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Rock music has always thrived on tension. The push between doubt and defiance. The moment where frustration finally turns into movement. That exact pressure point lives inside Dead Churches ’ debut EP “Fear and Faith.” Founded by two brothers in Vancouver, the band mixes the storytelling weight of Americana with the punch of early 2000s rock and the raw urgency of hardcore punk. The result feels gritty, emotional, and unapologetically loud. Across the six-track project, frontman Devin leans into themes that most people quietly carry but rarely talk about openly. Loss. Regret. Addiction. Mental health. The uncomfortable question of whether the systems we live under actually serve us. The EP opens with “Royal Blue,” immediately establishing the band’s sonic identity. Crunching guitars drive forward while the vocals carry a rough emotional edge that feels closer to confession than performance. Then there is “Living Hell,” which leans harder into the band’s punk instincts. The energy is chaotic in the best way. You can hear echoes of bands like early Green Day or The Gaslight Anthem in the way the track balances aggression with melody. But the real power of “Fear and Faith” is its emotional through-line. Even when the lyrics explore darker territory, the songs never feel hopeless. Instead, they feel confrontational. The band is daring listeners to face the same uncomfortable questions. Tracks like “Hymns” and “Violent Dreams” slow the tempo slightly, giving the songwriting space to breathe while still maintaining the EP’s gritty tone. It is reflective without losing momentum. What makes Dead Churches particularly interesting right now is how independent the entire operation is. The band records, shoots, and edits their own music videos while building their fanbase without label backing. Their first single even landed radio play on a Vancouver alternative station purely through grassroots effort. And they are just getting started. With a BC tour kicking off in May, new singles produced by Steve Bays on the way, and a full-length album already in the works with producer Tim Creviston, Dead Churches are clearly playing the long game. “Fear and Faith” is not just a debut. It is a declarat ion. “Fear and Faith” tackles heavy themes like addiction, regret, and questioning institutions. Were there moments while writing where the songs became emotionally difficult to finish? Devin: Y es, but it was written over a period of years. Some parts were finished later. Some of it came easily and immediately, and some of it had to be workshopped. The recording process was long. There was a lot going on around the creation of the EP over a number of years. There were band members leaving, breakups, 2 rehab stays, our parents divorced, managing shared custody with my young daughter, more breakups, layoffs, strikes, a pandemic, a lot of chaos, and uncertainty. Regardless of all this happening in our lives, one of my only goals was to finish this thing.  You blend Americana storytelling with punk intensity. Was that something you planned, or did it evolve naturally as the songs came together? Eric: It really is just the natural outcome of our process and influences as brothers. Our chemistry makes it so easy that it’s almost non-verbal most of the time. Devin will usually have a pretty much completed song written on acoustic guitar with lyrics and everything, but when we start building it in our studio with electric guitar and drums, it just takes on a different shape. The other elements have to compete with the drums in terms of volume, speed, and intensity. So, if it were a different band with a different drummer, Devin’s songs could sound country or pop or indie, but both of us have this lifelong dedication and admiration for big, loud, intense rock music. It’s not planned this way, but there is definitely a focused vision and an undeniable passion for what we do. It’s more about what  we are or who  we are rather than “ what do we wanna sound like ?”  As a band built by two brothers, how does that dynamic shape the way you write, argue, and ultimately finish songs? Eric: We’ve been through so much together that even if we argue, we know that things can always be worse. We’re at a point now that we are hyper-focused and aligned with our goals. Our north star is Dead Churches, so every decision stems from that. Finishing songs is not really an issue because our process is so natural, and we basically live at our studio. So, although it can be challenging at times, and we are both intense people, we actually get along really well 98% of the time. We have things set up now so that when Devin receives a signal on his antenna for a song, we can write and demo in real time. Our differences complement each other, and our teamwork is a superpower. You’ve built everything independently, from music videos to radio momentum. What have been the biggest challenges of staying fully DIY? Eric: Honestly, the biggest challenge is always money! We have a good idea about the things we want to do and accomplish, and we carve out our own career path in our minds and figure out moves to make, but the biggest blocker is always money! We’ve learned to adapt and use our networks and cut costs where we can, but there are some things that just cost money, and there’s no way around it if you want it to look and sound good! Devin and I have worked some pretty gnarly days on construction sites and still come into the studio to rehearse or plan things out. We never stopped or took time off, even if our backs are broken, and skin is burnt and hands mangled. We worked crazy night shifts for years on film sets, and every other hour of the day was spent at our HQ. Another blocker is just knowledge or experience in the industry. We do our research, and we have some pretty cool friends in the industry as well, but at the end of the day, it’s a business, and sometimes the lack of knowledge, direction, or connection can be a blocker when trying to level up or take the next step. What we’ve noticed is that our work ethic and reputation have grown to be solid gold. When you get to a place where you’re trying to do something ambitious, we find that people will be glad to help out or do things for free because they believe in you.  The EP asks listeners to question both authority and their own resilience. What does rebellion look like for Dead Churches in 2026? Devin: We do what we’re doing in spite of anything; we don’t do this for money (obviously). Our message is this: don’t believe in the internet, don’t believe your government, don’t “drink the kool-aid” at your job. No one is your boss. Believe in yourself. The system was designed to keep us at the bottom and to fight amongst ourselves. The present global situation is proof that the constructs of our society are fucking bullshit. When you can’t earn enough to pay your rent with a full-time job, then something is broken. Our rebellion is spreading punk rock and rock’n’roll, not as fashion but as a mindset.

