can make is choosing not to explode. That’s the space I was in and that’s the energy I wanted the music to have. You’ve talked about evolution and growth. What do you think people misunderstand about that process when they’re watching from the outside? I think people don’t understand how messy growth is. In real life it was uncomfortable. There were a lot of moments where I was questioning myself, doubling back, and learning the same lesson twice. When people watch you evolve they usually only see the result and not the process. They see the confidence, but not the confusion it took to get there. I’m just all about becoming a truer version of myself. And that takes time. It takes being honest. It takes letting go of stuff and sometimes people you thought you needed. It’s a journey and I’m still learning.

There’s a certain kind of heartbreak people don’t talk about enough. Not the dramatic endings or the clean breakups. The ones that drag on. The ones that almost work. The ones that keep pulling you back in until you don’t even recognize yourself anymore. Gracie Moore’s “All The Time” sits right in that uncomfortable truth and refuses to sugarcoat it. From the first note, the production feels intentionally restrained. Warm guitar tones, soft ambient layers, and subtle keys build a soundscape that doesn’t try to impress you. It just holds you there. The space in this track is doing a lot of heavy lifting. Nothing feels rushed, nothing feels overworked. It’s patient in a way that mirrors the emotional exhaustion of the story itself. Vocally, Gracie leans all the way into vulnerability without over performing. Her tone is soft but steady, like someone who has already cried this out a hundred times and is now just telling the truth. There’s a quiet control in her delivery that makes the emotion hit harder. No theatrics. No forced intensity. Just honesty. Lyrically, this is where the track really locks in. She doesn’t try to rewrite the relationship into something cleaner or more poetic than it was. She admits the love, the dysfunction, and the confusion all at once. That duality is what makes it feel real. You can hear the conflict between knowing you deserved better and still being grateful for what the relationship gave you. That perspective shift matters. This isn’t a bitter breakup song. It’s reflective. It’s someone looking back with clarity instead of resentment. That’s a much harder emotion to capture, and Gracie actually pulls it off. People are starting to question the idea that every ending needs to be dramatic or toxic. Sometimes the hardest thing is accepting that something meaningful still wasn’t right for you. “All The Time” understands that. As the second track off her debut EP, Bring Me To Tears , this feels like a defining moment. Not just in sound, but in perspective. Gracie Moore isn’t chasing attention here. She’s telling the truth. And that’s exactly why it sticks.

Let’s get one thing straight. Most covers feel unnecessary. Safe. Like an artist playing dress-up in someone else’s moment. Fantomacs didn’t do that here. “Carry You” takes the emotional DNA of the original and rebuilds it into something that actually moves. Not just physically, but mentally. This is what happens when a producer understands that dance music doesn’t have to be empty to work. It can hit and mean something at the same time. From the first seconds, the production is clean in a way that feels intentional, not sterile. The low end is tight, the percussion is locked, and there’s this steady forward momentum that never lets the track drift. But what really stands out is the space. Fantomacs knows when to let elements breathe, which is rare in a genre that usually tries to fill every gap with noise. Melodically, the track leans into that bittersweet tension instead of smoothing it over. You feel the weight of regret sitting underneath the groove, like the song is trying to dance its way out of something it hasn’t fully processed yet. That contrast is where the replay value lives.The lift in the chorus is undeniable. It doesn’t explode for the sake of it. It rises. Gradually, emotionally, like a decision being made in real time. That’s the difference between a drop and a moment. What makes this hit harder is knowing Fantomacs handles everything end-to-end. Arrangement, sound design, mix, all of it. There’s no committee here. No diluted vision. It feels cohesive because it is. This lands right now because dance music is stuck in a weird place. Either it’s hyper-polished and empty or experimental to the point of being unlistenable. “Carry You” sits right in the pocket people actually want but rarely get. Emotional clarity with movement. Fantomacs didn’t just remake a track. He translated it. And honestly, this version feels like it has more to say.

