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Brooklyn’s creative scene came out in full force as Jameson Irish Whiskey teamed up with KidSuper to launch the St. Patrick’s Day season with a culture-forward celebration blending music, fashion, and whiskey. Hosted at KidSuper Studios in Brooklyn, the invite-only event brought together tastemakers, creatives, media, and industry insiders for an immersive evening that captured the spirit of the holiday with a distinctly modern edge. Guests sipped cocktails and mingled while DJ Rae Sada delivered the soundtrack for the night, setting the tone with a lively set that kept the crowd energized throughout the celebration. Among the VIP attendees were actor Lukas Gage, KidSuper founder and designer Colm Dillane, actor Elias Becker, Charity Lawson, and Dotun Olubeko of The Bachelorette, fashion designer Marc Bouwer, and music artist St. Germain, alongside a crowd of creators, artists, and cultural tastemakers from across New York’s fashion and entertainment communities. The event also served as a showcase for Jameson Triple Triple, the brand’s latest whiskey innovation. The triple-distilled Irish whiskey is uniquely finished in chestnut casks, adding a distinctive layer of depth and character. Crafted in Ireland, the expression is known for its smooth, balanced profile with warm notes of toffee, cacao, and almond that deliver a rich yet approachable finish. To highlight the new release, guests were treated to two specialty cocktails crafted with the spirit: The Jameson Triple Triple Sour and The Jameson Triple Triple Chestnut Manhattan. Each offered a refined twist on classic cocktail staples, allowing attendees to experience the whiskey’s flavor profile in a creative, celebratory format. Blending Irish heritage with Brooklyn’s creative energy, the evening set the tone for the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day festivities. With fashion, music, and whiskey all sharing the spotlight, the collaboration proved that the holiday isn’t just about tradition; it’s about celebrating culture in every form.

After more than a decade between full-length releases, Hypnogaja doesn’t sound like a band easing back into the room. My Dreams Have Teeth arrives with intention. The Los Angeles outfit, fronted by ShyBoy, has always lived in the space where melody meets pressure, but this record sharpens that contrast into something cinematic and physical. Released via Snafu Records, the album feels less like a comeback and more like a statement of position: this is where the band stands now, heavier with experience, tighter in execution, and fully aware of its identity. “Open/Wide” does exactly what its title promises. The album begins at full scale, stretching atmosphere and guitar into a widescreen introduction that establishes the emotional stakes immediately. “Escalate” follows by tightening the screws, its pacing deliberate and coiled, proving why veteran journalist Larry Flick described the band’s sound as defined by tension and control. The track builds rather than bursts, trusting restraint as a form of power. On “Stranger Inside,” the mood turns inward. The song plays like a conversation with the self, layered electronics brushing against distorted guitars while ShyBoy’s vocal cuts clean through the fog. “Ghost In The Hallway,” co-written with Matt McJunkins of A Perfect Circle, leans fully into gothic architecture. The arrangement feels cavernous, echoing with unease, yet the melody anchors it in something deeply human. That balance continues on “Pictures Of A Perfect You,” a dance-rock pulse wrapped around modern anxiety, especially in the cutting observation that the algorithm has rhythm enough to control us even if it can’t feel. It’s seductive and unsettling at the same time. “This isn’t going to end well” pivots into fatalistic clarity, its title functioning like a thesis statement delivered over grinding guitars and electronic textures that feel engineered to close in around the listener. The middle stretch of the album deepens the nocturnal atmosphere. “Things That Go Bump In The Night” plays with tension like a thriller score, while “I Need a Moment” finally exhales, giving the record space to breathe without losing its edge. That quiet doesn’t last long. “Dead of Winter” freezes everything in place, emotionally and sonically, turning isolation into a physical sensation. The band’s reimagining of Sade’s “Is It A Crime” strips the classic to its emotional skeleton and rebuilds it inside Hypnogaja’s shadowy architecture. Like their long-running interpretation of Eurythmics’ “Here Comes the Rain Again,” it proves the band understands how to translate timeless songwriting without flattening its soul. The closing run feels like the aftermath of a long night. “The House Always Wins” carries a gambler’s resignation, its rhythm steady and inevitable. “Just One More Game” pushes that metaphor further, caught between compulsion and awareness. By the time “Pieces of Goodbye” arrives, the album feels earned. The final track doesn’t explode. It lingers, assembling fragments of loss, healing, and acceptance into a quiet comedown that refuses easy closure. My Dreams Have Teeth reflects a band shaped by years of work across music, film, and television, including ShyBoy’s recent compositions for Bryan Fuller projects like Dust Bunny and the Emmy-nominated Queer For Fear. That cinematic instinct runs through every track, but the core remains connected. Hypnogaja aren’t chasing trends or nostalgia. They’re documenting where they stand right now, and in a world carrying its own weight, the album’s darkness feels less like escape and more like recognition. It meets the listener at eye level and stays there. After more than a decade between albums, what did you refuse to carry over from the old Hypnogaja era, and what parts of your identity felt non-negotiable when building My Dreams Have Teeth? We really wanted to make an