Some songs talk about toxic relationships like distant memories. TARUKI’ s debut single “BLEED” sounds like it is still happening in real time. The project, led by vocalist and songwriter Joe Jones, arrives with a sound that feels intentionally rough around the edges. That rawness is not accidental. TARUKI is built around the idea that music should feel human again. Vintage amplifiers, tape recording, and real performances. Less digital polish. More emotional friction. You can hear that philosophy immediately. “BLEED” opens with thick guitars that feel heavy without becoming chaotic. The production leans dark and atmospheric, giving the song a sense of tension that never fully releases. It feels like standing in the middle of an emotional storm that refuses to pass. Jones’s vocal delivery carries the weight of the story. There is frustration in his voice, but also exhaustion. The kind that shows up when someone has been fighting the same emotional battle for too long. Lyrically, the track digs into the psychological damage of a parasitic relationship. Early lines establish the core theme of self-erasure, describing the space between two people where identity begins to dissolve. Love becomes survival. Survival becomes dependency. But the real punch comes later. By the final chorus, the narrative flips inward with the brutal question: “Am I your fucking disease?” It is the moment where anger turns into self-doubt. When the damage has lasted long enough that blame becomes impossible to untangle. That perspective shift gives “BLEED” its emotional depth. Behind the scenes, TARUKI operates less like a traditional band and more like a creative collective built on trust. Jones collaborates closely with longtime sonic architect Greg M. Johnson, whose work includes Powerman 5000 and ONE OK ROCK, alongside bassist Graham Rowell and Connor Denis of Beartooth. The result is a debut that feels deliberate and unfiltered. And if “BLEED” is the introduction, the upcoming full-length album expected later this year might dig even deeper into the darker corners of alternative rock. "BLEED" captures the moment when anger turns inward, and you start questioning yourself. Was writing the line "Am I your fucking disease?" a difficult moment creatively? Yes. That flipped perspective in BLEED was written about a long-term relationship, and inside that relationship, I lost who I was, who I thought I was. I did everything I could to try and make it work, to keep that light from fading. But on the flip side, I started to question if it was my fault. Am I not enough? Am I the reason you left? Am I why you're unhappy? Was it the unrelenting and stubborn pursuit of my dreams that somehow drove you away into someone else's arms? TARUKI operates more like a creative collective than a traditional band. How does that structure change the way songs evolve in the studio? So the process typically goes, I come up with a riff, a verse, or a chorus. From there, it goes to my friend and long-time creative partner, Greg. If he feels it resonates as a strong idea, we start developing it, and I track the demo at my studio, laying out the outline. From there, we have our bones. Then it goes to Graham, who adds his input and ideas, as well as tracking the bass. We all work remotely, though I often go to Greg's studio to weigh in on mixes or work out something we just can't crack apart. At that point, it's time to bring in collaborators on drums. Connor Denis is on BLEED, as well as several other songs on the coming record, and later in the year, you'll also hear Ben Cato, formerly of The Dangerous Summer and currently of Best Case, on some songs as well. We try to match songs to people based on their strengths. The guys and I will listen to a demo and typically know right away who we want drumming on it. Basically, it's like a layered set of creative filters; it starts with me and works its way down the chain until we have a song we're all proud of. Then it hits tape and gets shipped to Gentry Studer to master. You intentionally chose vintage amps, tape recording, and live performances instead of heavy digital editing. What emotional qualities do you think modern rock sometimes loses through overproduction? Yeah, so I grew up in the sunset of real amps, so I was really used to modelers and digital amp sims. But it wasn't until my dear friend Jason Achilles, a musician and audio engineer known for capturing the first audio on Mars through his work at NASA, that I started to question my approach. I would talk to him for hours about not being able to get the feeling out of my music that I heard in the songs I grew up on. He drove it hard into me that current production has erased the human imprint and entropy that defined music in the past. So despite a lot of hesitation from the team, I bought a Mesa Boogie Dual Rectifier, an analog vocal chain, and an Otari MX-5050 2-track tape machine, and pretty much forced everyone to try it. To my surprise, everyone loved it, and there it was. That unexplainable glue, that depth, that sound I remembered hearing growing up. It's not that digital is bad; it's that I think it's being over-applied. I watched so many mix videos of notable modern songs I really liked, and just about every time it was "yeah, we use this amp sim, and it's pretty much the default preset." I think that is such a problem. Everyone uses the same gear, the same plug-ins, the same pitch-perfect Melodyne, and in that pursuit of polished perfection, the song becomes more machine than human. I want the music we make to be imperfect, just like all of us are. I want to hear that fill fall out of time and that vocal drift away from perfect pitch. To me, that is where the emotion lives. It's in the broken pieces that make us all human. The song explores how long-term emotional damage can distort identity. Do you see songwriting as a way of rebuilding that sense of self? To me, songs are my therapy, my ability to deal with my inability to cope. I see each song as a snow globe, if you will, of something I find hard to take. A moment in time that cut me deep enough that I have to put it in its own world to examine it, understand it, release it, and finally put it back on the shelf so I can move on. You won't find me writing happy TARUKI songs. You'll find me writing about what keeps me up at night, what's hard for me to face, the pain, the grief, the suffering, and ultimately some form of acceptance of that through art. With "BLEED" introducing the project, how much of the upcoming album will continue exploring darker emotional territory? The record itself, though not always sonically dark, will remain emotionally heavy. The coming album is a journal of the last four years of my life, all the people I've lost, my dad dying, some of my closest friends taking their own lives, and figuring out how to move on from being so broken to finding some kind of light I can face. The only way I could do that was to face the things that hurt me the most first. In closing, this song and the coming record are my stages of grief. And it ends in acceptance.

