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In 2019, Arkells weren’t just one of Canada’s most beloved rock exports; they were a band sitting comfortably in their arena era without losing the scrappy energy that built them. Formed in Hamilton in the mid-2000s, the five-piece carved their reputation on relentless touring, political sharpness, and songs built for collective sing-alongs. By the time Rally Cry  arrived as their fifth studio album, Arkells had already become a rare crossover act: festival staples at home, steadily growing forces in the U.S., and a band equally comfortable writing protest-tinged anthems and dancefloor-ready hooks. With Rally Cry , they doubled down on immediacy, tight songwriting, bold themes, and choruses designed to echo off packed venues. We caught up with frontman Max Kerman as the band prepared to take the album across North America, including a March 26 stop at the Troubadour in Los Angeles with special guests Dear Rouge. Hey Max! We are super excited about your new album "Rally Cry" and upcoming tour! Can you tell our readers a bit about the band and how you guys came together? Thanks - we're stoked too. I went to college looking to start a band, and by the second day, I had found Nick and Mike. In the early days, we played in the battle of the bands and other local shows, just trying to figure out how to perform and write songs. Just as we were finishing up school, we were offered a record deal, and we've been pretty much a full-time band since then.  Were you guys able to exceed your expectations with your fifth studio album, "Rally Cry" ? I think we set the bar pretty high for ourselves when we're in the studio. If anything feels repetitive or stale, we keep digging. We were trying to make something compact and direct. 10 songs. There's not too much meandering about in the production - they reveal themselves pretty quickly. We're very happy with how it turned out, and it's been a blast performing live. The sing-alongs are in full form.  You stated that the best part about being Canadian is the ability to observe America and appreciate it from a more outside perspective, do you think that observation really help influence your creation of music that can translate well across American listeners as well? The songs are all rooted in storytelling with nuanced and interesting characters. The songs all have some heart and some humour. I think those sensibilities translate across borders.   Let's talk about your new album "Rally Cry". How did you guys determine the chronological order placement for the singles within the album? Did you want to create an entire story line within one project (An opening song, middle, and ending) or were they completely at random? Tracklisting is a subjective thing, but we all agreed pretty quickly that Hand Me Downs "felt like an album opener. Similarly, "Don't Be A Stranger" felt like a closer. A lot of the choices we make creatively are simply based on the question: "Does this feel good? does this feel cool?" There are technical things we consider when we're putting together a tracklist - flow, tempos, key of the song - but ultimately it has to just feel good.   One song off the album that stood out to us was "American Screams", based on your outside perspective. were you able to draw any environmental influences for this track? We spend a lot of time touring in America, and observing the political landscape as an outsider is an interesting vantage point. From traveling between cities and seeing the difference in daily life between urban and rural, it's easy to understand why there is friction in the country. One trait we noticed while listening to "Rally Cry" is the apparent diversity presented. "People's Champ" was real up-beat and funky. "Show Me Don't Tell Me" had a more other worldly, cultural aesthetic. and then you had songs like "Relentless" and "Company Man" felt more emotional and powerful. yet, all songs held lyrical substance which was appreciated. How are you able to find balance with experimenting with other genres while not going too far away from your personal brand? We feel like we can go in just about any direction musically because the common thread is the five of us singing and playing. A lot of rocknroll songwriting has to do with the personalities in the band, and out musical instincts will always be present, no matter the type of song we're chasing. What's your song-writing approach? Do you create a specific vision for each song before writing? The songs come in bits and pieces. We actually have been doing these "making of" stories on our Instagram account. Here's one: Only For A Moment:  https://www.instagram.com/p/BrlEDJJFv54/ 2019 seems to be a busy year ahead for Arkells! Touring from January all the way to June. Is there a certain city on the tour that you're most excited to perform? We can't wait for your Los Angeles Show at the Troubadour! We'll be in game shape by the time we hit LA! We had an awesome time in LA, San Fran. Of course, NY and DC. Philly. Ha, I could really list them all for different reasons.  