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Most “genre-bending” albums today just sound confused. 'Goddess from the Machine' sounds intentional. Ashavari uses genre like emotional architecture, turning every sonic shift into part of a larger psychological collapse and rebirth. There’s a reason so much modern pop music feels emotionally hollow right now. A lot of artists aestheticize pain without actually interrogating it. Trauma becomes branding. Vulnerability becomes marketing language. Ashavari’s “Goddess from the Machine” rejects that approach entirely. This isn’t an album performing darkness for attention. It feels like somebody is building an entire sonic universe out of survival itself. From the opening track “Welcome to the Opera,” Ashavari makes it clear this project isn’t meant to be consumed passively. The album unfolds like a cinematic descent into psychological fragmentation, where every genre choice acts as emotional vocabulary instead of random experimentation. Alternative rap becomes rage. Shoegaze and grunge become emotional paralysis. Ethereal R&B becomes reflection and dissociation. Drum and bass becomes escape velocity. That discipline is what separates “Goddess from the Machine” from the endless wave of interchangeable alt-pop releases flooding streaming platforms. Tracks like “Freakshow,” “Hung by the Ribbon,” and “I Wish I Was A.I.” hit especially hard because they don’t just describe trauma. They sonically simulate it. The glitch-heavy production on “I Wish I Was A.I.” mirrors dissociation in real time, while “Hung by the Ribbon” transforms romantic imagery into something unsettling and claustrophobic. Despite how heavy the subject matter gets, the album never collapses under its own darkness. The central metaphor of the “Machine” representing destructive systems, while the “Goddess” symbolizes reclamation and survival, gives the project emotional direction instead of letting it spiral into hopelessness. Musically, the influences are fascinating. You can hear flashes of gothic rock, experimental pop, trip-hop, industrial textures, and modern alternative rap production all colliding together. Somehow, Ashavari makes it coexist without losing cohesion, which is not easy when a project takes this many risks. By the time “Glitter in the Dark” closes the album with fragile optimism and explosive energy, the emotional shift feels earned. “Goddess from the Machine” isn’t easy listening, but that’s exactly why it works. It’s immersive, psychologically heavy, sonically fearless, and deeply intentional from beginning to end. 'Goddess from the Machine' doesn’t use genre as aesthetic decoration. It uses genre almost like emotional psychology. At what point did you realize different sounds could communicate trauma and dissociation more effectively than words alone? I think this came pretty naturally to me because different genres of music anchored me in different times of my life. I’ve always listened to multiple genres, and like most people, I make various playlists based on how I feel. At some point in the creation of GFTM, I created a playlist of songs I love and feel inspired by. Later on, I split up this playlist to represent different parts of myself. For this particular message and story, which I wanted to get out for a long time, I decided to lean into the darker sounds, while also drawing from the whimsical and theatrical to explore themes of introspection, reflection, and growth. A lot of artists talk about “healing” in very vague or marketable ways, but this album feels brutally specific about PTSD, dissociation, and survival responses. Was there ever fear around making something this emotionally exposing? I actually don’t feel exposed talking about my cPTSD because I think breaking the silence & destigmatizing mental health is incredibly important. I’ve been open about it for years, and so I think the idea that it’s “too private” to talk about can often reinforce the stigma. For me, making art like this is empowering. The songs are crafted to be bangers for a reason. Some of the songs that make the loudest statements are also the ones getting radio play. Just last week, the lead single Angels Weep at Night aired on CBC Music Radio and was featured in a piece for Asian Heritage Month. I think it’s beautiful that my message reached people through music. Art gives shape to emotions and experiences that can otherwise feel impossible to articulate, so I love how it can transmute pain into something beautiful and greater than myself. I’ve always felt deeply witnessed by artists who are emotionally raw in their work, artists like Evanescence, DPR IAN, or FKA Twigs. So in the same way, I hope people listening to Goddess from the Machine feel seen, or that it offers a lens for more empathy and nuanced understanding. The real fear for me is in being perceived. It’s not knowing how people will interpret the album or judge me through it. Being recognized for something this vulnerable can definitely feel terrifying, but the message and values behind it matter more to me than that fear. I mean, I literally have “burn fear” tattooed across my knuckles, haha! The “Machine” metaphor feels much bigger than one relationship or personal experience. Were you intentionally trying to critique larger systems around abuse, silence, and victim-blaming within society, too? Absolutely. As a survivor of both IPV & SA, I’ve had to navigate this a lot in my life. I would say it’s a core theme in my art, so I’m happy you picked up on that! You’ve described yourself as a world-building artist, and this project genuinely feels cinematic. Do you