Some artists write breakup songs. Malsi writes emotional ecosystems. Her latest single, “Year of the Ocean,” drifts through alternative R&B, soul, jazz, and atmospheric electronic textures in a way that feels both intimate and cinematic. It is the kind of track that does not rush to impress you. Instead, it slowly pulls you under the surface. Malsi describes the song as a reflection on a relationship that started thrilling but eventually felt dangerous. The emotional push and pull mirrors the unpredictable nature of the ocean itself. One moment calm and beautiful, the next moment turbulent and overwhelming. That mood carries directly into the production. Built around airy keys, deep bass currents, and layered vocal textures, the track floats somewhere between experimental R&B and what Malsi calls her own lane: electrosoul. The sound design feels fluid and immersive, like waves slowly rolling in and out. Nothing is rushed. Everything breathes. Then there are the vocals. Malsi’s voice moves through the production with a quiet confidence that feels hypnotic. Her vocal layering is particularly striking. Harmonies shimmer in the background like distant echoes, creating a dreamy sonic space that feels both soothing and emotionally charged. Lyrically, the track carries more weight than the mellow sound initially suggests. “Year of the Ocean” explores themes of autonomy, emotional safety, and spiritual clarity after walking away from a relationship that began to feel dangerous. The message is clear without being preachy. Recognizing your worth is not just empowering. It is survival. Malsi also expands the conversation beyond the relationship itself, touching on the lack of mental health education for men and how that absence can ripple through relationships and communities. It is heavy subject matter, but the song never feels hopeless. Instead, it feels like a release. That emotional resonance is already connecting with listeners. Since its release, “Year of the Ocean” has climbed the Hypeddit Top 100 R&B chart, jumping from 99 to 55 in just a few weeks. For an artist already known for crafting her own sonic universe, the track feels like another step deeper into that world. And honestly, it is a place worth getting lost in. You describe your sound as “electrosoul.” At what point did you realize the music you were making didn’t really fit inside traditional genre boxes anymore? While I was creating my first album, Hades, I realized that what "felt right" to me instinctually at that time didn't really fit any traditional genre. As I continued to produce music in the following years, and my sound fell more into the electropop and electro-rnb categories (I felt like I needed to fit more into a commercial box during that time), my signature "Malsi" sound still remained embedded in those songs. As I've grown as an artist, I've finally fully embraced that I have a different style and sound in general, and I'm completely okay with that. “Year of the Ocean” uses water and lunar imagery to describe emotional cycles. When you write, do metaphors like that come naturally, or are they something you intentionally build into the storytelling? I find that metaphors tend to come to me naturally; I've always loved writing, and my English classes were probably my strongest back in high school. However, these days I tend to approach a new song with the idea or metaphor in mind, and then I build the world of the song around that concept, although I still allow my instincts to guide me the majority of the way through. The song touches on autonomy, emotional safety, and the lack of mental health education for men. Were you ever worried about how openly addressing those themes might be received? I definitely was. Not by my closest friends or family, but I'm more worried about listeners out there who may feel triggered. As someone who cares about the wellness of my listeners, I really try to promote healing energy through my music, and this was important to me. However, my observations of men in relationships (whether it was a few of my own, or of loved ones, or even of acquaintances) over time have led me to attempt to discuss these problems that directly impact women through my music. And I am curious to hear if you've observed this too: the increase in articles and people speaking up across social media platforms has become a more public discussion, which also encouraged me to more openly discuss the need for mental health education for men as well. You produce and shape your own sound from the ground up. How does controlling the production process change the way you express vulnerability in your music? Making music is something that's an incredibly vulnerable experience for me. Vulnerability feeds my sound. Plus, I've worked with various producers at this point, which has helped me get more comfortable with expressing myself fully and try new things with my voice, lyrics, and general musical style (jazz, rnb, etc). The Year of the Ocean itself was produced by one of my friends, Simpatico. I'm so grateful I was able to run with it in a way that translated my own sound through our musical enmeshment. Your background spans sociology, visual arts, and learning design. How do those disciplines influence the way you approach songwriting and building your sonic world? Sociology because I've always been curious about how groups of people work, and I have a deep appreciation for different cultures (I'm Bangladeshi myself). Visual and Dramatic Arts because I was a shy kid, and theatre helped me get out of my shell. Learning design because I believe education is the equalizer, regardless of race, gender, and class, and accessibility to education is what determines that (so strong, accessible learning design = access, in my opinion). These are all common themes in my music, whether I talk about my teaching background (and education in general), my Bangladeshi culture, or race/gender/class divides.