album that connects with our longtime fans while also inviting them to discover - along with new audiences - where we are in our lives and creative process now. People and times change, and as an artist, the hope is to honestly shape one’s work in a way that reflects what’s currently happening in life. Also, all of us have worked on a lot of projects in different genres since our last album, so we really wanted to incorporate our growth while still capturing the spark of what brought us here in the first place. The album feels cinematic in a way that borders on horror at times. If this record were a film, what’s the opening scene and what’s the final shot the audience walks out with? Interesting that you bring up the horror element. Horror has always been an allegory for something deeper at work in society, current times being no exception. Over the course making My Dreams Have Teeth , we wanted to create something that feels like an overall experience, where the characters and stories come together to express conflict, excitement, commentary, aspiration, and redemption. Cinematic horror elements may also be reflected in the fabric of the album since it was recorded concurrently with horror-related composition projects we worked on (Bryan Fuller’s film Dust Bunny and the documentary Queer For Fear: The History of Queer Horror ). If this record were a film, our opening scene would probably be from The Shining (that foreboding, winding road really sets the stage) and our closing scene could be from The Birds . Not everything is resolved, but something has shifted. Your version of “Is It A Crime” doesn’t play like a cover so much as a translation. What’s the line between honoring a classic and hijacking it into your own emotional universe? Every time we cover a song, we do it because we love it - and we love the artist’s original vision. So with that as a starting point, we ask how it fits in the universe of our music and what we can do to capture the essence of the original while also translating it into our own musical language - not out of vanity but as a form of emotional expression and communication with the audience. We adore Sade. It’s always fun to interpret music by artists who are in totally different genres and from different eras. A great song can be presented in a multitude of ways - as long as the integrity of the original is maintained and honored, which we always strive for whenever remaking something. A lot of these songs wrestle with control, technology, and modern anxiety. Do you think we’re getting better at coping with the world, or just better at disguising how overwhelmed we are? Probably both. Humans are incredibly adaptive, but adaptation can sometimes look like suppression. We get better at functioning without necessarily getting better at processing. On this album, we really wanted to talk about the real pressures affecting not just us but all of those around us. Music is a great connector. We hope that in sharing our feelings on how overwhelming the world can be at times, it creates a sense of comfort in those who are listening to our songs. You’ve worked across film, television, pop, and alternative spaces. When you step back into Hypnogaja mode, what creative rules change, and what freedoms open up that you can’t access anywhere else? We are lucky to have been around long enough to know what our audience wants while also having the experience to know what we want as artists. Creating music in the context of a band setting carries an unbridled sense of freedom - we can go anywhere when we have each other to guide us. There’s nothing quite like it - and we are excited and grateful that we get to experience it together again.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

On the new album " Faith Is a Subscription ," the experimental project known as ^L_ delivers something far closer to a psychological environment than a traditional listening experience. This is IDM, industrial techno, breakbeat, and dark ambient colliding inside a cold digital architecture where rhythm fractures, noise becomes narrative, and tension replaces melody as the guiding force. From the opening moments, it is clear this record is not chasing playlists or algorithm-friendly hooks. The percussion lands like machinery waking up in an empty warehouse. Metallic pulses grind against acidic synth lines that feel ripped straight from a malfunctioning server rack. Instead of smooth builds and drops, the music operates in cycles of pressure. Sounds appear, disintegrate, and reassemble like corrupted data. The album’s central idea is simple but unsettling. In the digital age, belief operates like a subscription model. People renew loyalty to platforms, ideologies, influencers, and information ecosystems the same way they renew streaming services. Faith is no longer purely spiritual. It is infrastructural. ^L_ translates that concept directly into sound design. Tracks stretch hypnotic repetition to uncomfortable lengths, forcing listeners to sit inside loops that feel both mechanical and strangely ritualistic. Harsh gabber-adjacent kicks collide with ambient voids that feel cinematic and isolating. The result sits somewhere between club music and philosophical noise installation. There are clear echoes of the experimental lineage that shaped this project. The structural chaos recalls the cerebral architecture of Aphex Twin and Autechre, while the atmospheric coldness nods toward Brian Eno’s ambient philosophy. Yet ^L_ never sounds nostalgic. The production feels modern in a very specific way. It mirrors the anxiety of living inside constant connectivity. What makes "Faith Is a Subscription" compelling is its refusal to resolve that tension. The album does not provide emotional closure or tidy answers. Instead, it leaves listeners suspended inside a sonic question about control, belief, and digital dependency. In a music landscape obsessed with instant gratification, ^L_ built