see “Goddess from the Machine” more as an album or almost like a psychological universe people are stepping inside? Ooh i love this question!! Before it was an album, I had the narrative already mapped out, down to the emotional journey with characters, climax, and resolution. In January 2024, I was deeply inspired by Studio Ghibli films in all their whimsical world-building and felt the wave of creative energy hit me to concept the entire tracklist of what GFTM would become. See, I love anime in general, and you’ll find that a lot of anime aesthetics have appeared in my art since my first EP. I love the idea of songs being like episodes in my own anime, with albums & EPs being like seasons, and singles being like the special screenings or filler episodes from different chapters, or eras. This cinematic approach was very intentional, partly because it’s fun and partly because it helped me set some boundaries when writing about this. These boundaries helped me create some space between my real-world experiences and the crux of what I want to share, to avoid re-traumatizing myself, but still show up authentic and raw. I wrote this project from a healed place, where I was able to reflect on my past trauma and understand what I went through without blame and shame. Because of this, I was able to make parallels and use metaphors for my experiences inspired by Phantom of the Opera, Ex Machina, Blade Runner, Gone Girl, and Alice in Wonderland. So while the listener definitely steps into the psychological universe of Goddess from the Machine, at the same time, each song can be enjoyed on its own, as part of an album. I like to think that there’s a little something for everyone. You can choose to engage with the concept and narrative if you want, but you can also just vibe out and interpret each track how you want. As a South Asian woman making dark, experimental alternative music, do you feel like you’ve had to fight against expectations of what people think artists who look like you are “supposed” to sound or behave like? Yes, for sure! I think it’s amazing that South Asian music in general is popping off right now, and with that comes a lot of new categories in music that people in the diaspora are absolutely thrilled to see! We deserve this representation and love on the global stage. But with that, there is a tendency for industry to place us in boxes or reduce us to certain stereotypes & specific definitions that we don’t all identify with. We are not a monolith, and we never have been. We share overlapping struggles and a lack of representation, but we all have widely different experiences and upbringings. I occupy a very transnational space in terms of my identity. I moved from Mumbai to the suburbs of Toronto as a child after completing part of my early schooling in India, so I have vivid memories of that time, and that’s also where I first started singing, performing, and learning piano. After moving to Canada, I grew up fully immersed in Canadian culture, like the local radio, TV, and shared cultural references with my peers, so my identity has always existed across both worlds. So it’s interesting. I have this unique set of experiences that’s different from other South Asian creatives, but I’ve also met other alternative South Asian creatives, and I think there’s a huge opportunity here for us to take up space and show the world that we exist too and that our unique experiences matter.

There are songs that entertain, and then there are songs that feel like personal manifestos. On “Guidance,” Berlin-based artist AŸA delivers the latter, creating a powerful and deeply reflective release that explores faith, identity, resilience, and the courage required to remain true to yourself in a world constantly pushing conformity. Known for blending contemporary pop, R&B, and emotionally driven songwriting, AŸA has built a career around turning lived experiences into meaningful art. Her multicultural background, rooted in Moroccan and Yemeni heritage, has always informed her perspective, but “Guidance” feels especially intimate. The song serves as an introduction to her upcoming album of the same name while offering listeners a glimpse into one of the most personal chapters of her artistic journey. Written alongside producer Kurtis Wells during a creative session in Berlin, “Guidance” emerged from instinct before words. The song captures the feeling of navigating life’s contradictions while remaining connected to a deeper sense of purpose. Throughout the track, AŸA reflects on the tension between modern digital culture and the grounded values that shaped her upbringing, ultimately arriving at a place of self-acceptance and spiritual confidence. Lyrically, the song feels like a conversation with oneself after years of growth. Rather than presenting healing as a simple process, AŸA acknowledges the difficult work of confronting fears, trauma, and personal flaws. The result is a message rooted not in perfection, but in perseverance. Beyond the music itself, the accompanying visual for “Guidance” deserves recognition. Created by an extensive team of artists, designers, cinematographers, body painters, and visual effects specialists, the video reinforces the song’s themes of transformation and self-discovery without relying on artificial shortcuts. Every frame feels intentional, adding another layer to the emotional weight of the release. At its core, “Guidance” is about learning to trust the voice within. It’s a reminder that growth rarely follows a conventional path, and that sometimes the greatest act of courage is choosing to remain fully yourself.