Independent pop artist Berlin Fussy is turning a painful friendship into a bold statement with her latest single, “I Got You Now.” The track flips the usual breakup-song narrative on its head, focusing not on romance but on the fallout of a toxic friendship. The song pulls inspiration from Berlin’s own experiences with difficult friendships, including one recent relationship that pushed things further than ever before. Rather than quietly walking away, she turned the situation into a defiant pop anthem about standing up for yourself and recognizing someone’s true character. “This song is sort of a revenge song,” Berlin explains. “This is me saying, ‘you can say whatever you want about me, but I know who you really are.’” What makes the track stand out is its perspective. While breakup songs dominate pop music, friendships ending can sometimes cut just as deeply. “I Got You Now” taps into that emotional territory, encouraging listeners not to ignore toxic behavior simply because it comes from someone labeled as a friend. Berlin hopes the song gives listeners permission to prioritize their own well-being. Sometimes that means confrontation, and sometimes it means walking away entirely. “If people are going through something like this, they don’t have to be afraid to cut someone off,” she says. “Having one less friend is better than having a toxic one.” With a music video for “I Got You Now” already in the works and set to release soon on her YouTube channel, Berlin Fussy continues building a catalog of pop songs grounded in honesty, storytelling, and the messy realities of real-life relationships. “I Got You Now” focuses on a toxic friendship rather than a romantic breakup. What inspired you to write about that specific experience?   I have gone through many toxic friendships, but I went through one recently that was way worse than the rest. I use music as a way to express my feelings and to let people who I don’t speak to anymore know where I stand on our situation. So you/they can see where I stand on this specific situation if you listen to the song. I also like to use music as a way to relate to others. I hope other people can listen to this song and relate it to something they’ve gone through, or it inspires them to end a friendship they should’ve ended a while ago.  Your lyrics seem very personal and story-driven. How important are lyrics in your songwriting process compared to the music itself?   Lyrics are extremely important in my songwriting process. They are the bones of the song. Obviously, the music itself is important as well, but the lyrics really tell the story. I try to pull specific details from my real life to write my lyrics. It makes the song unique and personal to me.  Many people stay in unhealthy friendships longer than they should. What helped you reach the point where you felt ready to stand up for yourself?   Just simply being tired of trying to appeal to and making excuses for this person is what made me reach my breaking point. There were so many things that this person did  that I made excuses for, and tried to give them the  benefit of the doubt. The biggest problem was all the lying, then the lies started becoming about me, and that was when I couldn’t do it anymore. It really sucks to have to cut someone out who you thought was your good friend, but sometimes you need to do hard things to improve your life.  Do you find writing songs like this therapeutic, or does it bring those emotions back to the surface while creating? I think it really depends. If it’s still pretty fresh and I’m still in the depression stage of grief, it can definitely bring out a sad song. If I’m past being sad and I’m in the anger stage, then it feels more therapeutic to write angry songs about it. However, I think even if writing a song brings up the emotions, it can be therapeutic to continue writing. It acts as a journal of sorts; I’m able to get my emotions out onto paper, and it makes me feel a lot better.  With a music video coming soon for “I Got You Now,” what can fans expect visually from the story behind the song?   If you’ve seen my promos, it will be a lot of the same kind of thing. The western mixed with a biker vibe. I really wanted to incorporate bandits into the video (especially with the wanted poster on the cover of the single), but I also couldn’t unsee myself in that red leather jacket. I decided to combine the two and do a western/biker theme for the video. The video will be a dramatic retelling of the real story behind the song.

