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Cris Casti isn’t just chasing a dancefloor moment on “MAL NECESARIO.” He’s recreating one that actually meant something. Let’s be honest. A lot of electronic-leaning pop right now feels disposable. Built for playlists, engineered for streams, and forgotten by the next weekend. “MAL NECESARIO” moves differently. It feels like it came from a real experience, not a strategy meeting. The production pulls you in immediately. There’s a dark, synth-heavy backbone that leans into that late-night, almost hypnotic energy. It doesn’t rush. It builds. Layer by layer, the track creates this immersive atmosphere that feels less like a song and more like a space you step into. You can hear the influence of underground electronic scenes, but it never feels like it’s trying to replicate them. It feels lived in. Cris Casti finds a balance between softness and control. His delivery doesn’t overpower the production, but it doesn’t disappear into it either. Instead, it floats just above the beat, guiding you through the track without breaking the mood. There’s a subtle emotional pull in his tone that keeps the song from feeling purely physical. “MAL NECESARIO” isn’t trying to over-explain itself. It leans into feeling over narrative. That sense of losing yourself in a moment, in a place, in a connection that might not make sense outside of that context. It captures the kind of night where everything feels heightened and slightly unreal, but you don’t question it. What makes this track stand out is how it blends movement with introspection. You can dance to it, but there’s something deeper sitting underneath. That tension between escape and awareness gives the song weight. This is where things are shifting. Listeners are craving experiences, not just songs. Tracks that feel immersive, that pull you into a specific moment. “MAL NECESARIO” understands that.

Sushee is not making background music. “QUESTIONS” demands your full attention, even when you’re trying to escape your own thoughts. Let’s get real. A lot of dance music right now is built for distraction. Big drops, recycled grooves, zero emotional depth. It’s functional. It moves your body but leaves your brain untouched. “QUESTIONS” flips that completely. It pulls you inward while still making you move. The production is where it locks in first. Hypnotic afro-house rhythms sit on top of deep, ambient bass that feels like it’s vibrating through your chest. There’s a trance-like quality to it, but it never loses control. The drums keep everything grounded while the synths drift just enough to create that feeling of being slightly untethered. It feels like stepping into another space without fully leaving reality. Vocally, Sushee doesn’t hold back. There’s a rawness in her tone that cuts through the production instead of blending into it. She’s not just riding the beat. She’s confronting it. You can hear the tension in her delivery, that push and pull between doubt and clarity. It makes the track feel alive instead of polished to death. Lyrically, this is where the track hits different. It’s not just vague introspection. It’s specific. Feeling stuck. Questioning your own direction. Listening to voices that don’t have your best interests at heart. Trying to escape that noise while still being trapped inside it. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s honest. What makes “QUESTIONS” stand out is how it balances that weight with release. This is still a dance track. It still gives you that sense of movement, of letting go, even if just for a few minutes. That contrast is what makes it powerful. This is the kind of record people are craving more of. Music that doesn’t treat the listener like they’re just there to consume. Music that actually reflects what it feels like to be overwhelmed and trying to find your way through it. You’re blending hypnotic club energy with heavy introspection. How do you decide how far to push the emotional side without losing the dancefloor? In my opinion a lot of the greatest and most widely recognized club classics and dance songs have very profound lyrics and meanings in them. I usually like the feeling of it being the first time I'm listening to an electronic song: I get captivated by the musicality and rhythm, then replay it and actually realize, "Hang on, these are sick lyrics/ vocals as well." I think being