There’s a certain kind of panic that comes from checking your bank account after convincing yourself that one more purchase will finally make life feel complete. On "Jesus Saves," Tyra Jutai turns that familiar modern experience into a sharp, witty, and surprisingly insightful piece of alternative pop. Built around the standout lyric, "The good book says that Jesus saves / Me, I spend," the song immediately establishes its central conflict: the gap between who we are, who we want to be, and how much we're willing to spend trying to bridge that distance. What begins as a humorous confession about financial chaos quickly unfolds into something much deeper. Jutai uses consumerism as a lens to explore the exhausting performance of modern identity. In a world where personal branding often feels unavoidable, "Jesus Saves" captures the pressure of maintaining an aesthetic lifestyle while navigating the reality of rent, bills, and everyday survival. Rather than preaching, she leans into self-awareness, making the song feel more like a shared confession than a critique. Musically, the track is equally captivating. Country-inspired textures, quirky percussion, cinematic production, and Jutai's jazz-inflected vocals create a sound that feels playful on the surface while carrying an undercurrent of unease. It's charming, clever, and slightly chaotic by design. As the latest preview of her upcoming album, The Western Preoccupation, "Jesus Saves" introduces the larger themes Jutai appears set to explore: consumer culture, identity construction, and the distractions we use to avoid confronting bigger existential questions. Funny, uncomfortable, and deeply relatable, "Jesus Saves" proves that Tyra Jutai isn't just writing songs about modern life, she's exposing the absurdity of it with style, intelligence, and a knowing wink.

There’s something deeply unglamorous about James Leclaire’s The Deal, and that’s exactly why it works. Blending folk, roots, classic country, blues, and weathered rock textures, Leclaire creates an album that feels less like a carefully curated statement and more like a series of honest conversations. Across ten tracks, The Deal explores aging, love, faith, regret, mortality, and the complicated process of making peace with yourself. The sequencing plays a major role in that journey. The title track, "The Deal," opens the record with a sense of reflection and reckoning before flowing into songs like "The Knot" and "My Renfrew Days," which feel rooted in memory and personal history. Midway through the album, tracks such as "One Night After Dinner" and "The Sound Of You Gone" lean into loss and loneliness, while the starkly titled "Why Won't You Let Me Die" delivers one of the record's most emotionally confronting moments. By the time listeners arrive at "Found Myself A Woman" and closing track "If Ever," there’s a subtle sense of acceptance that balances the album’s heavier themes. What ties everything together is Leclaire’s voice. There’s a heaviness in it that can’t be manufactured. Not performative grit, but the kind that comes from decades of experience. His gravel-toned delivery carries the weight of every lyric, making each song feel lived-in rather than simply performed. That authenticity extends beyond the music itself. Before fully stepping into songwriting, Leclaire spent more than three decades building a successful career in animation as a storyboard artist, writer, director, series creator, and co-founder of Jam Filled Entertainment. Rather than easing into retirement, he chose to pursue music full-time in late 2025, a leap that gives The Deal an added sense of purpose and urgency. The album is also the product of an ambitious creative period. Between 2020 and 2023, Leclaire recorded 38 songs at Ottawa’s Bova Sound with producer Phillip Victor Bova, collaborating with musicians including Mickey Raphael, Ed Toth, Kevin Breit, and John Fraser Findlay. The material was gradually released through earlier projects before ultimately culminating in The Deal. What makes the album resonate is its refusal to simplify difficult emotions. Leclaire writes about self-destruction, spirituality, relationships, and isolation without chasing easy answers. Even in its darkest moments, the record remains grounded in empathy rather than cynicism. That emotional honesty is what makes The Deal stand out. There’s no trend-chasing, no attempt to manufacture relevance. Just ten songs from someone willing to examine life as it really is—messy, imperfect, painful, meaningful, and ultimately worth confronting head-on. After spending over 30 years building worlds in animation, what finally pushed you to fully commit to music at this stage of your life? I loved my time in animation. I really did. It was an amazing career, and I worked with many super talented individuals and companies. But animation is a different creative beast. The fact is, in animation, the original concept you create takes years to see the light of day…if it ever does! And during those years, you have to appease many levels of producers, executives, broadcasters, and other creatives. By the end of it, you can feel creatively drained and unoriginal. By the end of my career in animation, I was exhausted of that system. With my music, no one tells me how to sound, how to look, or what to do. It is 100% me. I am 100% in control of what I create. I don’t have to please anyone but myself. I can write a song tonight, record it, and publish it in a week. The creative fulfillment