Los Angeles indie pop artist Jack Drinker is turning emotional whiplash into dancefloor catharsis on his new single “Adrenaline.” The track captures the complicated headspace that can follow heartbreak, when vulnerability starts to feel like a liability and the only thing that makes sense is chasing the rush of the moment. Originally from California’s South Bay, Drinker built his musical foundation singing in church choirs and performing in musicals before later studying music at the UCLA Herb Alpert School of Music. Those early influences still shape his work today, blending theatrical emotion with modern indie pop production and confessional lyricism. On “Adrenaline,” that emotional honesty sits beneath a glossy pop surface. The track moves with club-ready energy, built around shimmering synths, layered vocals, and a pulsing rhythm designed for late nights out with friends. But underneath the momentum is a deeper story about identity, heartbreak, and reclaiming personal power. Drinker wrote the song during a period when he felt himself shifting away from his usual hopeless romantic tendencies. After repeatedly leading with vulnerability in relationships, he found himself exploring the opposite approach: emotional distance, fleeting connections, and the temporary high of distraction. “Adrenaline” lives in that exact moment, the night out after a breakup when you tell yourself you’re fine, even if the truth is more complicated. The song also touches on an experience many queer listeners know well, particularly within the fast-paced dating culture of Los Angeles. While the track pulses with seductive, high-energy pop, its emotional core reflects the tension between wanting connection and protecting yourself from getting hurt again. Drinker hopes listeners can engage with the song on whatever level they need in the moment. “More than anything, I want people to have fun with this song and let it take them somewhere else for a couple of minutes,” he says. “Some people will connect with the story underneath it, and others might just want to lose themselves in the energy.” With his confessional songwriting style, growing live presence across Los Angeles, and a debut album on the horizon, Jack Drinker continues to emerge as one of indie pop’s most emotionally transparent new voices, proving that sometimes the most powerful songs are the ones that dance right on top of the pain. “Adrenaline” explores a shift from vulnerability to emotional distance after heartbreak. What moment in your life sparked the idea for this song? “Adrenaline” really came from a period where I felt like I was having a bit of an identity crisis in my love life. I had always been such a hopeless romantic—like, I led with vulnerability every single time—and it kept leaving me feeling kind of burned. There wasn’t one single dramatic moment, but more of a buildup where I realized I was tired of being the one picking up the pieces. I hit this point where I just flipped the script and started keeping people at a distance, leaning into more casual, surface-level connections. The song lives right in that shift—it’s not about becoming cynical, it’s about that moment where you decide to protect yourself and take your power back, even if you’re still figuring out what that looks like. The track feels like a dancefloor anthem but has a deeper emotional layer underneath. How did you balance those two sides during the writing process? That balance was really important to me from the start. I wanted it to feel like something you could lose yourself in on a dancefloor, but also have that emotional weight if you really listen to the lyrics. A lot of that came from how I naturally approach vocals—I grew up singing in choir, so I’m always thinking in terms of layers, harmonies, and dynamics to carry emotion. And working with Jaye Locke really helped bring that vision to life. He pushed the production into that house/EDM world so it hits hard, but we were really intentional about leaving space for the storytelling. So you get this track that feels euphoric and high-energy on the surface, but underneath it’s actually about avoiding your feelings and putting on a bit of a front. You mention that queer dating culture in Los Angeles influenced the song. How much did your environment shape the story behind “Adrenaline”? Honestly, a lot. Living in LA definitely shaped the emotional world of the song. The dating scene here can feel really fast-paced and, at times, a little transactional—like everyone’s always looking for the next best thing. I think especially within queer dating culture, there’s this really specific experience where you start out believing in this big, romantic idea of love, and then over time you become more guarded after getting hurt. “Adrenaline” sits right in that in-between space. It’s those nights of going out, getting ready with your friends, convincing yourself you’re unbothered—when really, you’re still processing everything underneath. Your music often blends confessional songwriting with polished pop production. Which artists or albums helped shape that sound for you? That’s so nice to hear. I’ve always been drawn to pop artists who can build a full world within an album—where every track feels different but still cohesive. I also grew up mimicking a lot of different artists, which honestly helped me discover my own voice and how I like to tell stories. Because I rely more on my ear than formal training, I pull inspiration from all over—different genres, different vocal styles—and then filter that through a really personal, confessional lens. That combination of big, cinematic pop production with very honest, sometimes messy emotions is what feels the most natural to me. Troye Sivan was definitely a huge inspiration for me in 2018 when I began making my own music. I went to his Bloom Tour at the Greek Theatre, and I genuinely felt the feeling that that was going to be me one day, or that I would die trying. The artists that I love the most are the artists that pave their own way and don’t shy away from being different or telling the hard truths in their lives. Other albums that have really inspired mine are Ryan Beatty’s ‘Calico’, Conan Gray’s ‘Kid Krow’, Melanie Martinez’s ‘K-12’, Billie Eilish’s ‘Happier Than Ever’, Role Model’s ‘Kansas Anymore’, and so many more. With a debut album on the horizon, how do you see your songwriting evolving from the themes explored in “Adrenaline”? “Adrenaline” definitely feels like the gateway into the album. It introduces that more confident, high-energy side of me, but the storytelling is still very personal. The album as a whole goes a lot deeper—it moves through different phases of relationships, growing pains, and self-reflection. “Adrenaline” is deep, but you have to piece that together a bit. There are other songs on the album that are a lot more specific and feel almost like open-heart surgery. Some songs are very introspective, almost like my inner thoughts spilled out, while others lean into a more fun side, like “Adrenaline” and a song I love called “Blurry Vision”. Compared to my earlier work, it feels more expansive and a bit more self-aware. I think I’m still exploring how to be as vulnerable as possible while also making songs that are interesting, but from a place that feels self-assured and more grounded than ever before.