Most pop punk recycles teenage angst. DJ Queen Dani’s “Stop Acting Like This” does something riskier: it grows up. This track doesn’t pretend friendship breakups are clean or poetic. It throws you straight into the aftermath. The tension. The resentment. The weird, almost obsessive overthinking that comes from sharing a space with someone you used to trust and now barely recognize. And yeah, that hits harder than most love song breakups because there’s no blueprint for how you’re supposed to move on. Sonically, it leans into early-2000s pop-punk DNA while sharpening it. The guitars feel urgent without sounding recycled, the drums push everything forward like a constant emotional spiral, and the pacing never lets you sit too comfortably. It’s the kind of track that feels like it’s chasing you, not the other way around. Dani’s vocal performance is where the real tension lives. There’s attitude, sure, but it’s not empty. You can hear the frustration cracking through moments of reflection. She doesn’t sound like someone trying to win an argument. She sounds like someone realizing the argument doesn’t even matter anymore. That shift is subtle but powerful. Lyrically, “Stop Acting Like This” avoids the easy route of villainizing the other person. Instead, it sits in the gray area where both sides messed up, both sides said things they probably regret, and time is the only thing that softens it. That honesty gives the track weight. And then there’s the resolution. Not revenge. Not indifference. Growth. Choosing to wish someone well after years of bad blood is not soft; it’s difficult. That perspective flips the entire emotional arc of the song. This matters because people are finally starting to talk about non-romantic heartbreak like it actually counts. It does. And Dani nails that reality without watering it down. “Stop Acting Like This” isn’t just a vent track. It’s closure with a backbone.

There’s a version of pop right now that feels overthought. Too polished, too calculated, trying to hit instead of actually feeling like something. Sjana Rut is not doing that. On “Burn The Matches,” the Icelandic pop artist leans into something way simpler and honestly more effective. Joy. Real, unapologetic, slightly nostalgic joy that feels like it’s coming from someone who actually needed to find it again. From the jump, the track is built to stick. Bright melodies, playful production, hooks that feel immediate without being cheap. It taps into that early girl-pop energy where music wasn’t trying to prove anything, it just wanted you to feel something. And it works because Sjana doesn’t overcomplicate it. Lyrically, the message is clear. Let go. Move on. Stop holding onto things that have already burned out. But instead of framing that as some heavy emotional purge, she flips it into something empowering. “Burn The Matches” becomes less about endings and more about choosing yourself without hesitation. Vocally, she carries the track with a lightness that never feels empty. There’s personality in the delivery, a sense of play that makes the whole record feel alive. It’s confident, but not in a forced way. More like someone who figured something out and is finally enjoying the result. What stands out most is the intention behind it. This is not just another pop release trying to ride a trend. It feels like Sjana Rut is reconnecting with why she makes music in the first place. That sense of rediscovery runs through the entire track and gives it replay value beyond the surface. Coming off her journey from The Voice Iceland to building a catalog across genres, this moment feels like a reset in the best way. Not starting over, but stepping into something more aligned. Fun, freeing, and actually honest. “Burn The Matches” does exactly what it’s supposed to do. It makes you feel good. And right now, that’s way more powerful than it sounds. A lot of pop right now feels calculated. Yours feels instinctive. Did you have to unlearn anything to get back to that sense of fun? I got rid of the over-thinker on my shoulder and allowed the songs to become what they want to be; that way, the music comes more naturally and ultimately becomes more fun! “Burn The Matches” is about letting go, but it doesn’t sound sad at all. Why was it important for you to frame moving on as something joyful instead of painful? I decided to let life come from me instead of at me. It makes life easier and more joyful, and I want my music to reflect that. I think focusing too much on the pain keeps you stuck. You lean into nostalgic girl-pop energy without making it feel dated. What do you think that era got right that pop today sometimes misses? Pop music used to be more innocent in ways. Although pop music has always followed a certain formula, older pop music just feels different- it was allowed to be campy and creative and just overall more fun. When music is over-packaged and too polished, it loses its soul. You’ve explored different sounds across your career. Does this release feel like you’ve finally landed on your most authentic version, or are you still evolving? I think this music feels more like an era than my previous work. I definitely think I’m landing somewhere, and in that sense, I’m laying a foundation for future projects! You talk about rediscovering the magic of music. Was there a moment where you felt disconnected from that, and what pulled you back in? I think most of us tend to feel disconnected from our passions at some point and lose that initial spark and even doubt what we’re doing. I fought that by tuning into my childhood memories and the ‘why I fell in love with music’ in the first place. The answer was: to stop overthinking and enjoy the process - it was that simple!