something deliberately uncomfortable. Not background music. Not escapism. More like a mirror held up to the systems we scroll through every day. The title "Faith Is a Subscription" suggests belief now functions like a recurring payment. When did that idea first click for you? The idea emerged gradually as I observed how everything was becoming service-based. Identity, attention, and even belief began to behave as something maintained through constant renewal. It seemed less like a conviction and more like an automatic payment that keeps running in the background. At a certain point, the phrase emerged almost as a diagnosis. Faith is no longer something absolute. It is something maintained through continuous updates. Your music often replaces melody with texture and pressure. What emotional reaction are you trying to trigger when listeners sit inside those abrasive sonic environments? I am more interested in tension than in comfort. Texture and pressure create a physical reaction that melody often softens. When someone sits in these environments, the sound ceases to be decorative and becomes spatial. It envelops the listener and forces a more direct confrontation with the sensation of instability, friction, or density. The goal is not aggression per se. It is to make perception slightly uncomfortable so that the listener becomes more aware of their own listening. Many electronic artists design tracks for club use. Your work feels closer to a philosophical statement. Do you see your music as commentary on digital culture? Yes, but not as a manifesto. It's more like a reflection of the atmosphere we are already immersed in. Digital culture produces enormous volumes of signal and very little silence. My work attempts to expose this saturation. Instead of creating tracks for movement on a dance floor, I'm interested in how sound can reflect the psychological pressure of constant connectivity. The project name comes from a Linux terminal command that clears the screen. What does that act of “clearing” represent in the context of your music? Clearing the screen is a small but symbolic gesture. It removes accumulated noise and redefines the visual field to an empty space. In the context of the project, it represents a moment of interruption within the endless flow of information. Not exactly silence, but a pause where perception can recalibrate before the arrival of the next signal. If someone listens to "Faith Is a Subscription" and feels unsettled rather than entertained, do you consider that a success? Yes. The feeling of discomfort means that the listener remained present long enough to feel something beyond entertainment. The work was not conceived as comfort or escape. If the album leaves a slight feeling of disturbance, it means that the sound managed to open a space for reflection, instead of just filling time.

There’s a difference between bands that imitate classic rock and bands that are classic rock because they’ve put in the time. HighWay falls into the second category. Formed in the late ’90s by brothers Ben and Romain Chambert in the South of France, they’ve spent over two decades grinding through more than 400 shows, lineup changes, and real-life evolution. You can hear that mileage all over “HI-WAY” and “¡BANG BANG!” “HI-WAY” is the kind of track that opens with zero hesitation. Big, unapologetic riffs. A driving groove that feels built for open highways and questionable decisions. It’s rooted in the DNA of AC/DC and Aerosmith, but it doesn’t feel stuck in tribute mode. The chorus lands like a mission statement. After 25 years, naming a song after the band isn’t ego. It’s ownership. This is who we are. Take it or leave it. What elevates the track is the orchestral bridge. It creeps in darker than expected, adding tension that mirrors the reality of life on the road. Touring isn’t just neon lights and encores. It’s sacrifice, exhaustion, and doubt. That shadow makes the anthem hit harder. The video leans fully into live performance energy, introducing new members Florian Arnaud and Cerise Pouillart with confidence instead of ceremony. No gimmicks. Just amps and attitude. Then “¡BANG BANG!” swerves into satire without losing its bite. The riff is sleazy in the best way, heavy and swaggering. Lyrically, it plays with the tension between indulgence and restraint. Fantasy versus consequence. Excess versus morality. It’s tongue-in-cheek, but not hollow. The 60s-inspired visual style pushes the irony further, exaggerating characters and inner voices to underline the absurdity of chasing superficial highs. Producer Brett Caldas-Lima keeps the vocals tight and controlled, which matters. Humor in rock can tip into cringe fast. HighWay avoids that by staying self-aware. What stands out most is the confidence. Not cockiness. Not nostalgia bait. Confidence is earned over time. These songs don’t sound like veterans trying to relive glory days. They sound like musicians who grew up, sharpened their edges, and decided rock still belongs in the present tense. After more than 25 years as a band, what feels different creatively now compared to when you were writing your first EP as teenagers? Ben Chambert (guitars): Hi BuzzMusic! Yeah, HighWay started back in the late '90s with my older brother Romain when we were just kids. At the time, we wrote songs that fit our age, like “Have a Beer!” I never could’ve imagined we’d still be playing tracks like that 25 years later at age 40. It’s magical! Our music, our songwriting, and our sound have matured right alongside us. They’ve stuck with us through the tough times and evolved as we honed our craft. If you listen to that first EP, it’s raw, fun, and full of mistakes, but that was us: young teens who just loved beer and parties! I still love spinning it because it reminds me of those good times and shows how far we’ve come. Each album has been a step up in terms of songwriting, production, and live performance. The new one, Last