is amazing. The title, The Deal, feels much bigger than relationships or heartbreak. Was the album meant to explore the emotional “deal” all of us unknowingly make just by being alive? I Love that you asked that. I didn’t set out to write an album about deals we have or make, emotionally knowing or unknowingly, but it just happened that the group of songs I was selecting to be on this album all seemed to fall into that slot. The tracks do explore life-heaving commitments or deals that we make with ourselves, others, and the spiritual. Some weigh us down, and some lift us up, and some will always be part of who we are. It’s also a deal I made with myself. To push towards this dream of making music for a living. A lot of modern folk music feels overly polished or aesthetic-driven, but this record feels deeply human and emotionally worn-in. Was it important for you to keep the songwriting raw and honest instead of overcomplicating it? Well, that’s good to hear that it comes off that way. But there was no thought-ahead or planned songwriting motif. I just wrote a song, and if I like it, I keep it. So the style of the song may differ from some of the others for all. Some may be straightforward, some more poetic. Whatever comes out is what gets recorded. Whatever I felt like when writing it and however I performed it is what it becomes. You recorded 38 songs between 2020 and 2023 while working with musicians connected to artists like Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan. Did those sessions change the way you saw yourself as an artist? Not how I saw myself, really. It was more about how I felt they saw me. Just knowing they wanted to be a part of my recordings was mind-blowing. I still see myself the same way. A guy with an acoustic guitar writing whatever comes out. I only try to impress myself. Even at its darkest moments, The Deal still carries a sense of hope underneath it. Do you personally think people can heal from the heavier parts of life, or do we just learn how to carry them differently? Every wound is different. Some graze the skin, others cut to the bone. Everyone is different. Some can heal from anything, some carry the pain their whole lives. On some tracks, The Deal casts light on subject matter that a person may never come out of the darkness. But it’s better to be aware of those weights than to just drag them around.

At a time when so much indie rock feels overly polished or algorithmically safe, “The Wheel” by Greg Hoy arrives with something far more refreshing: conviction. Pulled from his ambitious self-crafted project Hit Music, the track balances Americana warmth, garage-rock looseness, and philosophical depth without collapsing under the weight of its own ideas. Hoy, who performed nearly every instrument on the record himself, approaches songwriting here less like a perfectionist and more like someone documenting the emotional static of modern life in real time. Written during the uncertainty of the pandemic, “The Wheel” channels frustration toward a culture sleepwalking through collapse while clinging to distraction as a form of comfort. Yet despite the heavy themes, the song never feels preachy or emotionally inaccessible. Instead, Hoy wraps existential tension inside jangling acoustics, layered harmonies, and an organic, road-worn energy that feels deeply human. There’s a rawness to the production that works entirely in the song’s favor. Nothing feels sterilized. The imperfections give “The Wheel” its pulse. Hoy sounds like an artist more interested in truth than polish, and that honesty becomes magnetic by the second chorus. The self-directed music video adds another compelling layer to the experience. Shot with a vintage handheld aesthetic, the visuals blur satire, spirituality, and political commentary into something strangely playful while still carrying real weight underneath. It’s weird, chaotic, funny, and sharply observant all at once, much like the world the song is reacting to. With “The Wheel,” Greg Hoy proves indie rock can still challenge people without losing its sense of fun. What emotions or observations originally sparked the writing process behind “The Wheel”? This one was written sometime in 2021, right around the time of the rollout of the 'cure' for COVID. It felt odd to me that virtue from certain sides of the political spectrum had been flipped by a bought and paid for mainstream media. So, where at one time in the not distant past, let's say you have a hippy gal who was all but growing her own food, natural remedies, and clean living. Maybe she drives an electric car, or a Subaru even, is fiercely pro-choice about her body, and has fought hard to maintain that. So this type of lifestyle was considered radically left, or liberal. And once that particular personality questioned putting an untested, profit-driven, lab-made chemical into their clean bodies, the new ID for that person in the internet world became 'This person is a right-wing lunatic that hates humanity!' That's how fast 'The Wheel' was spinning for a few years there, and it's spinning even faster right now. You handled nearly every aspect of 'Hit Music' yourself. How did that level of creative control specifically shape this song? Part of the reason I get out of bed every day is to make stuff. And having a studio, no matter how big or small, in or near my living space all these years gives me that room. The band is on tour right now and played Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It was