There’s a difference between artists who talk about healing and artists who have clearly been forced to figure it out the hard way. ZETI sits in that second category, and It Is What It Is – Prevail makes that obvious almost immediately. Led by Margaret Stutt, this project doesn’t move like a typical indie release. It’s slower, heavier, and way more intentional. Experimental folk, post-rock, and art-pop all blend together, but none of those labels really explain what’s happening here. This feels more like a process than a product. The EP opens with “Remain,” and it doesn’t ease you in. It confronts collapse head-on, pulling from climate anxiety, political instability, and the chaos of recent California wildfires. But instead of spiraling, Stutt leans into something bigger. The track dissolves the individual perspective, pushing toward a sense of oneness that feels more spiritual than sonic. It’s unsettling, but grounding at the same time. “Candlelight” shifts the tone without softening the weight. It’s about surrender, but not in a passive way. More like accepting what you can’t control while still holding onto whatever small light exists. The production stays minimal, almost fragile, which makes the message land harder. Nothing is overdone, and that restraint is what gives it power. On “Look at the Sky,” ZETI pulls things back even further. It feels like a quiet check-in rather than a statement. No pressure, no urgency, just a reminder that support doesn’t always have to be loud to be real. It’s one of the most accessible moments on the project, but still carries that same underlying depth. Then there’s “When a Poet Is Killed,” which is easily the most intense track on the EP. It processes violence, control, and the kind of societal pressure that tries to silence expression altogether. Instead of turning it into something explosive, Stutt channels it into resolve. It’s not about reacting. It’s about enduring. What makes It Is What It Is – Prevail stand out is how it was made. This wasn’t some overthought, months-long rollout chasing perfection. It came together quickly, built from grief, loss, and a need to create in real time. You can feel that immediacy. Nothing here feels polished for approval. It feels necessary. There’s also a deeper foundation behind it. Stutt’s background in meditation and their work as an ordained Soto Zen practitioner isn’t just a side note; it’s embedded in everything. The way the songs move, the space they leave, the refusal to force resolution. It all reflects a mindset that’s more about sitting with reality than trying to control it. A fter years away from performing publicly and over a decade of releasing music largely out of the spotlight, this project doesn’t feel like a comeback. It feels like a continuation, just louder in intention. It Is What It Is – Prevail isn’t trying to fix anything for you. It’s reminding you that you can sit in the middle of everything falling apart and still find a way to keep going. This project rejects perfection and overthinking. Do you think artists hide behind “polish” to avoid actually feeling what they’re making? I have no hard feelings against polish. There are many ways artists hide or soothe anxiety, fear, insecurity, even when being spontaneous and raw. The pursuit of perfection can also mean a commitment to discipline and taking craft seriously– dedicating oneself to bringing art and beauty to the world. I don’t reject the deep thought and discipline of Philip Glass’ Symphony No. 9, for example. I don’t know if this project rejects perfection so much as embraces the simplicity of working with what’s present and available here and now.  That said, I don’t think perfection matters nearly as much as the heart of what you’re communicating. There is a shadow side to polish in terms of money and time, in getting too much in our heads, caught in the future, obsessively trying to control the outcome of how the work will be perceived. There’s freedom to be found in letting the current flow, in embracing all that arises, even if it’s unexpected or unwelcome, in just accepting a degree of flaw and allowing ourselves to float on with the river. To focus on what feels real and authentic, to experiment, play, grow, and explore.  