able to execute a dance song where people can groove to and relate to the lyrics is a fine balance, but it's like hitting two birds with one stone if done right. I wanted to focus on making a song that was rhythmically interesting, and then I tried to shape my vocal melody and lyrics to the instrumental's vibe. The production feels almost trance-like but still controlled. What was your process for building that balance between chaos and structure? I had some sort of idea of how I wanted to execute the production when I started. I knew that outlandish-sounding synths and heavy bass-lines were going to be my starting point in the track to bring that other realm-like feeling to the track, and once I worked out a melody, I centered the drums and percussion elements around that. There was a point during production when the blend of all the instrumentals was too much and oversaturated, so I actually backed off adding more dynamics to the track. I took a short break and returned to producing this track by removing some extra percussion layers and vocal harmonies that weren't actually serving the track, and I decided to focus on making the elements that were working alot more crystallized. I think the whole journey of making this track was about balancing chaos and structure, and in the process, I learned to peel back and avoid overcomplicating things while still achieving a full sound. Your vocals cut through rather than blend into the beat. Was that a conscious choice to make the message unavoidable? 100%! I wanted the vocals to have their own journey through the song as well. At first, I wanted the vocals to catch the listener's attention. And then, as the song progressed, I wanted to play with different melodic tones and add an RnB twang to a track that doesn't necessarily sound like a standard RnB track. I also felt like, while doing this, I was able to make the lyrics and their message clear to the listeners. For the track's crescendo, I just thought it would be fun and cheeky to chop up a vocal run I did earlier in the song and create a "call and response" scenario where the background vocals almost respond to the large, chopped-up vocals. Closer to the end of the song, I leaned more into repeating 1 sentence to really push through the track's message, and I think this added almost a hypnotic/mantra element to the song as well. I tried to manipulate my voice in multiple ways to shine through the song and complement the instrumental. You touch on self-doubt and external pressure. How do you personally separate your own voice from everything trying to influence you? I feel like there's constant noise and external pressure around us as humans, and it's completely inevitable. I also feel like, with music, I've had a lot of people try to put me in one box and suggest I should only stick to certain genres. I always value people's opinions; however, I do feel that if I had listened to them constantly, I wouldn't have started producing my own music or experimenting with genre-blending. I think constructive feedback is always important to hear and can sometimes help you grow as an artist; however, I always try to keep in mind that I need to be my own biggest supporter and back my own creative decisions. I feel like I wouldn't be the artist I am today if I hadn't allowed myself the space to grow and try new sounds. Additionally, when the distractions become too much, I sometimes go off my social media accounts and lock in on music/ reading/ sewing clothes, and other creative projects/ collaborations, and develop a temporary hermit attitude. Then when I return online, I usually feel a lot more refreshed. When people hear “QUESTIONS” in a club versus alone, what reaction do you think will be completely different? I think QUESTIONS is a guaranteed 2-stepper track in the club. I think the blend of dance influences, ranging from tech-house to Baile funk, definitely allows people to enjoy the rhythmic elements of the track and to dance, feeling release and escape on the dance floor. I think listening alone allows a person to transport themselves into a spiritual realm and focus on the lyrics and the changes in the track's dynamics that may be missed in a busy club setting. Either way, I think the track can be appreciated in a sweaty, dark club at 2am on a Saturday or on a random evening while lying in your bed with your headphones on, alone in your room.