Some songs are meant for headphones. K-Victoria’ s “DJ My Body” is meant for movement. The U.S. Virgin Islands-born singer leans fully into dancefloor energy on this track, blending glossy R&B pop with Caribbean rhythm in a way that feels both nostalgic and fresh. From the opening seconds, the production pulses with intention. The beat slides in smooth, letting the groove breathe before the track fully locks into its hypnotic rhythm. Then K-Victoria’s voice arrives. Her vocals carry a clear, confident tone that sits somewhere between classic late-90s R&B sensuality and modern pop polish. She does not oversing the record. Instead, she lets the tension build naturally, riding the beat with a playful restraint that makes the song feel seductive without trying too hard. The concept is simple but effective. A late-night dancefloor. Chemistry building. A DJ controls the energy in the room. K-Victoria flips that idea into something flirtatious and cinematic, creating a moment where attraction, rhythm, and anticipation collide. Producer FinS keeps the production clean and spacious, allowing subtle Caribbean textures to weave through the groove without overwhelming the pop structure. The result feels like a throwback to the era when dance records still had soul, the kind of track that would have lived comfortably in a late-night club set beside classic R&B slow burners. What makes “DJ My Body” stand out is the energy behind it. K-Victoria performs the song like someone who actually believes in the joy of the dancefloor. That authenticity carries into the music video as well, where she moves confidently between Los Angeles and Toronto nightlife scenes, radiating the same charisma she has been known for since her early days performing in the Virgin Islands. And that confidence is not random. K-Victoria has been building toward moments like this for years. From performing at the Ritz-Carlton in St. Thomas to opening for artists like Wyclef Jean and Maxi Priest, she has spent her career refining both her voice and her stage presence. “DJ My Body” taps into that late-90s R&B dancefloor energy. What elements from that era did you intentionally bring into the sound? That’s interesting, you caught that! I was a fan of how artists like Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera would release songs [like “Crazy!” and “Genie in a Bottle,”] and have the crowd just vibing off that inhibited energy. That is the same vibe I see happening with ‘DJ My Body’ when I perform live. It’s so freeing and fun, it’s like a dance break in every hook, and really, that’s what DJs are supposed to do! They’re supposed to make you lose it a little bit, or get lost in the moment, and that is what the song is about. The concept of the DJ controlling the chemistry of the room is interesting. Have you experienced moments where music genuinely changed the energy between people? Oh yes! Almost every time. When you’re at a party, and you hear the record coming on that hypes up the whole crowd, or times I was with my best friend in the car, and the right song dropped! Music is so powerful and influential, and that’s why I like to tailor it for the right reasons, which is to inspire people, make people happy, make them let go, or even get caught up in the moment, a good moment! Laughs You’ve performed everywhere from the Virgin Islands to international stages. How did growing up in that environment shape your musical identity? Growing up in the Virgin Islands helped build an amazing versatility for me as far as a foundation. It was packed with Caribbean cultural tunes [Like Calypso, Soca, and Quelbe] and influences like being an actual ‘Moko Jumbie’ and playing the steel pan. Being a part of such a melting pot, like the US mainland, but with a focus on Caribbean, Hispanic, and other international communities. This made the Caribbean and Caribbean-Hispanic nuances stick with me, and I know they are peppered into my creative choices in unique, sometimes unassuming ways. The video moves between Los Angeles and Toronto nightlife. How do those two cities influence your creative mindset differently? Los Angeles is like the belly of the Beast, so to speak, ha! I became my best, fiercest, most amazing self here, mixed with the nightlife, dynamic energy of the city, and the swarm of personalities. It’s super intricate! Inspiration comes in so many ways here. I love this city for that. Also, Toronto gives me that energy of just straight flavor, style (music, fashion), and positivity. Every time I’m in Toronto, I become a big ‘People-person’, whereas anywhere else, I can be naturally more selective socially, but I become so inhibited and outgoing in Toronto. These two energies inspire the energy in my tracks—that is, the fierceness, the freedom, the openness, and the party/socially expressive vibes. You balance music with acting, fashion, and wellness advocacy. How do you protect your artistic identity while expanding your brand in multiple directions? Thanks for that question. That is such a great question. It is so important for me to be true to myself and my identity. The way I protect it is by making it a priority in my creative process. The only thing that can challenge that is when I’m involved in a team effort, and my progress moving forward depends on my ability to have a great team and a team I can trust. So yes, I try to have the right council, supporters, and friends in my life, which in turn is a form of protection as well, because they are always concerned with protecting me.