The songs take on a different meaning when we play them live, so I'm glad we'll get to have these shared experiences all over the country.  Which song from "Rally Cry" are you most excited to perform and why? Lately, Hand Me Downs and Eyes On The Prize have been going off! Great sing-alongs. Everyone in the room is invested.  Full list of tour dates available here: www.arkellsmusic.com/live

You know the feeling. One random chorus hijacks your brain at 2:14 a.m., and suddenly you’re a hostage in your own head. You didn’t press play. You didn’t even want the song. And yet there it is, looping like your mental Spotify is stuck on premium autopilot. That’s an earworm. And no, it doesn’t mean you’re losing it. Earworms, the everyday name for involuntary musical imagery, are one of the clearest proofs that music doesn’t just live in your headphones. It lives inside your wiring. Your brain is built to replay sound, especially music, and sometimes it hits repeat without asking permission. The wild part? This isn’t random noise. There’s real neuroscience behind why certain songs stick, why stress makes them louder, and why your mind keeps choosing music as its favorite background process. What an Earworm Actually Is (and Why It Feels So Real) An earworm is your brain internally replaying a short musical fragment, usually a hook, chorus, or melody loop. Not the full song. Just the part engineered to be unforgettable. When this happens, your auditory cortex lights up in ways that look surprisingly similar to when you’re actually listening to music. In other words, your brain treats imagined sound almost like real sound. That’s why earworms can feel vivid, intrusive, and weirdly physical. Music is uniquely sticky because it hits multiple systems at once: Memory circuits remember the melody Language centers latch onto lyrics Motor regions sync with rhythm Emotion centers tag the song with feelings It’s not just a tune. It’s a multi-sensory pattern your brain can rehearse endlessly with very little effort. And your brain loves  efficient patterns. Catchy music is basically a cognitive shortcut. Once it’s in, it’s cheap to replay. So it replays. Why Stress Makes Songs Get Stuck Harder If you notice earworms hitting harder when you’re anxious, overwhelmed, or overstimulated, that’s not a coincidence. Under stress, your brain starts searching for predictability. Anxiety feels chaotic. Music is structured. Earworms may be your nervous system grabbing onto something rhythmic and familiar when everything else feels messy. Studies show earworms increase during cognitive overload, moments when your attention is stretched thin. When your mind is juggling too much, it tends to fall into loops. Sometimes those loops are worrying. Sometimes they’re music. And music is the better option. A looping chorus can act like mental white noise. It occupies bandwidth that might otherwise spiral into intrusive thoughts. It’s not a cure for anxiety, but it can function as a buffer. A placeholder. A rhythm your brain trusts. That’s also why earworms tend to be songs you’ve heard recently or tracks tied to emotional memories. Your brain isn’t picking randomly. It’s pulling from a shortlist of songs already tagged as familiar, important, or comforting. It’s emotional muscle memory. Why Some Songs Refuse to Leave Not every track becomes an earworm. Certain songs are structurally designed to stick. Pop producers know this. Your brain confirms it. Songs that get trapped in your head often share traits: Repetitive melodic shapes Small, easy pitch movements Strong rhythmic hooks Lyrical repetition Mid-tempo pacing that’s easy to mentally rehearse In short: songs your brain can loop without effort. The easier a melody is to simulate internally, the more likely it is to replay. Your mind is lazy in the smartest way possible. It favors patterns that it can run on a low battery. That’s why a random TikTok hook can colonize your brain faster than a complex jazz solo. Simplicity scales. Catchiness is architecture. Earworms as Emotional Regulation Here’s the part nobody talks about enough: earworms may actually be a built-in coping tool. Music is tightly connected to the amygdala and hippocampus — the brain’s emotional and memory hubs. When stress spikes, these regions can trigger automatic recall of songs associated with safety, motivation, nostalgia, or release. Even if the song isn’t calming, the familiarity  is. Repetition creates a sense of control. And control is exactly what anxiety tries to steal. A looping melody becomes something stable you can hold onto, even subconsciously. Your brain isn’t trying to annoy you. It’s self-soothing with rhythm. When Earworms Are Normal vs. When to Worry For most people, earworms are harmless. Annoying? Yes. A sign of brain damage? Absolutely not. They’re a normal side effect of having a brain wired for music and pattern recognition. Nearly everyone experiences them. The line only shifts if music feels external instead of internal, as in hearing songs as if they’re coming from outside your head. That moves into the territory of musical hallucinations, which are rare and linked to neurological or psychiatric conditions. If that ever happens, a medical professional is the right call. But a chorus stuck in your head after doomscrolling? That’s just your brain being a remix machine. The Real Takeaway Earworms aren’t glitches. They’re proof that music is baked into how humans process emotion, memory, and attention. When life gets loud, your brain reaches for rhythm. When stress spikes, it replays something familiar. When your thoughts start looping, music sometimes steps in as the loop instead. Songs don’t just soundtrack your life. They live in the architecture of your mind. And every earworm is a reminder that your brain is constantly editing, replaying, and scoring your experience like a film you never stop directing.

Stevie Violet has a gift for making emotional turbulence sound bright. Her alternative pop lives in that sweet spot where catchy hooks and honest confession collide, and her latest single “ Kaleidoscope ” leans fully into that tension. It’s playful on the surface, but underneath the shimmer sits a quiet panic that feels uncomfortably familiar. Violet’s music has always thrived on contrast. She writes songs that bounce with color and energy while unpacking desire, heartbreak, and creeping self-doubt. “Kaleidoscope” pushes that formula into sharper focus. The track captures the sensation of being swallowed by your own life, when the pace of everyday existence starts to feel impossible to track. The central metaphor does a lot of heavy lifting. A kaleidoscope is mesmerizing because it’s beautiful and chaotic at the same time. Colors crash into each other, patterns multiply, and nothing ever settles. Violet uses that image to mirror the modern experience of overstimulation. Deadlines, expectations, social pressure, and personal goals blur together until the days stop feeling distinct. You’re busy, but you’re not sure what you’re actually moving toward. Then you look up and realize years have slipped past in the blur. Sonically, the song mirrors that swirl. The production feels layered and kinetic, with melodies that spiral and rebound instead of sitting still. Violet’s vocal delivery walks a tightrope between breathless and controlled, as if she’s narrating the chaos from inside it. The result is a track that feels alive in motion, constantly shifting but never collapsing. It’s fun enough to replay, but emotionally sharp enough to linger. What makes “Kaleidoscope” land is its relatability. The song doesn’t position confusion as failure. It treats overwhelm as a shared condition, a side effect of living in a world that rarely slows down. Violet isn’t offering a tidy solution. She’s documenting the feeling in real time, which becomes its own form of relief. Hearing your own anxiety reflected back at you in melody can be strangely grounding. Violet describes the track as a small escape hatch. “I hope people can relate to that confusion I try to portray in the song, and that maybe listening to it can help them get away from all the pressure of life for a few minutes,” she explains. That intention is baked into the song’s DNA. Even as it catalogs overload, it creates a pocket of space where the noise briefly organizes itself into something beautiful. With “Kaleidoscope,” Stevie Violet proves again that pop doesn’t have to choose between fun and feeling. She turns modern overwhelm into something vivid and singable, capturing the strange poetry of being lost in motion. It’s a snapshot of a generation spinning fast, set to a melody that understands exactly why we’re dizzy.