wild pointing out the burnt-out building that used to be my creative space 20 years ago, as it gets reimagined as condos. For 'The Wheel,' as with most of my songwriting, I need a spark of something to be a backbone. The kick drum on the track is just a drum machine. I'd been testing out a different way to mic an acoustic guitar, and that riff in A just stuck. The electric guitars were tracked on my '80s Peavey Decade - a secret weapon, a little guitar amplifier that Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age revealed to be the culprit for all those great stoner rock sounds over the years. Pro-tip: it rips for bass lines, too! Buddhist philosophy seems deeply connected to the track's themes. How has spirituality influenced your songwriting over the years? Between my self-work and becoming a parent, the framework of inner and inter-being has helped propel my spirit and accept the suffering that is life. With this has come acceptance. This leads to questions. What will I do about it? Intention has become a word that makes sense to me. Growing up Roman Catholic was mostly about other people's control - like any organized religion - and that means manipulation, doubt, guilt, expectation, etc. The wheel of organized religion starts and ends with money and control. It plays nicely with capitalism in that it needs constant growth to survive. How does this coexist with reality? Looking at the state of the world, I'd argue it can't. It simply gets rebranded ('Here come the aliens!'). My creative time is evolving toward more expansion of my learning. What can I best do with my time left in this life? The music video balances humor and social commentary really well. Was that contrast intentional from the beginning? Thinking back on all the videos over the years, there's only one that maybe WASN'T trying to be funny. We did a ZZ Top cover of 'Sure Got Cold After The Rain Fell.' You can look that one up. It was all about doing our version of a bad karaoke break-up video. Comedy keeps us sane. It's a lot more fun to deal with heavy issues with a wink than a fist. What do you think modern indie rock is missing right now that you wanted to bring back with “The Wheel”? Well, we never really can get enough disco in our lives, can we? If the ship is going down, there's only one solution: everybody dance now.

My Son The Doctor has a simple message for anyone growing impatient between album cycles: here's something to hold you over. The Brooklyn band has shared "Mid-Century Johnny," a standalone single recorded during sessions for their debut album Glamours, louder, more frantic, and itchier than most of what made the record, and too good to sit on a hard drive waiting for LP2. The song's premise is airtight. Four young men share a dream: quit their jobs, find financially independent divorcees willing to cover their expenses, and never look back. One of them, Johnny, has already done it. He's lounging by the piano on someone else's mid-century modern furniture, his heavy winter coat long abandoned in favor of something considerably more comfortable. He is naked. He is free. Recorded fast and loose at Mitch Easter's Fidelitorium in North Carolina by engineer Jeremy Snyder (Idles, Ekko Astral, Pure Adult) and mastered by Carl Saff, the track has the kind of live-room energy that suits the subject matter perfectly, slightly unhinged, completely committed. The music video, shot and edited by Jordan Aaron during the band's tour with Teenage Halloween, matches the song's energy beat for beat. My Son The Doctor is currently at work on album number two. In the meantime, "Mid-Century Johnny" is exactly the kind of palate cleanser that makes the wait bearable. Catch them at Purgatory in Brooklyn on June 5 for the release show.

There’s a quiet confidence running through Everything Will Work Out (Eventually), the sophomore album from Swiss indie rock outfit VAN COUVER. Rather than chasing trends or reinventing themselves for the sake of reinvention, the band doubles down on what they do best: crafting emotionally charged indie rock that feels both nostalgic and refreshingly alive. Drawing inspiration from the grit of early-2000s New York indie rock and the atmospheric textures of '90s British alternative music, VAN COUVER create a sound that balances urgency and introspection. The album's guitars move between dreamy and abrasive, while the rhythm section provides a relentless pulse that keeps the record moving forward. It's a noticeable evolution from their debut, How's The Weather?, showcasing a band that sounds more focused, more mature, and more comfortable in its own identity. What ultimately makes Everything Will Work Out (Eventually) resonate is its emotional core. Across ten tracks, VAN COUVER explores resilience in all its forms. The album confronts toxic relationships, social pressures, self-doubt, and the lingering effects of being underestimated, yet never falls into cynicism. Instead, it channels those experiences into something empowering. The self-produced record also benefits from a refreshing sense of authenticity. At a time when many rock releases feel overly polished, VAN COUVER embraces imperfections that give the songs room to breathe. The result is an album that feels human and raw when it needs to be, hopeful when it matters most. Everything Will Work Out (Eventually) isn't about pretending life gets easier. It's about believing you're strong enough to make it through anyway. And sometimes, that's exactly the reminder we need.