Most breakup records still follow the same tired arc. Pain, reflection, empowerment, done. Wrapped up neatly so the listener doesn’t have to sit in anything uncomfortable for too long. Jody Glenham doesn’t play that game on Still Here. Instead of chasing resolution, this EP leans into something way more real: emotional endurance. Not the dramatic, life-is-over kind. The quiet kind. The kind where you wake up, go through your day, and slowly piece yourself back together without announcing it to the world. That shift alone makes Still Here hit different. The project feels intentional without trying too hard. Hazy guitars drift in and out of focus, door-chime synths add this subtle, almost disorienting texture, and Glenham’s vocals sit right in the middle of it all, never overpowering, never hiding. It’s restrained in a way that feels mature, like she knows exactly what the songs need and refuses to over-explain them. “Love Deficiency Syndrome” is the clearest entry point into that world. On paper, it’s a post-breakup track. In reality, it’s about that weird in-between stage where you’re not fully broken, but you’re definitely not okay either. The production keeps things light, almost deceptively so, while the writing leans into that feeling of “grinning through the pain,” where you’re rebuilding your identity in real time. It’s bittersweet without being heavy, which is harder to pull off than it sounds. Across tracks like “Overtime” and “Good Fruit,” there’s a noticeable pull toward patience over urgency. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels like it’s trying to prove a point. Instead, Glenham lets moments breathe, which is rare in a landscape where artists are constantly trying to hold attention instead of earning it. By the time you reach “China Shop,” the emotional tone has shifted without forcing a clean resolution. There’s growth here, but it’s subtle. You don’t get a big “I’m healed now” moment. You get something more believable. After nearly two decades in the game, Glenham isn’t trying to reinvent herself for the sake of relevance. If anything, Still Here feels like the result of someone letting go of that pressure altogether. The cinematic indie rock elements are still there, but they’re more focused now, less about atmosphere for the sake of it and more about supporting the emotional weight of the songs. That’s where the EP really lands. Not as a comeback or a reinvention, but as a reminder that you don’t need to be at your peak to make something meaningful. You just need to be present enough to tell the truth. Still Here feels less about “moving on” and more about learning how to exist in the aftermath. At what point did you realize the EP wasn’t about closure, but about endurance? I don’t think there was a single moment; it was something I noticed in hindsight. When I put the songs together, older ones like “The Local” and “China Shop” felt just as present as the newer ones. Life doesn't really resolve (hah until it really does, it just… continues. We have this idea of becoming who we’re meant to be, or arriving somewhere, but for me, this record felt more like staying the course. I went through a period during the pandemic where I’d been promoting Mood Rock for almost two years, shows weren’t coming back, and trying to hold it together as a bandleader and a person was crushing me. This EP came out of finding a way to keep going anyway. “Still Here” isn’t about closure; it is about endurance and choosing to believe there’s something ahead, even if you can’t fully see it yet. I also think there's a message in there that is truly "It's going to be okay". Eat, sleep, rave, repeat. You self-produced this project. How did having full control change the emotional honesty of the songs compared to your earlier work? It’s the closest my music has sounded to me. Not because anyone was pushing me in a different direction before, but because I think I was still figuring out my voice, and sometimes the production leaned toward the style of other artists instead of fully landing somewhere that felt like "me" in the songs. Self-producing gave me the space to trust my instincts more. I wasn’t trying to shape things for anyone else in the room. I could let songs breathe, hold tension longer, or stay simple when they needed to. There are moments from earlier records I still love, like “Try” on my first record, or “Between You and Me” from the Dreamer EP, but this feels more cohesive. The production on Still Here is really in conversation with the songs, instead of sitting on top of them. “Love Deficiency Syndrome” balances light, almost playful production with heavier themes. How intentional was that contrast, and what were you trying to make the listener feel in that tension? It was really intentional, but it took a while to get there. I originally wrote it with my friend, the musical artist, Georgette, as a ballad, and it felt very Death Cab / Postal Service-coded. And then over time, it started picking up energy when I played it live. The turning point was when I had Jay Arner playing bass for a Sled Island set (Calgary festival). She brought this bassline in that just lifted everything. That’s when it clicked that it could be this shiny little pop song. From there, I leaned into that contrast. The synth hook is meant to sound like one of those long, drawn-out doorbells, like you’re waiting alone for Uber Eats to arrive. So depressing! There are all these small production moments that mirror elements of the lyrics, like the synths and percussion for “the sunlight, in the city.” And on the bridge, there’s a bit of a homage to the song "One" by Harry Nilsson. I read that the opening organ in that track was meant to mimic a telephone busy tone, really emphasizing the loneliness of the singer. So I tucked something similar under the bridge as a subtle nod to that. After nearly two decades in music, what did you have to let go of creatively to arrive at the restraint and patience this EP carries? I’m learning that I take a long time to do things. Blame it on my Gemini moon, but it can take me a while to decide between two things… or multiple things. I function well with concrete deadlines, but being my own producer also meant I was the one creating those deadlines, so that was a bit of a learning curve. But a little bit at a time feels right for me. I’m usually working on a lot of things at once, and I’ve had to learn to trust that they’ll get finished in their own time. I think part of what I let go of was the pressure to rush that process, or to force things into being done before they’re ready. This record came from allowing things to unfold more slowly and being okay with that. There’s a cinematic quality to your sound, but this EP feels more grounded and intimate. Were you consciously pulling back, or did that shift happen naturally as you were making it? Thank you so much for saying that. It was a conscious effort. I think what was missing from some of my earlier recordings was intimacy. I had these big cinematic arrangements, but they didn't always let the listener get close enough. With Still Here, I wanted to pull things back just enough so the songs could speak more directly. Not stripping them down completely, but being more intentional about what needed to be there. I’m definitely someone who loves adding layers. I’m a synth player; it’s hard not to, but this felt like well-applied restraint. I’ve always loved how artists reinterpret their own work too, like St. Vincent's Masseduction or Angel Olsen's All Mirrors, and that’s something I’d love to explore more of in the future.