A decade is a long time to sit with a song that became bigger than you expected. For David Hernandez , “Beautiful” was never just a single from 2016. It quietly grew into a lifeline track for listeners who needed language for self-worth and permission to exist out loud. With “BEAUTIFUL 2.0," Hernandez isn’t chasing nostalgia. He’s documenting evolution. The new version feels intentional from the first note. Instead of polishing the original into something glossy and distant, the reimagining leans into clarity. Reproduced by Niko The Kid, the track trades excess for emotional precision. The arrangement breathes. Vocals sit front and center. Every lyric lands like a statement rather than a suggestion. Hernandez sounds steadier, not because the message softened, but because it’s fully owned now. Mila Jam’s presence shifts the gravity of the song in the best way. Her verse doesn’t feel like a feature added for optics. It feels structural. Jam carries a lived perspective that widens the frame of what “Beautiful” was always trying to say. The interplay between their voices adds dimension, resilience, and a softness that never slips into fragility. It’s a duet that reads like mutual recognition. The Valentine’s Day release date reframes the track as a manifesto for self-love instead of a romantic cliché. In a cultural moment where visibility and backlash often rise together, “BEAUTIFUL 2.0” refuses to shrink. It acknowledges the tension without surrendering joy. That balance is where the song hits hardest. It’s celebratory without ignoring reality. The accompanying video pushes that philosophy further. Directed by Johny De, the visual swaps the guarded intimacy of the original era for unapologetic spectacle. Sequins, disco lights, performance energy, and camera-facing confidence transform the screen into a declaration of presence. Hernandez and Jam don’t hide inside the concept. They command it. The styling is bold, but the emotion stays grounded, which keeps the message from drifting into abstraction. What makes this anniversary release matter is that it doesn’t pretend growth is tidy. Hernandez presents self-acceptance as ongoing work, not a finished product. “BEAUTIFUL 2.0” understands that empowerment isn’t a destination. It’s maintenance. For listeners navigating identity, safety, and pride in real time, that honesty lands deeper than a simple victory lap. Ten years after the original release, what parts of “Beautiful” feel like a time capsule of who you were in 2016, and what parts of “BEAUTIFUL 2.0” feel like a direct reflection of who you are today? The original “Beautiful” really feels like a snapshot of a younger version of me who was still asking permission to fully take up space. There was hope in it, but also a quiet kind of survival energy - like I was convincing myself of the message while singing it. “Beautiful 2.0” feels different. I’m not asking anymore; I’m claiming. The confidence, the joy, the sparkle - that’s where I am now. It’s still heartfelt, but it’s coming from someone who has lived more, healed more, and isn’t afraid to celebrate himself out loud. Mila Jam’s presence changes the emotional weight of the track in a big way. What conversations did you two have behind the scenes that shaped how this version came together? Mila and I talked a lot about legacy - what it means to revisit a song that already meant something to people and how to elevate it without losing its soul. We also talked about visibility, chosen family, and how important it was for this version to feel communal rather than individual. Mila brings this fearless authenticity to everything she touches, and that pushed me too. We both wanted the record to feel like an invitation: Come celebrate yourself with us. The song arrives at a moment where queer visibility is expanding, but so is public resistance. How do you personally carry joy and celebration without ignoring that tension? I think joy itself is resistance. For me, celebrating doesn’t mean pretending challenges don’t exist - it means choosing not to let them steal my light. I’ve learned that the more authentically we live, the more space we create for someone else to breathe. So I try to hold both truths at the same time: yes, there are real struggles, but there is also real beauty in who we are, and that deserves to be loud. The new video leans into spectacle, glamour, and performance instead of vulnerability alone. What did it feel like to step in front of the camera this time without the need for protection? Honestly, it felt freeing. Earlier in my career, I think I sometimes used performance as armor - now performance feels like celebration. I didn’t feel the need to hide behind anything this time. I got to step into the camera fully - joy, confidence, a little sass - and just have fun. And after everything the world has been through, I think people deserve a little glamour and sparkle right now. A lot of listeners grew up with the original song and attached their own survival stories to it. What do you hope those same people hear in this new version that they might not have been ready to hear ten years ago? I hope they hear permission - permission to move from survival into joy. Ten years ago, the song helped people hold on; now I want it to help people step forward. You don’t just deserve to make it through life - you deserve to celebrate who you are while you’re living it. If “Beautiful” was the hand on your shoulder saying you’ll be okay, “Beautiful 2.0” is the voice saying now go shine.