So maybe the path is– if you’re punk, try polish. If you’re polished, try punk. Try sketching with your eyes closed. Sing into a $25 mic and work in GarageBand with a time limit of one week. See what happens. Nature isn’t perfect. It’s ok. We can do both. We can let go of the tight grip. None of us is fully in control, and we’ll all be dead soon. Try splashing and having fun a bit. It’s not so serious. Release! Your music sits in grief without trying to resolve it. Was it difficult to resist the urge to turn these songs into something more “hopeful” or digestible? The assignment was really to honor the darkness that was presenting itself– to observe reality as it is. Loved ones die, sometimes far too early. Family members become homeless with no solution readily available. Children die brutally in unjust wars. Friends lose homes in a wildfire. Darkness is a part of being alive. How do we reckon with devastation, breathe through it, and continue to put one gentle and bold step in front of the other? How do we make our hearts large enough to be present with it, with care and compassion? We can’t respond appropriately if we’re insisting that reality always be different or wrapped in a pretty bow. I think for me the hope is found in the fortitude to sit upright while chaos reigns around you, living out values amidst devastation–to forbear, to determine what might be useful– what might sustain life, beauty, joy, connection. That’s incredibly hopeful. To make art amidst collapse and intensifying violence, to strengthen the weave of our togetherness– that’s hope. Tender care and love sometimes wear black, can be tenacious and gritty. You’ve spent years creating without performing publicly. What does stepping back into that space feel like now, especially with something this personal? Live shows are reframed. I see my role now as a facilitator for a collective sonic journey, an effort that is meant as an offering. I used to play and be on the road constantly, and now I’m being very selective about live appearances to preserve the groundedness that has been of benefit to the work and my life. It feels incredibly special to come out of the forest to share some of the audible herbal teas as an act of love, to initiate gatherings and connection, to communally fortify in a time of meta-crises and messy rebirth. Your Soto Zen practice is clearly embedded in the music. Do you see this EP as spiritual work first and music second, or are they the same thing for you? A baker simply bakes bread. A spiritual baker: simply bakes loaves of bread. I think I’m similar in that I find myself as a musician with a spiritual practice that simply assembles sounds and presents it before you as music to ingest. Before I observed spiritual practice, I was an untended plant that grew wild. With practice, it’s as if there’s a wise old gardener who now prunes the branches, fertilizes the soil, waters consistently– bringing better airflow to the leaves, reducing pests and mildew, strengthening the roots, and ultimately leading to a healthier plant with more rewarding blossoms. The music is the blossom of a plant that is tended to with care.  You made this quickly, with whatever was around you. Do you trust that kind of immediacy more than long, structured creative processes? I fiercely love planning and structure, and am currently working on a studio project for a double LP, which is a multi-year-long project. Planning for years is my innate muscle, so I think putting something together DIY in the interim is great cross-training to rein me back into the here and now. Just because you climb mountains and feel really great about the effort and achievement of summiting a studio project doesn’t mean there is not also complete merit in taking walks around the block to admire the neighbors’ flowers. I trust movement of all kinds. There are pros and cons to immediacy vs. planning, DIY vs ambitious long-range projects. Why not do both? I will say, it’s certainly more affordable to just dive in at home with friends, and there’s a special intimacy and vulnerability that comes with that. At the end of the day, I think the bigger question is, are we in touch with life, flowing with the stream? Are we tapping into the source without fabricating criteria and prerequisites to be creative at any given time? We can sing out right now! We can touch keys and strings this second. We can make noise with objects around us, within arm's reach. We can pick up the nearest pen. Yes, we can also paint massive oil paintings that require countless study sketches to bring to life, and we can produce the magnum opus. But art isn’t exclusive to one mode, and there is joy to be had in the everyday.  Trust comes from showing up with our whole heart. We can break the rules, barriers, constrictions, and hindrances, and free ourselves this very second. Perhaps the biggest thing in our way is ourselves.