Call For Rock’n’Roll, is our 6th album and easily my favorite. The lyrics are more personal and intimate, reflecting life and the challenges we’ve faced. I really wanted to pour that into these new songs. One of the biggest differences is that we spent a lot of time on pre-production with our producer, Brett Caldas-Lima, doing things the "old-fashioned" way. We could finally afford the time to do it right, stripping these songs down to their essential core. We took all the time we needed, which is something we lacked before due to budget constraints. After 25 years in the business, I feel more mature, focused, and effective as a songwriter. “HI-WAY” is essentially a self-titled anthem this deep into your career. Why did it take this long to write a song named after the band, and what does it represent at this stage? I realized one day that we hadn’t written a song called "HighWay" yet! I thought, "Dammit: Motörhead, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Bad Company... they all have an eponymous track." Lyrically, it’s an invitation to hit the road and never look back. It’s a call to live a sincere, free, and authentic life, the true essence of HighWay and who we are. At the same time, this album feels like a fresh start. We’ve brought two new musicians on board: the incredible bassist Cerise Pouillart, with her radiant energy, and the excellent guitarist Florian Arnaud. This title is our way of saying, "Here is the new HighWay," and after 25 years, the best is yet to come! The orchestral bridge in “HI-WAY” adds a darker tension. Was that meant to reflect the less glamorous realities of life on the road? Musically, that bridge is a nod to Queen, one of our all-time favorite bands. Their catalog is an endless source of inspiration. The vocal arrangement in that passage is a bit like our own "Bohemian Rhapsody," haha! The idea of a darker central section tied into the song's philosophy. The "Hi-Way" is a metaphor for life, with all its ups and downs. That bridge represents those difficult, even terrifying moments we have to either accept or fight through. The accelerating riff is like a beating heart, life passing by at full speed. “¡BANG BANG!” leans into satire and inner conflict. Do you see humor as a weapon in rock music, especially when tackling themes like excess and consequence? Absolutely. We’re still a bunch of jokers with a strong sense of camaraderie. To me, rock 'n' roll has to keep that fun spirit. It’s very easy to fall into "sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll" clichés, especially when you grew up on KISS and Mötley Crüe! On our early records, my writing was more naive and leaned into those tropes, but it was honest because that’s what I dreamed of as a teen. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve felt the need to write about more personal things, sharing reflections, doubts, traumas, and mistakes. "¡BANG BANG!" takes a different approach; instead of another "sexual rockstar" cliché, it’s an ironic look at fantasized life choices and inner conflicts. It’s a song about doubt and how hard it is to make certain decisions. It's enough to make you bang your head against the wall! I’m also very proud of the music video, which was a blast to shoot. You’ve shared stages with major names in European rock. What have those experiences taught you about longevity in a genre that constantly cycles through trends? Longevity in a band is like a relationship... It requires effort, listening, compromise, and communication. But the payoff is worth it. Looking back at where we started 20 years ago and seeing how far we’ve come makes me so happy to be driving the HighWay train. Touring with legends like Jeff Scott Soto and Michael Schenker taught us so much about professional live sound and, crucially, vocal stamina during a long run of shows.  We also learned from these icons that nothing should be forced. It’s vital to always have fun making music, to do it for yourself without chasing trends or expecting anything in return. If you stay focused on your art and keep it authentic, it will find its audience. That’s the best advice for staying happy, and in the end, that’s all that matters.

Chicago-born, LA-based Rom Lawrell sounds like someone who's done asking permission. On “ATTENTION,” he fully embraces his identity and creativity, delivering a bold, dance-driven record that rejects playing it safe. The first thing that hits is movement. The production draws on house and amapiano rhythms, layering a pulsing dance backbone over slick hip-hop bounce and glossy pop energy. It is the kind of beat designed for motion. Whether that is a crowded club, a Pride stage, or someone hyping themselves up in the mirror before a night out. Rom rides the instrumental with confidence. His delivery shifts between sharp rap cadences and smooth melodic phrasing, giving the track a playful unpredictability. One moment, he is snapping off lines with attitude, the next, he is sliding into a hook that feels tailor-made for a crowd screaming it back. Lyrically, “ATTENTION” is about stepping out of the box people tried to keep you in. Rom has been open about this being the first time he created without fear, hesitation, or outside voices shaping the direction. That freedom shows up in the song’s energy. It feels unfiltered. Expressive. Almost rebellious in its refusal to apologize for taking up space. There are flashes of influence that stand out within the track’s DNA. For example, the song’s theatrical confidence evokes the bold pop styles of Beyoncé and Lady Gaga, while its rhythmic punch and clever phrasing recall the inventive spirit of Missy Elliott. However, Rom never merely imitates these artists; instead, he channels similar energy and filters it through his own perspective. That perspective is crucial. As an LGBTQ+ artist in hip-hop, R&B, and pop, Rom Lawrell joins a wave of creators who refuse to let genre or identity set