Most songs are begging for your approval. “Homunculus” doesn’t care if you like it. It wants in your head, and once it’s there, it’s not leaving anytime soon. BUNNIES have been doing their own thing for over 20 years, and this track feels like the purest version of that mindset. No nostalgia bait, no artsy-for-the-sake-of-it nonsense. Just tension, discomfort, and intent. The song lives in a cold, boxed-in atmosphere where everything feels slightly off. The guitars don’t ring out, they scrape. The drums feel less like rhythm and more like something lurking. Synths smear across the track like fingerprints you can’t wipe away. Over nearly six minutes, BUNNIES build a space that feels claustrophobic on purpose, mirroring the track’s focus on modern evil, complicity, and the way we passively consume it. There’s no spoon-feeding here. You’re dropped into it and left to sit with it. Vocally, it moves like one body. Performances overlap and shift in a way that feels intentional and a little unsettling. It leans theatrical, but never crosses into gimmick. It’s closer to spoken word dragged through post-punk noise, where every line feels like it means more than it’s saying outright. Hooks aren’t the goal. Atmosphere is, and they fully lock into it. The Piper Preston–directed video pushes it further. Masked figures, harsh reds, chaotic edits. It’s uncomfortable in a way that feels deliberate, not messy. The kind of visual that sticks with you, whether you want it to or not. “Homunculus” isn’t background music. It’s a challenge. And honestly, most artists wouldn’t have the nerve to make something this uninviting. That’s exactly why it works. “Homunculus” tackles evil as a collective system rather than a single villain. What conversations were happening inside the band while you were writing it? We were thinking and talking about many different aspects of evil from a wide spectrum of viewpoints.  When we write lyrics as a collective group, it starts with conversations that can just sort of ramble and go down some winding paths.  We have been friends for so long that when we are writing, we are also just chatting and joking and debating, all the things that friends do when they are communicating.  Someone mentioned the idea of a Homunculus, and we thought that could be some interesting ground to cover in terms of the greater explorative conceptual exercise of writing about  "evil".  Once we had that spark to go from we honed in on more of the specifics of this song, the exploitation of people, power dynamics and how they do or don't corrupt, why evil things happen, who is responsible for "evil" in certain situations, is it societal, is it personal, are we all implicated through our participation in modern rituals, who gets to judge, how are they judgin ya.  Fun stuff like that.   The track feels intentionally claustrophobic. How did you approach production to create that sense of surveillance and psychological pressure? We like to pack the sounds in there.  Wall of sound kinda style.  Like Wall of Sound meets prog, psych, punkyness (lowercase punk) art rock.  There are often multiple competing things happening in a song; we're not afraid to have stacked, weirdly harmonized out-of-time vocals going over the instrumentation that might also be working on multiple time signatures or no time signatures at all... we find that exciting and challenging, and we hope that potential listeners might as well.  I do see how that could be interpreted as claustrophobic, intentionally or not, that is kinda how we do alot of our compositional work.  Psychological pressure, the signs of our times.   You’ve been making boundary-pushing music for over two decades. What keeps experimentation exciting instead of exhausting? Progression is life, stagnation is death.  Someday we'll all get to die, but until then, we want to explore, we want to experiment, we want to try it all out.  We're lovers of good music, and genre is just a word. We like to play music freeform and jam and make weird noises and just connect in that way, physically letting the music just spill out, but/and we also like to be very cerebral and contemplative about how we are putting our music and lyrics together. Like puzzle makers.  Like improvisational puzzle makers.   It's a dance between the two approaches, while always holding onto that excitement of experimentation.   We don't usually set out to make a specific-sounding song; we find the sound along the way.  That's the fun.  We won't ever be explorers of the olden times, but we can find an equivalent in the imaginative process.  Can AI do that?  I don't know.  Maybe.  Probably not.  I think we also feel a sense of like, we don't have anything to prove to you, but we've got something to prove.  We are like the Energizer Bunny, just gonna keep on tickin', and if people don't get it or don't like it or can't get down with where we are coming from, well, we're just gonna keep on movin' along anyway, and the times will roll on down.  The visuals are just as disturbing as the song. How closely did the video concept evolve alongside the music? The video concept was completely put together and executed by the fabulous Piper Preston.  We have been wanting to work with Piper for a while now, and we were just so excited that it finally happened.  The video was conceived long after we finished writing and recording the song, but it is so very apparent that Piper was fully keyed into what we were putting down with the sounds and words of the tune.  Piper had a great crew of people working on this project, and we thoroughly enjoyed what they all came up with.  We have been extremely fortunate to work with some fantastically out there visual artists on all of our videos for this album.  Up the punx up the freaks.    Do you see BUNNIES as observers of modern culture, participants in it, or antagonists pushing back against it? Oh, all of it.  Outside of BUNNIES, we as people are humanists, we want to be helpers, we want to be part of a vibrant world where everyone has the right to live the life they want to live.  We want to see society continue to progress in joyful and positive ways that support and show love to the marginalized and less fortunate.   We hate bigots and plastic ghouls.  There is a rise in the overall ghoul population in this world, and we systematically oppose that.  Fuckin mind your own fuckin business, you ghouls.   Crawl back into your holes, you evil ghouls.