For the past few years, pop culture has been weirdly obsessed with emotional detachment. Everybody wants to look unbothered. Nobody wants to admit they actually care. Romance became “cringe,” vulnerability got filtered through irony, and sincerity started feeling almost rebellious. That’s exactly why DAINASAURS’ debut single “Archetype” feels refreshing. Instead of hiding behind sarcasm or fake coolness, she fully leans into yearning. Real yearning. The kind that grew up on 2000s rom-coms, imagined cinematic meet-cutes, and still secretly wants love to feel magical even after reality keeps proving otherwise. “Archetype” plays with the tension between fantasy and reality in modern relationships, but what makes the track land emotionally is that DAINASAURS never mocks her own softness. She embraces it. The song understands that people crave connection while simultaneously being terrified of disappointment, and that emotional contradiction runs through every part of the record. Sonically, the track feels polished without sounding sterile. That makes sense, considering DAINASAURS has already built her reputation behind the scenes, writing for major K-pop and J-pop acts like TWICE SANA, ITZY, and NiziU. You can hear those elite-level pop instincts all over this release. The melodies feel intentional, the hooks stick immediately, and the production carries this dreamy cinematic glow that mirrors the song’s emotional world perfectly. But honestly, the most interesting part of “Archetype” isn’t the polish. It’s the perspective. DAINASAURS approaches love almost academically at times, drawing on the psychological meanings of archetypes and the idea that people carry both idealized and hidden versions of themselves. That concept gives the song more depth than your average “I miss my ex” pop track. Beneath the sparkling production lies a bigger question: whether we fall in love with real people or just the roles we project onto them. There’s also something very Gen Z about the emotional atmosphere here. It captures that strange modern loneliness where people consume endless romantic media while struggling to build genuine intimacy in real life. “Archetype” feels aware of that disconnect without becoming cynical about it. And thankfully, DAINASAURS avoids the biggest mistake a lot of debut artists make: overperforming. She doesn’t try to prove herself through unnecessary vocal gymnastics or overly complicated production. The restraint actually makes the song feel more confident. Bottom line: “Archetype” feels like the beginning of an artist finally stepping out from behind the curtain after years of helping shape other people’s hits. Instead of chasing trends, DAINASAURS leans into sincerity, softness, and emotional honesty; three things pop music desperately needed more of anyway. You’ve written for major K-pop and J-pop acts before stepping into your own artist project. What’s something emotionally you were able to say on “Archetype” that you could never fully say while writing for other people? Writing for others is so fun because I get to step into different characters or imagine myself in situations I’d never been in! ‘Archetype’, however, is fully written from my perspective and kicks off my story as a 20-something who is hopeful yet cynical about the world and modern romance. Rather than it being a “classic” love song directed to a person, it’s a love song that romanticises the yearning, infatuation and fantasy of a love that is out of reach, which can sometimes be even more thrilling than real life itself…🤭 “Archetype” talks a lot about the fantasy version of love versus the reality of it. Do you think modern dating culture has made people more afraid of genuine connection, or just more honest about how damaged everyone actually is? Ooh good question. I think both. Most of all, I think people are afraid. Afraid to get hurt, so they don't show up as their authentic self or avoid dating altogether. Afraid to “miss out,” so they settle or keep a roster of talking stages. I think genuine connection brings out a vulnerable side of you that not a lot of people are comfortable showing, because it forces you to face yourself. And what if your real self, with all your flaws, isn’t lovable? There’s this huge pressure online right now to act emotionally detached and “too cool to care.” Why do you think sincerity suddenly feels rebellious for this generation? I think being sincere and vulnerable has always been seen as a “weakness,” even before the online world. But social media allows us to curate how we portray ourselves even more, and to some extent that’s stopped people from showing up authentically. I get it though. It’s natural to want to show your strongest or best parts. Who wouldn’t? So when the “rules” of the world tell you to present a hard shell, going against the grain and choosing to remain soft and ultimately human is pretty damn rebellious. Of course, this is easier said than done. I still struggle with showing vulnerability without being deathly afraid of judgement. But I’m reminding myself that genuine connection comes from overcoming that fear and owning who I am as a person. Hopefully that inspires the people around you to do the same too. Your music feels heavily inspired by 2000s rom-com nostalgia, but there’s also sadness underneath it. Do you think people miss that era because the world genuinely felt softer back then, or because we were too young to see the cracks yet? I don't think life was ever easy in any era. There are always going to be pros and cons to everything. That’s just the balance of life. Nostalgia is beautiful because we tend to remember only the best parts of something. Fleeting moments you experienced but can’t get back, living in your memories forever. We were definitely too young to see the cracks of adulthood and real life, so I hope to capture that feeling between hopeful and sad as I share my story navigating young adulthood as someone who refuses to let go of her inner child. After years of shaping hits behind the scenes, was it scary releasing music that reflects your own identity and emotional perspective instead of hiding behind another artist’s image? Oh yes. It’s terrifying because now I’m coming face to face with myself and hoping listeners will relate to my music and experiences. Even now, while posting promotional content, I actively think to myself, “Is this right? Am I oversharing?” But when I see the songs and posts connecting with people, I feel relieved and happy that hopeless romantics can gather together and feel a little less alone.