boundaries. “ATTENTION” declares that experimentation is essential in modern music. Above all, the record is fun, loud, confident, and built to move people. It makes you feel like the main character for three minutes. If this single sets Rom Lawrell’s direction, it’s clear he doesn’t want to fade into the background. “ATTENTION” feels like a creative reset. What personal shift had to happen for you to finally make music without second-guessing yourself? In the beginning, I would always ask for advice and opinions. I was constantly checking in with other people to see if what I was doing made sense, if it was good enough, if it was the “right” move. After a while, that really started to drown out my own voice. I recorded “ATTENTION” in my home after going through a series of setbacks, and that moment forced me to be honest with myself. I knew I had to stop asking permission and just do what felt right for me. That song came from me trusting my instincts again. It was less about trying to please people and more about finally giving myself the freedom to create from a real place. The track blends house, amapiano, hip-hop, and pop. When you were building this record, were there moments where the genre mix felt risky? Definitely, but that risk is part of what made it exciting. I’ve never seen myself as an artist who fits neatly into one box, so blending those sounds felt more honest than playing it safe. There were moments where I knew some people might ask, “What lane is this?” but I think the point is that it is my lane. I grew up loving rhythm, melody, performance, and music that makes people feel something in their bodies. So instead of forcing the song to fit one genre, I let it reflect all the parts of me. That tension actually helped shape the record into something bolder. A lot of artists talk about authenticity, but the industry still pressures people to package themselves. What parts of your identity were you once told to tone down? I’ve definitely felt pressure, directly and indirectly, to tone down how expressive, how bold, how genre-fluid, how feminine, how masculine, how urban, and how queer I am all at once. People are often comfortable with individuality until it shows up too loudly or too unapologetically. The industry likes things it can label fast, but I’ve never been that kind of artist. My artistry lives in the full spectrum of who I am, the vulnerability, the drama, the confidence, the sensuality, the futurism, all of it. I’m not interested in shrinking myself to make other people more comfortable. “ATTENTION” really comes from embracing that I don’t need to fragment myself to be marketable. If someone from your hometown heard “ATTENTION” today and compared it to your earliest music, what would surprise them the most? I think what would surprise them most is the level of confidence and clarity. I’ve always had vision, but now there’s a sharper sense of who I am and what I want to say. Sonically, “ATTENTION” is bigger, more fearless, and more intentional. It carries a lot more performance energy and world-building. Coming from the South Side of Chicago, you learn resilience early, and I think my earlier music showed the hunger. But this record shows the evolution, not just someone trying to make it, but someone stepping fully into their power. The song feels built for movement and community. What does the perfect “ATTENTION” crowd look like in your head when you perform it live? The perfect “ATTENTION” crowd in my head is electric, free, and fully locked in. I see people dancing, shouting the words back to me, hyping each other up, sweating a little, feeling sexy, feeling powerful. I see a crowd that’s diverse, expressive, and not afraid to take up space. I want it to feel like release, like for those few minutes, everybody gives themselves permission to be louder, freer, and more alive. That’s what I love about this song. It’s not just about being watched, it’s about shared energy. It turns the room into a moment.

Lo’Ren Diggs, also known as The Real Lo Diggs, calls himself “The Landlord of R&B” and “King of Urban Country.” Bold claim. But after spinning Feelings on My Sleeve, you get why he’s staking territory. This five-track EP doesn’t ease you in. It walks up, looks you dead in the eye, and says, “We’re not doing fake love today.” From the jump, “I Don’t Believe in Valentine” sets the tone. It’s anti-Hallmark, anti-performative affection, and honestly? Timely. In an era where romance feels curated for Instagram first and felt second, Diggs strips it back. His voice carries a grainy ache, somewhere between church pew confession and front-porch confrontation. You hear the Sam Cooke tenderness. You feel the Charlie Pride steadiness. But this is no nostalgia act. “Self Firsta” is the EP’s thesis. Self-preservation over self-sacrifice. The production leans into warm, stripped-down instrumentation, letting his vocals sit raw and forward. No over-polished gloss. No drowning in reverb. Just a man choosing himself out loud. That message hits different in 2026, when burnout is basically a personality trait. “Bad Day Dreams” floats in with a smoother groove, balancing soul melodies with country storytelling. This is where Diggs shines as a writer. He doesn’t overcomplicate lines. He breathes into everyday language and somehow makes it cinematic. The replay value creeps up on you. Then there’s “Loving Me Is Pulling Teeth.” Easily the emotional gut punch. The title alone is a red flag and a warning label. He owns his flaws instead of dodging them. It’s rugged. It’s messy. It feels real. Five songs. Five videos. No half-assed rollout. That matters. Urban country still doesn’t get the mainstream respect it deserves. Lo’Ren Diggs isn’t asking for permission. He’s carving space for it. If you’ve ever loved hard, left harder, and decided peace costs less than drama, this EP is for you. It’s not perfect. It’s not polished for radio. But it’s honest. And right now, honesty wins.