Let’s be real. A lot of indie rock right now feels like it was made on a laptop at 2 am with 47 plugins and zero actual risk. Witty Tarbox just walked into a church, hit record on tape, and dared themselves to mean it. “The Nowhere” doesn’t ease you in. It drops you straight into a room with four musicians who sound locked in, slightly unhinged, and completely uninterested in being polished. Recorded live to a 16-track reel-to-reel at Dreamland Studios, you can feel the room in every second. Not metaphorically. Literally. The air, the imperfections, the tension. Alex Khoury’s guitar tone cuts sharply but never sterilely. There’s a surfy edge buried under the grit, like it could spiral out at any second. Cody Tarbox holds everything down on bass with this steady, no-BS presence that keeps the chaos from collapsing in on itself. Colin Gray on drums is surgical without feeling robotic, which is a rare balance most bands never figure out. Then there’s Seth Bykowski on sax, which completely flips the band’s dynamic. It doesn’t feel like an add-on. It feels like the moment the band stopped playing it safe altogether. The sax lines drift in and out like they’re arguing with the guitars, adding this unpredictable texture that makes you lean in harder. Vocally, nothing is overcorrected. No glossy tuning, no safety net. And yeah, that means it’s not “perfect.” Good. That’s the point. You’re hearing a performance, not a revision. Culturally, this lands at a time when AI-assisted music is starting to blur everything into the same overproduced haze. Witty Tarbox pushing back with a live-to-tape record feels almost rebellious. Not in a gimmicky, nostalgia-bait way, but in a “we actually trust the music” kind of way. “The Nowhere” isn’t trying to impress you. It’s trying to make you feel something. And whether you like it or not, it succeeds. You chose limitations over endless digital control. At what point did that stop feeling risky and start feeling necessary? Not sure if it felt too risky, just another viable option. However, it did feel necessary. Due to the time constraints of money and life outside of music, we only had 3 10 hr sessions to record the album. The limitations of analog to digital meant we recorded to tape with a 30-minute limit. Each song we did 30 minutes of takes, all recording simultaneously in one room, and chose the best take of the bunch. Each take had warts, each take had mistakes, but this was real, live music. We were excited to put out a record that wasn't overly polished like most music today. Between the takes and some vocal/auxiliary instrumentation overdubs, we finished the record with about 2 minutes to spare on our 30 hrs of studio time. We don't think there's any other way we could've gotten this done. What was a moment during the live recording where everything almost fell apart, but you kept it anyway? The track "Fentanyl Crawl" was an idea for an interlude. We didn't have much there besides jamming on that main guitar riff a few times prior. So for our takes, we just improvised to see what came out. This was day 2, minimal sleep, nonstop work since we arrived. The improv wasn't going great, and we were getting frustrated with each other without vocalizing it. Tensions were a bit high. Eventually, one of us lashed out that the song was a waste of time. It turned out to be a pretty fun track and was the only one on the album to show the funkier / jammier side of our sound. The sax changes the band’s chemistry completely. Was there ever hesitation about how far to push that shift? No, there's no hesitation with the saxophone. As an accompaniment instrument, unfortunately, it doesn't really fit in every moment of every song, but the brass definitely adds a unique sound, and we love it. Seth joined the band a yearish into our existence, and we haven't looked back. Seth brings the juice. How do you define “mistakes” now after making a record that refuses to fix them? That's an interesting question. The tempos are inconsistent, with a push and pull depending on the moment in the song; strings are plinked instead of plucked, horns squawk instead of being smooth, and bass fuzz overtakes the drums. It is what it is, and we think it provides character and realism. In a day where AI is taking over everything from art to