There’s something deeply unsettling about “This Is Wrong” by Matthew Flowers, and that discomfort is exactly what makes it hit so hard. Rather than writing a protest anthem full of slogans and certainty, Flowers takes a far riskier route. He documents the emotional paralysis that happens when fear, burnout, and constant chaos start eating away at a person’s ability to function. Built around soft folk instrumentation, jazz-influenced textures, and a weary vocal performance that sounds genuinely drained, “This Is Wrong” feels less like a song and more like someone quietly unraveling in front of you. The production never becomes overwhelming. Instead, it lingers in this hauntingly intimate space, where every lyric lands heavier because everything feels so restrained. What separates Flowers from a wave of politically charged singer-songwriters is his refusal to pretend he has answers. He openly leans into confusion, grief, numbness, and disillusionment. That honesty gives the track its weight. During a time where outrage has almost become performative online, “This Is Wrong” explores what happens to the people who emotionally shut down instead. You can hear the influence of French chanson throughout the writing style, particularly in how cinematic and observational the lyrics feel. There’s also an old-school soulfulness embedded in the performance, which makes sense given Flowers’ family roots in Washington D.C.’s historic soul scene. Most importantly, the song carries empathy. Flowers doesn’t judge people for feeling hopeless. He understands the psychological damage that modern society can inflict when people are trapped between fear, anger, isolation, and endless noise. “This Is Wrong” is not protest music for the streets. It’s protest music for the people quietly breaking down at home. This Is Wrong” feels emotionally heavier than a traditional protest song. Did you intentionally want to focus more on psychological exhaustion rather than political outrage? I’m from DC and have written my fair share of protest songs over the years, definitely fueled by outrage and defiance. With this song, I wanted to speak to people who feel like giving up, hiding, and staying silent in order to feel safer. But that safety is an illusion, and we all know it. I wrote this when I was in a deep depression, and I struggled with deciding to release it. But I think depression can be a healthy response to trauma, and I wanted to share this as an anthem of despair. It can’t all be rage and fists in the air. Sometimes we need a space to fall apart, and a soundtrack for our dark moments. Part of healing from depression is admitting it’s there, rather than being aggressive and overconfident, as we are trained to be in American society. Your music blends folk, soul, jazz, and French chanson in a way that feels incredibly natural. How did artists like Serge Gainsbourg and Jacques Brel shape your songwriting approach? Gainsbourg taught me the importance of word play, how to make little bilingual jokes, and how the resonance of words is like its own percussion. From Brel, I learned vocal drama and character building. He had an incredible talent for revealing both the personal, like “Jeff”, where he is consoling a friend in despair, and “Les Bourgeois", where he skewers the upper middle class. He was a master storyteller,, both in his lyrics and his melodies. You talk openly about how lockdown affected your mental health and career. Was writing this song therapeutic, or did it force you to confront emotions you were trying to avoid? Music is always therapeutic! When I first wrote this song, I thought I was singing about someone else — “look at this person avoiding the truth." But once it came to recording and releasing it, I realized: wow, this is actually my story. How could I not have seen that? I wanted to hide from all of it, to stay out of the fight, which was out of character for me. It was an indicator of how depressed I really was back then. In fact, I stayed isolated long after the lockdown; that’s how bad it was. Healing for me came from releasing the song, accepting what I had felt, and letting it go, so I could move forward. Now I’m part of the world again, and that numbness is gone. There’s a recurring theme of grief throughout your work. Do you think modern society has lost its ability to process grief in a healthy way? I think grief must be the most difficult thing for anyone across all societies and eras. There’s a bit of madness, a bit of self-pity, and a sense that you have somehow been diminished. On top of that, American society is so brutally optimistic and cheerful that there’s not enough space accorded for grief, but we still try. Some people are very talented at guiding us through that - public figures, artists, faith leaders - and I see more discussion of it on social media, which is a good sign. I think the next generation will be much more comfortable expressing their pain without shame, which was not allowed for us Gen X kids. I really hope they fight for that emotional space and never apologize. The line between political awareness and emotional burnout feels thinner than ever right now. How do you personally protect your humanity without becoming numb to everything happening around you? Turn off the computer, put the phone away, and go live in the physical world. I live in Oregon, so there are a million incredible places to hike, rivers you can swim in, street fairs, food, and concerts. I started reading again, especially history and biographies. People have survived much tougher times than this, so that really puts things in perspective. I talk to my friends and family regularly, having long rambling chats about whatever is on our minds. It pulls my focus off my own story and onto others, it reactivates my heart and gets me smiling again. And when I am on social media, I make sure to follow people and topics that inspire me. It’s not all bad news out there.