Let’s be honest. A lot of indie rock in 2026 feels algorithm-proofed to death. Safe structures, predictable guitar tones, vibes over substance. Then a band like Smooth Retsina Glow shows up with Incandescence, reminding you what happens when musicians stop chasing playlists and start chasing ideas. The Lehigh Valley four-piece has never been shy about experimentation, but this sixth album feels like a turning point. It sounds less like a band trying to prove they can play and more like a band fully aware that they already can. The title track “Incandescent” kicks the door open in a way most albums would never dare. Instead of a tidy single-friendly intro, the band dives into a swirling, free-form jam built on shifting time signatures and a slippery 5/4 swing groove arranged by drummer Quincy Wellen. It feels closer to something you would hear from Steely Dan or Frank Zappa than anything living comfortably inside modern indie playlists. That is exactly the point. Across the album, Smooth Retsina Glow keeps bending expectations without losing the listener completely. “Strike of Lightning” brings a sharper alt-rock edge with layered harmonies from Steve Rivera, while “Rehumanize” leans into an Afro-Cuban-inspired 6/8 rhythm that feels hypnotic rather than academic. These are not weird ideas for the sake of being weird. They actually groove. One of the biggest revelations here is vocalist Sandra Warner. Incandescence marks her first-ever band recording, which honestly feels wild once you hear her on tracks like “Linger.” Her voice carries that old-school torch-song vulnerability but still cuts through the band’s more experimental textures without sounding fragile. Production-wise, the record is packed with character. Slide guitar in Open G tuning, talkbox solos, ring modulated leads that barely resemble guitars. You can hear the band enjoying the craft of sound design instead of defaulting to another overdriven indie tone preset. The real takeaway from Incandescence is simple. Smooth Retsina Glow still believes rock music should evolve. In an era when many bands chase aesthetics, this group is pursuing musicianship, structure, and curiosity. Ultimately, Incandescence stands out for its adventurous spirit and commitment to true musical exploration. Your opener throws listeners straight into shifting time signatures and jazz-style interplay, rather than an easy single. Was there ever pressure to play it safer, or was the chaos the point? If anything, it was to have controlled chaos. You are correct in your assessment that the opener of our album with a song that has a good deal of musical complexity, whereas all of the previous records featured songs in the 3 to 4 minute mark, and all of them were either in 4/4, and one, Where Figments Lie, from our 2nd record, Out of the Ether, is in 6/8. When I wrote the song, and when I brought it to the other members of the group, we certainly had an ambition that we wanted to do something radically different with the opener, especially the free-form" jazz odyssey," to quote Derek Smalls from Spinal Tap. Sandra Warner joined the band with no prior band experience and suddenly became a defining voice on the record. What changed in the band dynamic once her vocals entered the mix? I'm not sure how much it changed, as such, because I had already written most of the songs, and we simply just gave her 4 songs to sing. I am somewhat surprised at how she was able to interpret what she was given, because quite a few of the songs were written with our previous female co-vocalist in mind, and having no knowledge of where Sandra's voice lay, or what keys she was most comfortable in, it was very much like being thrown to the wolves, no pun intended. I wouldn't say that the style of the band changed very much, because we had gone into the album thinking that we had to target elements of our previous record, Through the Needles Eye, and elaborate on it, but Sandra fit in well with all the key changes, chord extensions, and odd time signatures, as if it didn't faze her. We also made sure not to tell her anything, because that can be a little intimidating, and we also wanted her to approach it all naturally. Which she did!  Your songs juggle talkbox guitars, Afro-Cuban rhythms, ring modulation, and jazz phrasing while still landing in indie rock territory. Do you approach songwriting academically or purely by instinct? A combination of the two. Sometimes being a trained musician can limit your creativity, sometimes it can enhance it. Sometimes, not knowing what you're doing can produce results of great creativity. In my estimation, there are always exceptions to the rule, and I consider myself to be somewhere in the middle. If you asked me what type of key change I use on a particular song of mine, I might not be able to answer correctly, because even though I did my time at KU university, and I spend a certain amount of time analyzing music, I also try to keep it spontaneous. “Novasage” tackles AI as both wonder and uncertainty. As artists in a time where technology is creeping into music creation, where do you personally draw the line? AI is very much the "Brave New World" coming to fruition that Huxley foretold all those years ago, and like any technological invention, it is still in its infancy. We see some good aspects to it, and we see negative aspects to it, like any invention that humanity has come across. While there are some people who think that AI will somehow be the downfall of civilization, and I agree that it is something to be approached with caution, I am of the belief that humanity will be able to harness and use AI in a way that benefits us. Few things ever start out in a form that is close to "perfect". Remember how airplanes and cars looked at the beginning of the 20th century? I can't speak for my group mates, but I believe it is applicable. This could age like milk, though. This is your sixth album, and the band is playing over 180 shows a year. At this stage, are you chasing growth, mastery, or simply the thrill of pushing the music somewhere new each time? Growth is naturally a part of every musician's life, so it's a combination of intentionally working towards developing one's craft at a high level of musicianship. That said, the " Happy Accident" or " product of circumstances" is also a part of our experience, and mine as a writer. There's no right way or wrong way; it's just a matter of listening to what the music tells you to do when you're developing it, and also based on experience. It's also worth mentioning to leave some room to ad lib, and know when to use it to enhance what you have going already.