people's jobs, we hope this record can stand out amongst the overproduced and soulless mass of trash. The mistakes are there, and they're definitely mistakes. But we love 'em. If someone says this record sounds “imperfect,” what do you think they’re actually reacting to? Probably all of the mistakes we made, to be honest, haha! That and the sound of a band being recorded together in a room. With recording it live rather than multi-track, we were hoping it could provide the listener with a sense that they were in the room with us. This record was a frenzied thrash of artistic endeavor. We hope people can appreciate it as a moment of realism in an increasingly unreal world.

Most artists flirt with “important.” Enjelique walks in and flips the whole table. “Blood on the Throne” doesn’t feel like it was made for playlists. It feels like it was made because it had to exist. That alone already puts it ahead of 90 percent of what’s dropping right now. Let’s start with the obvious. A 75-track orchestral session, fully self-written, produced, mixed, and mastered. No label. No safety net. That’s not just impressive, it’s borderline disrespectful to an industry that keeps pretending you need a team of ten to make something cinematic. Enjelique just proved otherwise. Sonically, this is huge. Not “big for an indie artist,” huge. Actually huge. Strings swell like they’re scoring the end of the world, drums hit with controlled aggression, and the entire arrangement moves like a slow burn explosion. You can hear the influences, sure, but it never feels derivative. It feels intentional. Calculated. Personal. Her voice is where things get uncomfortable in the best way. There’s no begging for attention, no over-singing for effect. It’s controlled, almost surgical. Like she’s not asking you to listen, she’s delivering a verdict. When she hits lines like “there’s blood on the throne,” it doesn’t feel poetic. It feels accusatory. And yeah, the subject matter goes there. Corruption. War. Cultural theft. Systems that benefit from silence. The kind of topics most pop artists avoid because they’re too busy chasing sync deals. Enjelique leans straight into it without turning it into a lecture. That’s the difference. She trusts the listener to feel it instead of spoon-feeding the message. What really lands is the universality. She never names names, and that’s exactly why it hits harder. The “throne” becomes everything. Governments, industries, idols, and even the systems we participate in daily. It’s uncomfortable because it’s supposed to be. Outside the music, the story matters. A Black woman building a fully orchestrated, genre-blurring record from scratch while working a full-time job in New York is not just inspiring; it's transformative. It’s disruptive. Especially in a space that still underestimates who gets to be “technical” or “visionary.” “Blood on the Throne” isn’t trying to be liked. It’s trying to wake people up. You built a 75-track orchestral record completely solo. At what point did it stop feeling like a song and start feeling like a responsibility? I don't see it as a "responsibility"; it was a necessity for me to do it myself. I've been like this since I was 11 years old, when I taught myself to produce on GarageBand. I would write a song, but then I would NEED to hear what it would sound like fully produced, like my heroes'. That's where it came from, and funny enough, I actually loved producing. I've produced orchestral records before, but just like when I was eleven, I needed to hear what it sounded like with professional-level engineering. I couldn't hand that over to someone less invested in it than I was. And I'm not saying I won't hand my creations over to engineers who actually do this for a living, but for this first one, I needed to know that I could do it myself. You avoid naming specific figures in the lyrics. Was that about protecting the message from becoming dated, or making sure no one could dodge it? Definitely making sure no one could dodge it. It's not a "timely" message; it's a message applied to every generation. And there are just too many to name, haha. Just turn on the news, and you'll see 10% of them. I also don't want to give them any more power than they already have by naming them. It also allows the audience to