Some places stay with you long after you've left them. Samantha LaPorta's latest single, "Flora-Bama," captures that exact feeling, transforming a beloved Gulf Coast landmark into something much larger than a destination. Built on atmospheric production, Americana influences, and emotionally charged songwriting, the track explores nostalgia, identity, longing, and the moments that shape us long after they're gone. LaPorta's cinematic approach allows "Flora-Bama" to feel both deeply personal and universally relatable, creating a world where moonlit memories, emotional escape, and bittersweet reflection collide. The result is a song that lingers like a summer night you never wanted to end. “Flora-Bama” feels less like a song and more like a memory you can’t fully shake. What specific moment, emotion, or experience pushed you into writing it? Growing up on the Gulf Coast, Flora-Bama always felt like more than just a destination to me. It’s a state of mind. A place where people leave their worries behind, live in the moment, and just enjoy life for a while. That atmosphere became the inspiration for my new song “Flora-Bama.” There’s this tension in your music between nostalgia and emotional chaos. Do you think people romanticize their pain too much now, or is music one of the only places where that vulnerability still feels honest? Some of the most meaningful moments in life are messy, emotional, beautiful, and chaotic all at once. “Flora-Bama” is a good example of that emotional contrast because the song feels free and fun on the surface, but there’s still this underlying emotional weight to it. I think that tension is very real to the Gulf Coast experience too — there’s beauty, escapism, and heartbreak all existing together in the same atmosphere. Sonically, “Flora-Bama” blends Americana textures with a darker alt-pop atmosphere. Were there certain films, locations, or artists that shaped the visual world of this record while you were creating it? I’m really drawn to anything that feels cinematic because nostalgia can feel comforting even when it’s tied to complicated emotions. Visually, I was inspired by Americana, Southern Gothic imagery, and coastal towns that feel like characters in a story. You’ve been in entertainment since you were young, from being discovered by Radio Disney to appearing on national broadcasts. How has growing up publicly changed the way you approach authenticity in your music now? I am grateful that I was introduced to music so early because it has allowed me to pursue music and grow as a songwriter and learn how to craft songs that capture real emotion. I think that emotional connection is ultimately what listeners want and relate to most. A lot of artists write about heartbreak, but your music seems more interested in identity and emotional isolation. What parts of yourself are you still trying to understand through songwriting? I think as humans we search for honesty more than anything right now because so much of what we see online feels filtered or performative. Music is one of the few places where emotions can still exist in a raw and honest way. I’m always exploring that balance between who we truly are and the versions of ourselves we present to the world. At the end of the day, I just want people to feel seen and emotionally connected through the music. Artists like Lana Del Rey and Ethel Cain are clearly part of the sonic conversation around “Flora-Bama,” but where do you think your own perspective separates itself from that world? Sonically, I love artists who create emotional immersion, but I wanted “Flora-Bama” to feel like its own world — rooted in Southern coastal nostalgia with a darker alt-pop edge. If listeners could walk away from “Flora-Bama” carrying one emotional aftertaste, what would you want it to be? I want people to walk away with that feeling of nostalgia, fun, and emotional escape all at once. Even if they’ve never been there, I want them to feel like they stepped into a familiar memory and live fully in the moment for a while. What’s been really cool is seeing how quickly people connect to that culture and atmosphere. When I posted a TikTok teasing the song, people connected to MTV’s Floribama Shore started commenting because they immediately understood the feeling behind it. I think the song taps into something bigger than just a place.