A lot of breakup songs try to sound poetic about pain. Kaiyah Mercedes does not bother sugarcoating it. Their new single, “3 Month Blackout,” feels more like a late-night emotional confession that accidentally turned into a rock song. Written during a sleepless night and left untouched since, the track carries that chaotic, unfiltered energy you only get when a song shows up fully formed, rather than being polished to death in a studio. Musically, the track leans into driving guitars and dynamic percussion that rise and crash like the emotional aftermath of a relationship you did not see ending. It starts tense, almost reflective, before building into a chorus that feels like releasing three months of frustration in one breath. The real punch comes from the lyrics. Lines like “awkward silence, emotional violence, your twisted vices burned my skin like ultraviolet” land with a sharpness that cuts through the production. It is messy, uncomfortable, and painfully relatable. Exactly how heartbreak usually feels in real life. Vocally, Kaiyah sits in that sweet spot between vulnerability and attitude. There is frustration in the delivery, but it never slips into melodrama. Instead, it feels controlled, like someone who has processed the chaos and decided to tell the story anyway. The structure of the track also mirrors emotional recovery in a way that feels intentional. Moments of intensity break open into quieter sections where the instrumentation pulls back, and the lyrics take center stage before the band crashes back in. It is not just songwriting. It is emotional pacing. In a streaming era flooded with glossy pop heartbreak anthems, “3 Month Blackout” feels refreshingly human. It does not pretend healing is clean or graceful. Kaiyah Mercedes is not just writing songs about surviving messy relationships. They are documenting the emotional wreckage in real time, and we're here for it. “3 Month Blackout” sounds like it came straight out of a sleepless emotional spiral. What actually happened that night when you wrote it, and did you know immediately the song was something special?  I spent that night awake and unable to sleep like I did a lot during that time, and all I could think about was how I could barely remember details about my ex anymore; I could only remember the ways in which she hurt me and ruined my self-confidence. As soon as I wrote the chorus, though, I knew I had something special because it was such a good hook!  The lyrics are brutally honest; lines like “awkward silence, emotional violence” don’t hold back at all. Was it scary putting something that raw out into the world, especially knowing the person it’s about might hear it? For me, I'm never afraid of putting my true emotions into a song. The music that I've always connected to is the stuff that really makes you think about the lyrics long after the song has ended, and you can't do that without writing about something truly deep and impactful. In terms of the person I wrote it about, I have zero cares if they hear it. This song is about that time in my life, being a 'blackout,' and none of those experiences or that person has any impact on my life anymore.    The song walks a tight line between vulnerability and anger. When you perform it now, do you still feel that same emotional charge, or has the meaning changed since writing it? The meaning of the song has definitely changed. Whenever I sing the bridge, I definitely find myself being transported back to those emotions, and I deliver a really angry emotional performance, but the fans have changed the meaning of this song for me. I've been playing this live for a long time, and when people come to my shows already knowing the words to an unreleased song, well, that definitely changes things. A lot of people have been waiting for this song to come out for a while, so now to me, it means connection and making people happy with music. A lot of breakup songs try to make pain sound pretty, but this track feels intentionally messy and real. Do you think indie music right now is missing that kind of honesty? I always try to make my music sonically match the content of the song, and for the songs I've been releasing lately, lots of messy sounds perfectly match the messiness of getting over a breakup. I think a lot of indie artists do a great job at it, but overall, I think people can experiment with their music more as indie musicians. We are sitting in a relatively unconfined genre, so I like to use that to my advantage. I know that's my favorite thing to do when creating music. The title “3 Month Blackout” is powerful. Does it represent a literal period in your life, or is it more about the emotional fog people go through after a relationship collapses? The relationship I wrote this song about did go for 3 months, hence a lot of the themes are about forgetting this person. I wanted to mimic real life and create a song about someone who had a big, painful impact, but a very tiny impact on your life otherwise. For me now, this song is about letting go of anyone or any feelings that are now irrelevant. That was a blackout period of my life. I'm glad it's done now.

Some country songs try to be deep. Some try to be radio-friendly. Paul Minnich ’s new single, “In The Sand,” is doing something simpler and honestly more relatable. It just wants you to log off. The Pennsylvania singer-songwriter, known to fans as The Lawn Chair Poet, leans into what he calls “Lawn Chair Livin’,” and the concept fits the track perfectly. “In The Sand” captures that universal midweek burnout when your brain has already left work and is sitting somewhere near the ocean with a drink in hand. Right from the opening verse, Minnich taps into the quiet frustration of the weekday grind. The lyrics paint the familiar picture of dragging through coffee, staring at the clock, and praying Friday shows up faster. It is the kind of everyday storytelling that country music was built on. Then the chorus flips the entire mood. Suddenly, the scene shifts to shoreline air, crashing waves, and a cold Captain Morgan in hand. The hook is breezy and wide open, built around relaxed guitar rhythms that feel tailor-made for beach bars and summer playlists. It is not trying to reinvent country music. It is trying to capture a moment. Vocally, Minnich delivers the song with a rough-edged sincerity that works in its favor. His voice does not sound polished in a Nashville factory kind of way. It sounds lived in. Like someone actually singing the soundtrack to their own Friday night. That authenticity is the track's real strength. Minnich has spent more than two decades writing songs about everyday life, and that perspective shows here. “In The Sand” does not chase trends or TikTok gimmicks. It sticks to simple storytelling about escaping stress, slowing down, and remembering life exists outside the workweek. Honestly, in a culture where everyone feels chronically overworked, that message lands harder than expected.