DeepFaith have never treated songs as finished objects. For them, a track is a living thing that keeps mutating, picking up new light depending on who touches it. With the Breakbot Dreamix of Y&I , that philosophy turns into something almost romantic. This is less remix culture, more emotional archaeology. The original Y&I   already carried weight. Byron Spencer and Danial Stricker built it around intimate vocals and baroque-leaning chords that felt cinematic but fragile, like a love letter written in neon. It was a track about closeness that didn’t beg for attention; it pulled you inward. Early support from Rolling Stone, triple j, and tastemakers across Europe wasn’t just hype. It was recognition that DeepFaith operates in a lane where pop can be maximalist and deeply personal at the same time. Enter Breakbot, a figure synonymous with French house elegance. Instead of overpowering the song, he treats it like glass. His Dreamix wraps the vocals in warm analog glow, adding a sunlit bounce that feels effortless but precise. The bassline glides rather than hits. Synths shimmer like late afternoon reflections off city windows. You can picture it immediately: rooftop speakers at sunset, strangers leaning into each other, the air thick with that quiet electricity before night fully arrives. What makes this version land is restraint. Breakbot doesn’t flatten the emotion into club polish. He amplifies the tenderness. The chorus blooms wider, the groove breathes, and the song’s core vulnerability becomes something communal. It’s no longer just a private confession. It’s a shared memory waiting to happen. DeepFaith’s whole identity thrives on contrast. Their world is cinematic yet chaotic, intimate yet explosive, and this Dreamix slots perfectly into that tension. It proves that reinvention isn’t a marketing move for them. It’s the engine. Each collaborator becomes a new lens, refracting the same emotional center in different colors. Y&I – Breakbot Dreamix  feels like a refined chapter in an ongoing story about connection, art, and trust between creators. It’s a reminder that dance music at its best isn’t escapism. It’s an emotional translation. And DeepFaith keeps finding new dialects. “Y&I” has now lived multiple versions. At what point do you know a song is strong enough to be reimagined instead of left alone? Daniel: When we were writing this song, originally we wanted it to sound like ‘E-Type’, which is a 90s euro dance group, kinda like Ace Of Bass. I think you know it’s strong when you can play it on a piano or an acoustic guitar, and it sounds just as good, if not better. Byron: Why not reimagine things, dream up other variations, and collaborate with fabulous people? It’s like karaoke. Breakbot’s Dreamix shifts the emotional temperature of the track without losing its core. What surprised you most about hearing your song through his lens? Byron: I loved the tropical chill element. To me, it’s a bit more tropical sunset with a coconut and a slow dance while crying and giggling. Daniel: How great Breakbot is : ) I mean it wasn’t really a surprise.. but he nailed the French Touch. Your project thrives on contrast: cinematic versus chaotic, intimate versus maximalist. How intentional is that tension when you are creating? Byron: We are both erratic, contrasting human beings. I think it’s just a natural thing that comes out through the work. Collaboration seems central to DeepFaith, not just musically but visually and conceptually. How do you decide who enters your creative orbit? Byron: We reach out to people we admire, love, and know, and hope they are open to entering our universe! With this remix pushing “Y&I” into a more club-forward space, how do you see DeepFaith evolving next: deeper into dance culture, or further blurring genres entirely? Byron: It's blurry as fuck.