There’s a difference between artists who make music and artists who build worlds. Lilithzplug is very clearly the second type. “Code Lyoko” doesn’t feel like a single; it feels like logging into something. From the first few seconds, you’re dropped into this icy, glowing soundscape that somehow feels warm at the same time. The production sits in that sweet spot between house bounce and electro-pop shimmer, with subtle Jersey club energy sneaking in through the rhythm. It’s giving Kaytranada influence, but filtered through something more personal, more digital, more her. Amara Robins, the mind behind Lilithzplug, isn’t just making songs. She’s splitting herself into characters, Claudia, Amara J, and Melody, and using them like emotional extensions. It could’ve come off gimmicky. It doesn’t. It actually makes the music hit harder because you can feel that these personas are tied to something real. Vocally, she floats. Not in a boring, ambient way, but in that controlled, intentional way where every layer feels placed. Her ad-libs act like their own instrument, weaving through the production instead of sitting on top of it. It’s hypnotic without trying too hard. Lyrically, “Code Lyoko” hits two lanes at once. On the surface, it’s smooth, sensual, almost detached. But underneath, it’s calling out something way more grounded and stop running back to people who don’t show up the way they say they will. It’s that quiet realization moment, just dressed up in neon and glitch effects. The Code Lyoko inspiration isn’t just aesthetic bait, either; it actually shapes the experience. There’s this underlying tension between reality and simulation, like you’re half in a memory and half inside a game. It taps into that early 2000s “future” we all thought we’d be living in by now, and flips it into something emotional instead of just visual. “Code Lyoko” feels like a turning point. You can hear the shift from “Cybergirl” into something bigger, more defined, more immersive. Most artists are still trying to go viral. Lilithzplug is out here trying to make you feel like you’re inside her brain, and honestly, she’s getting close to pulling it off.

Pimmer has been moving fast. The Boston indie rock outfit formed in 2024 and has already released enough music to make most bands feel sluggish — with TRANS AM, their new seven-track EP, they're showing no signs of slowing down. The EP follows I Wish I Could Care , last year's LP that drew real attention for its urgency and melodic sharpness. TRANS AM doesn't break from that blueprint so much as push harder into it — the hooks are bigger, the energy is higher, and the whole thing runs on a kind of forward momentum that most bands spend years trying to find. Lead single "Feelin' A Rise" is the right entry point. The drums establish the pace immediately and hold it, giving the song a locked-in center that the guitars open up around — big amps, wide and unguarded, the kind of sound that rewards volume. It's melodic but not soft about it, landing in the territory where Bob Mould's instinct for noise meets the Foo Fighters' sense of scale. The song shouldn't feel as effortless as it does, but that's kind of Pimmer's whole thing. That starts with Sanford Schaffer. The band's singer and primary songwriter has music spilling out of him — three releases in eighteen months, and nothing sounds like it was wrung out of anyone. TRANS AM is another entry in what's becoming a genuinely impressive catalog, and the pace of it only makes the quality more striking. Whatever he's tapped into, he's not close to done with it. Follow PIMMER here

After more than a decade within the major label system, Lorde has confirmed she is now operating as an independent artist. The New Zealand singer-songwriter revealed that her contract with Universal Music Group quietly expired last year, marking the end of the label partnership that began when she first broke onto the global stage as a teenager. That deal helped launch one of the most distinctive pop careers of the last decade. With the release of Pure Heroine in 2013, Lorde quickly became one of the most talked-about new artists in music, redefining minimalist pop production and youth-driven songwriting. The album’s breakout success was followed by Melodrama and Solar Power, projects that continued to push her sound and artistic identity forward. Now, for the first time since her debut, Lorde is no longer tied to a major label contract. The shift places her among a growing number of high-profile artists exploring independence after building their careers inside the traditional label system. For established musicians with global audiences, going independent can offer greater control over release schedules, creative direction, and ownership of their work. Lorde has not yet announced whether she plans to partner with a distributor, sign a new deal, or remain fully independent moving forward. But the expiration of her long-standing agreement with Universal signals the start of a new chapter in her career. For artists across the industry, especially those watching from the independent side, the move is another sign that even globally recognized names are reconsidering the traditional label path.