Photo by @scrawny_nan Lila Holler is done playing nice. On “Monster,” the lead single from her upcoming EP Born To Bite out May 1, she trades soft indie-pop gloss for something sharper, louder, and way more dangerous. This is not background coffee shop music. This is the sound of a young woman clocking the performance she has been forced into and setting it on fire. The track opens with a gritty pop-rock pulse that feels heavier than anything she has dropped before. The guitars snarl. The drums feel urgent. It is controlled chaos, the kind that mirrors an internal spiral you cannot post about without sounding “dramatic.” Sonically, this pivot is smart. It matches the subject matter. You cannot whisper about self-loathing and expect it to hit. Vocally, Lila walks a tightrope between fragile and furious. There is breath in her delivery, but there is also bite. When she sings, “Trying on my mother’s heels, I’m stuffing them with old socks,” it lands like a punch. That line alone could carry the song. The imagery is painfully specific. A girl literally trying to fill shoes that were never meant for her. It is about sexuality as performance. About shaping yourself into something palatable. About the jealousy that creeps in when you start comparing your body, your desirability, your worth to every other woman in the room. Culturally, “Monster” feels necessary right now. We are in an era of hyper-curated femininity. Everyone is a brand. Everyone is sexy on command. Lila cuts through that noise and admits she once relied on male validation to feel real. That honesty is uncomfortable. Good. It should be. The replay value is high because it is not preachy. It is personal. And in being personal, it becomes universal. Any woman who has ever felt like she was performing adulthood instead of living it will see herself in this. Lila Holler did not just evolve her sound. She evolved her spine. You shifted into a heavier pop-rock lane on “Monster.” What did that sound unlock in you emotionally that indie-pop could not? When I was writing “Monster,” I really didn’t know exactly what shape it would take, which is probably my favorite part of the songwriting process. I knew that it needed to feel darker and grungier than my previous work just because of the lyrical content, so I leaned into imagery while maintaining moody but very pop melodies. When we got into the production phase, the rock element revealed itself in a way that was unexpected to me, but overall just felt right. I think indie music has an inherent melancholic feeling to it most of the time, and I wanted to take that theme and lean further into the grunge of the lyrics, with where we took the arrangement. The “mother’s heels” line is painfully vivid. How do you decide which personal images are worth exposing and which stay private? In the songwriting process, I mostly let the lyrics flow to me, and I go with my gut on whether or not they are too personal to share. I have gotten pretty good at accepting the fact that in order to connect with people at the level I want to, I have to expose myself sometimes. That being said I think it’s really important to know your boundaries when sharing information about your real life in the diaristic kind of songwriting that has become very popular for the modern day songwriter. It’s a little too easy to overshare sometimes, so the balance between broad and personal is a bit of a tightrope walk in my music. You’ve studied at elite arts institutions. How do you protect raw honesty in spaces that often reward polish over mess? I think protecting my songwriting’s integrity has come with learning the lesson that you do not have to take everyone's advice. I’ve had some really wonderful teachers who have taught me a lot and given me an abundance of wisdom, but their advice has been conflicting. Everyone has a different idea of what your music should or shouldn’t be, and an idea of who you are. Everyone has a different mentality around where they’d draw the line in terms of vulnerability. But being candid and truthful even when it’s unfair is what makes my songwriting individual and special to so many people. So I learned along the way that sometimes you’ve gotta just trust your instincts when it comes to receiving wisdom. Did writing “Monster” change how you move in relationships, or did it just document a phase you were already exiting? I think Monster was just a documentation of a very specific period of time for me. I actually wrote it reminiscing while in a very healthy, long-term relationship. It’s funny to me how songs tend to just come out without warning like that, because there was definitely a part of my subconscious that needed to process something that I didn’t know about until I wrote “Monster.” After I was done writing the song, it immediately felt as though that chapter of hurt in my life had closed up. I still deal with some of the themes of insecurity laced into the lyrics of the song, but overall, in my relationships, I wrote “Monster” to get it out of my system so I could leave those feelings behind and lend them to the listener who might be going through something they can relate to in the song. With Born To Bite on the way, what does “biting back” look like for you in the industry, not just in your lyrics? For me, biting back looks like standing firm in my boundaries even when that feels scary. I have let so much slide for the sake of being liked and highly regarded, not realizing I was practically handing away my power. This era for me has helped me develop more of an “I don’t give a fuck” mindset, which, as a lifelong people-pleaser, is easier said than done.