Ross Alan ’s new single “Loveland (feat. Lisa Gumm)” feels like a statement of arrival. Following the momentum of 2025’s breakout “Cry Again,” the track locks country storytelling to a disco pulse and turns it into something bright, emotional, and built for movement. Co-produced by Taylor Morrow of PureGoldBaby, the song blends warm, rootsy textures with a sleek dance-floor engine. It’s polished but heartfelt, letting Ross Alan’s theatrical edge sit comfortably beside a genuine sense of longing. Lisa Gumm’s feature adds lift and balance, her voice softening the chorus and expanding the song’s emotional reach. Under the shimmer, “Loveland” carries a clear message. Ross Alan frames the track as a reminder of shared humanity in a moment defined by division, turning joy into a quiet form of resistance. The optimism never feels naïve. It feels deliberate. The dance beat becomes a vehicle for empathy, not escape. The Dirk Fenstermacher-directed video doubles down on that glow, wrapping the song in sunlit visuals and dreamy intimacy. It reinforces what Ross Alan has been building toward since their 2023 EP Revelation: a genre-blurring identity that values honesty as much as spectacle. If this single is the blueprint for their upcoming summer 2026 LP, Ross Alan isn’t just experimenting with country-disco. They’re claiming it. “Loveland” is catchy, compassionate, and confident, an invitation into a world where connection still wins.

K Daniel' s “My Everything” walks a dangerous line and wins. A Valentine’s Day single about devotion could have easily slipped into greeting card territory. Instead, he delivers a track that feels physical, lived in, and slightly messy in the best way. It understands that real love is not clean. It is rhythmic, imperfect, and addictive. Built on a warm, midtempo pulse that leans into dancehall and R&B textures, the production glows without overpowering the emotion. The groove is slick but human. You can hear the space in the beat, the way it invites movement instead of demanding it. Producer Benjamin David Hosteler keeps everything polished but sensual, letting the track breathe so the vocal becomes the center of gravity. K Daniel sings like someone who actually means what he is saying. His voice sits right at the edge of vulnerability, soft but controlled, never overselling the sentiment. There is a quiet confidence in the delivery that makes the lyrics land harder. When he leans into lines about choosing love despite friction, it feels less like fantasy and more like a promise made after a long night's conversation. What makes the song stick is its emotional precision. The writing acknowledges tension, imperfection, and the small negotiations that keep relationships alive. That nuance matters right now. Pop is flooded with either hyper toxic love songs or disposable flirt anthems. “My Everything” sits in the middle and says intimacy can be sexy without being shallow. It is a track for people who have actually been in something real. Culturally, this hits for listeners tired of irony. There is no wink here. No emotional armor. K Daniel is building a lane where dance pop becomes a space for sincerity again. You can play this in a club, in your car at 2 AM, or alone with headphones when you are overthinking someone you care about. It adapts to the moment. It is a slow-burning record designed to live with you, not just pass through your algorithm. For a new era statement, it feels fearless, romantic, and refreshingly adult.

“Born Outta Step” feels less like a single and more like a barroom oath.  The Infamous HER  aren’t chasing polish here. They’re chasing communion. From the first stomp and accordion swell, the track locks into a loose, celebratory swing that sounds built for sticky floors, raised glasses, and voices shouting lyrics they barely know but fully mean. Monique Staffile leads the charge with a voice that doesn’t beg for approval. It kicks the door open. There’s grit in her rasp, but underneath it is warmth, the kind that turns a drinking song into a manifesto. The hook lands like a chant for anyone who’s ever felt out of sync with the room and decided to dance anyway. Country pop frameworks are there, sure, but they’re roughened by punk attitude and glam theatrics. It’s Nashville by way of the Lower East Side, boots splashed with glitter and beer. The production leans into its Irish pub spirit without slipping into novelty. The accordion lines don’t feel gimmicky. They feel ancestral, like the song is tapping into a lineage of misfit anthems that existed long before streaming platforms and genre tags. You can hear the spontaneity in the arrangement, the sense that this was written in a moment of collective affection for the weird friends who make life tolerable. That emotional core keeps the track from becoming parody. It’s rowdy, but it’s