Son Kuma is not your typical heartbreak artist, and that is exactly why “Long Distance” hits the way it does. On the surface, it feels effortless. Warm production, west coast bounce, something you throw on during a sunset drive. But if you actually listen, there is way more going on under it. Built as a prequel to Are We Working Enough? , the track lives in that uncomfortable space where love is still there, but everything else is starting to fall apart. Kuma pulls from a real situation, a relationship stretched between cities, ambition, and timing that just would not line up. What makes it hit harder is the lack of blame. There is no villain here. Just two people choosing growth and slowly losing each other because of it. The production is clean and intentional. Lowrider energy, laid-back but not lazy. It gives Kuma room to move between rap and melody without forcing either. He floats through the track with a kind of quiet control, like someone who has already accepted how it ends but still has things left to say. That contrast is what keeps the song replayable. It sounds smooth, but it feels unresolved. Lyrically, he does not overcomplicate it. Lines like “Destiny called, you answered the phone” land because they feel real, not polished for effect. You can hear the frustration, but it is measured. More reflective than reactive. That is where Kuma separates himself. He is not trying to dramatize the situation; he is documenting it. There is also a bigger idea sitting underneath the track. The quote says it best. Distance is not always physical. Sometimes it is two people moving in different directions at the same time and calling it love anyway. “Long Distance” leans into that reality without trying to fix it. For an artist with a background in physics, it makes sense. Kuma approaches relationships the same way he approaches everything else. Patterns, cause and effect, cycles that repeat until you understand them. And right now, he is in a phase where he is not just feeling things, he is analyzing them too. If Keep That Energy continues in this direction, it is not just going to be another R&B or hip hop project. It is shaping up to be a body of work about alignment, timing, and the moments where things almost work but don’t. You’re not blaming distance in this song; you’re blaming misalignment. Do you think people hide behind distance instead of admitting they’re just not on the same page? I think people like hiding behind obstacles that seem outside of their control when they’re confronted with their own indecision. In the past, I’ve had a hard time walking away from something even if it was bad for me. I think most people are the same way. So yeah, I do think people will blame distance, time, or even work for why they can’t fully immerse themselves in a relationship, when in reality it’s just misalignment. You can easily match someone’s speed, but if you’re traveling in opposite directions, you’re only gonna be on the same page for an instant. In that moment, we’re overcome by love and desire, but eventually, we drift apart. There’s a calmness in how you talk about something that clearly hurt. Was that clarity something you had in the moment, or did it come after the fact? My PTSD manifests in a way that makes it hard for me to feel everything right away. So yeah, at first, I was cool, calm, and collected. In fact, I was happy for her, genuinely. But about a week after she left, I was in my feels, and honestly, it helped get me out of the writer’s block I was in at the time. But I wasn’t ready to talk about this in the music yet... this all happened in 2022, so it took me four years to really process all of it. We were eventually able to cross that distance and realign, but it wasn’t without a ton of friction along the way. Your background in physics is not something people expect in this space. Do you feel like you approach relationships and music more analytically than emotionally? It’s a common misconception that physics is a mostly analytical practice. In reality, theorizing requires taking leaps of faith that, by definition, carry emotional weight. When you really think about it, physicists are just nonfiction storytellers who use math instead of natural language. So when I bring my physics background into music spaces or personal spaces, I think it helps me stay mindful of the many variables at play. In general, I approach life thoughtfully. I’m constantly thinking. I’ve identified with the “overthinker” archetype since elementary school, but I think there’s a way to get it under control so it doesn’t hinder your life. I’m not all the way there, but I’ve made a ton of progress. That being said, I do think my approach is unique enough that it may help people who haven’t found success with their own. “Long Distance” sounds smooth, but the situation is not. How intentional was that contrast between the sonics and the reality of what you were going through? My answer to this question will reveal a strange aspect of my album creation process. “Long Distance” was originally composed with a more emotional, slow backing track, with sweeping violins and a somber piano. But I opened the project one day and felt like making that the intro to the song and having it drop into a dance vibe. So I composed that. But then while composing that, I had it drop again into the current backing track of “Long Distance.” For about two months, the song stayed like this: a 45-second violin-and-piano intro that dropped into a 30-second dance track, which then dropped into a two-minute West Coast bop. When I came back to the song, I decided to move the intro and dance section into the outro of the track that comes before it, titled “By Force.” So now the sadder, more emotional parts of the song essentially serve as a seamless transition. It’s also important to note that the song ends on an optimistic note intentionally because, in the story, I eventually crossed the distance. You’ve turned some heavy experiences into full projects before. Where does Keep That Energy sit for you emotionally compared to your past work? Keep That Energy will probably be my realest work yet... but at the same time, I wanted it to be broadly applicable so most people could relate to it, so I didn’t get ultra personal about why me and my partner almost didn’t make it this far. That story is not solely mine to tell. What’s more important to me is making sure the music resonates on an emotional level and helps listeners get through the tough chapters of their own stories. Overall, though, I think I ended this project on a sanguine note.