sincere. Lyrically, “Born Outta Step” celebrates the outsiders without romanticizing struggle. It’s about choosing your people and finding rhythm in shared difference. The Infamous HER frame individuality as a group sport. You’re weird, I’m weird, good. Pull up a chair. The song’s biggest strength is how welcoming it feels. Even if you’ve never set foot in Nashville or an Irish pub, the invitation is clear. This is party music with a thesis. Under the noise and laughter is a simple argument: belonging isn’t about fitting in, it’s about finding the ones who don’t. The Infamous HER raise a glass to that truth and make it impossible not to join them. “Born Outta Step” feels like a love letter to chosen family. Who were you picturing while writing it? I was thinking more about friends than family members, but ..I do have family members who are “born outta step”. My dad’s a NYC artist who came from a very Italian family from Brooklyn. He definitely rebelled growing up, and still lives life on the edge. So I guess he’s included in my song.  How did moving from New York to Nashville reshape your sound and your sense of identity as a project? If I never reshaped my identity. I’m definitely still a New Yorker at heart! But moving to a house with a lot of land lets me crank up to 11, as opposed to working on music in headphones in a nyv apartment and trying not to disturb neighbors.  The accordion gives the track a folk-drinking-song energy. When did you realize that was the right sonic direction? Ironically, we have two accordions lying around our house. So when writing this little ditty, it was the only instrument collecting dust on the floor that needed to be picked up and played.  Monique, your vocal delivery balances toughness and tenderness. How conscious are you of that duality when recording? I’m not. I just do me. I’m not a twirly worlly singing..I sing more from the gut and heart. I would say my gut is the softer side, while my heart is tough.  The song celebrates misfits without turning them into clichés. What does being “outta step” mean to you personally now? I feel the world has such expectations of what people should be like, how they should dress, what they should say, say and even look like. With AI, you don’t even know what’s real or fake anymore. So being born outta step is someone who doesn’t conform to what people expect them to be.

“Rise Up” doesn’t sound like a comeback single. It sounds like a band kicking the door off its hinges.  The Tennessee Werewolves  channel real-life catastrophe into something explosive, and the result isn’t polished redemption rock. It’s raw, teeth-bared defiance. You can hear the scars in the distortion. From the first riff, the track moves like a charging animal. The guitars are thick and punishing, built on a nu metal backbone that feels deliberately old-school but not stuck in the past. There’s a groove in the heaviness, a swing that keeps the chaos controlled. Angel Mary’s playing cuts like a blade, and the addition of Chris Wingo as second lead vocalist gives the band a brutal call-and-response dynamic. His voice lands like a battle cry while Angel’s melodies slice through the noise, creating tension instead of comfort. This isn’t a wall of sound for the sake of volume. Every hit feels targeted. Knowing the story behind the song changes the way it lands. Angel’s overdose and recovery aren’t treated as marketing mythology. They’re embedded in the performance. The chorus doesn’t beg for sympathy. It demands motion. “Rise Up” functions less as an autobiography and more as a rally signal for anyone clawing their way out of something destructive. That universality is what makes it hit harder. It’s survival music, not spectacle. The video leans fully into myth. A dystopian storm world, a wolf-headed train ripping across continents, red eyes burning through ice and smoke. It’s absurd in the best way, a heavy-metal fever dream that matches the song’s scale. The imagery suggests movement, escape, and collective uprising. You’re not watching a band play. You’re watching a universe being built around their rebirth. The Tennessee Werewolves sound like a group with nothing left to lose and everything to prove. “Rise Up” captures the moment where personal hell turns into fuel. It’s loud, messy, and alive, the kind of track that reminds you why heavy music exists in the first place: to survive it and scream about it after. How did Angel’s recovery shape the emotional direction of “Rise Up” during the writing process? We were all fired up to have her back! Wingo had joined the band a year prior, and then everything abruptly went on hold when Angel overdosed and fell into a mental psychosis. The goal was to release a song that announced both her comeback and Wingo as co-lead vocalist. We wanted a song that stands for purpose and truth, and we hope it inspires all who hear it. Wingo, what did joining as a second lead vocalist unlock in the band’s sound that wasn’t possible before? It has allowed us to explore two different vocal ranges, two different tones, and two life experiences to draw from when writing and collaborating with each other. It opens the doors to more unique storytelling at times, and dynamically, it just takes things to another level. Where I can be more emotionally charged and very forward and direct, Angel can ground me and at times,s soften my delivery when it makes sense. She has the ability to get gritty and rock with the best of them, and there are times I compliment her power by bringing more of a groove while she’s driving. All in all, it’s very powerful. I love standing side by side with her and just bringing it! Rise is just the start of what’s to come. This band is a force, and I’m excited for everyone to hear what’s to come.  The track feels both personal and universal. How do you balance telling your own story while making space for listeners to project theirs? We took Rick Rubin’s advice. We first make the music for ourselves. We try to create what we enjoy and would listen to before we share it with the audience. The lyrics sometimes have a target or theme in mind, and other times they just pour out of Angel and Wingo, as if the words were always meant to be and have a higher purpose. We always want the songs to be relatable, but we also have to maintain authenticity. We feel that if you try to please people, you lose your artistic edge. The video builds a full mythological world. What symbolism inside it feels most important to the band? The symbolism of everyone coming together with one purpose, to stand together for each person's freedom to follow their dreams and be all they were created to be, and stand up to the systems that try to control them. After surviving such an intense chapter, what does success mean to The Tennessee Werewolves now compared to a year ago? The gloves are off, and we realize time is precious. We have one life to live, one chance to make an impact on this world. We want our music to be meaningful to every listener. Our music is intended to inspire, uplift, and bring healing where it is needed.

Jake Marsh didn’t make edge of the bed to sound big. He made it to sound close. And ironically, that closeness is exactly what gives the album its scale. Written and produced entirely in his bedroom, the debut record feels like you’re sitting on the floor while he plays rough drafts that somehow already hit like finished anthems. The guitars are clean but emotional, the hooks are immediate, and the lyrics read like thoughts you weren’t supposed to hear out loud. It’s diaristic without being self-pitying, polished without sanding off the human parts. Across the album’s 11 tracks, Marsh builds a world where vulnerability isn’t a gimmick. It’s the whole architecture. On paper, the song is simple. A looped promise to do nothing, to just vibe, to exist inside a shared pocket of time. But the way Marsh frames those five minutes turns them into something sacred. When he sings “any time is enough to hear the violinists play their song when we touch,” the production subtly lifts, like the room itself just inhaled. The track floats on warm guitars and soft rhythmic pulses that never rush the moment. It lingers. It wants you to linger too. Lyrically, “ 5 minutes ” is obsessed with scale. Tiny slices of time feel eternal. A face becomes a landscape you can get lost in. Love is compared to pralines, to HD clarity, to a daydream you don’t want to wake from. There’s a sweetness here that could’ve tipped into corny in the wrong hands. Marsh sells it because he doesn’t overperform the emotion. He sings like he’s discovering it while it’s happening. That restraint is what makes the chorus land. The repeated “ooh ooh ooh” lines aren’t filler. They’re the sound of language failing in the best way. Sometimes the feeling is bigger than the sentence, and the song leans into that. It’s intimacy translated into melody. Within the full arc of edge of the bed, “5 minutes” acts like a thesis statement. The album is about proximity. To another person. To your younger self. To the version of you that still believes moments can stretch forever if you hold them right. Marsh’s NYC alt-pop instincts keep the songs hook-forward, but the emotional engine is old-school romantic. He’s chasing permanence in a world built on scroll speed. For a debut, the album is shockingly self-assured. Marsh isn’t posturing as a savior of the genre or drowning in aesthetic tricks. He’s documenting what it feels like to care deeply and hoping the recording captures the pulse. On “5 minutes,” it does. The track doesn’t just describe a perfect moment. It becomes one. And for three minutes and change, that’s enough to believe in.