assign a name based on their own background and experiences. I want people to have that power to call out who they want to call out. Fans call you “The Female Prince.” Do you see that as alignment, pressure, or something you’re actively trying to break away from? It's an honor and a privilege. I feel it aligns because Prince advocated for self-production, elite showmanship, and expert musicianship—qualities that I believe I embody. I get comments all the time that Prince would've loved me, so I humbly hold that in my heart. I want to continue his legacy, not to be him, but to keep the torch lit for what he stood for. You’re talking about corruption, power, and cultural theft in a pop format. Did you ever worry about alienating listeners, or was that the point? HA! Yes, absolutely, it was the point. I have 0 interest in appealing to corrupt conservative white men. They are not my audience in the slightest. My audience is the fellow underdogs, the ones who are left out, told no every day of their lives, the ones who silently fight. So I believe that this will resonate with them. You balanced a full-time job, industry work, and a completely independent rollout. Be honest, what nearly broke you during this process, and why was it still worth it? If I stop to think about it, I'll probably start crying, haha. I am so passionately driven about my music and career that I'm always working. Always. Even on a "day off," I'm brainstorming, reaching out to people, and writing a new song... I have to physically turn off my phone to get some peace. But yes, it's incredibly difficult for your brain to always be on, constantly switching between corporate America, then as an assistant, and then as an artist, which already requires at least five roles. But... It's worth it because 1. people need this song. It didn't come from me; it came from the universe to share, and I have to do my best to share it. 2. I do have a deep sense of pride to know I'm using every drop of my energy and my time to move my career forward. If this doens't work and I don't achieve my dreams, I know i did my ABSOLUTE best. No question. 3. It's worth it because if i DO keep going, I will be able to achieve my dreams and fufill my life's mission: to use my light to light the inner candles of others. So it's hard, but yes, it's worth it.

Most artists ease you into their world. Xeno Ray JNB throws you straight into the static and dares you to stay. “Everything is Chrome” isn’t built like a traditional single, and that’s exactly the point. At its core, it runs on a warped electro-funk loop that feels deceptively simple on first listen. Sit with it a little longer, and things start to unravel. Textures distort, layers creep in, and what once felt catchy starts to feel off. Not broken, just intentionally unstable. That tension is where Xeno Ray JNB lives. At 19, Xeno Ray JNB isn’t chasing clean narratives or polished perfection. He’s chasing a feeling. Here, that feeling is digital overload. Identity blur. The kind of numbness that hits after being online too long, when nothing feels real anymore. If you’re paying attention, the influences are there. There’s a Prince-like bounce buried underneath, but it’s been glitched out and dragged through something colder. The repetition feels hypnotic, almost like it’s meant to get under your skin on purpose. Which sounds extreme until you realize that’s the commentary. Modern life loops. Trends loop. Even emotions start looping until they lose meaning. The CHROME pack pushes that idea further. The “Radio Error” version leans into fragmentation, making the track feel like it’s breaking apart mid-stream. The slowed, reverb-cut stretches everything into a hazy, detached space. Then there’s “SB-129 ADHD LOSING MY MARBLES,” which lives up to its name. Gabber, glitch, and full sensory overload collide in a way that shouldn’t work but somehow does. What makes this release land isn’t just the experimentation. It’s the intent behind it. Xeno Ray JNB isn’t being weird for the sake of it. He’s building a world. One that reflects digital alienation, creative burnout, and the pressure of trying to exist authentically in a system that constantly flattens identity. Not everyone’s going to get it. Xeno Ray JNB already knows that. But that’s the risk. And honestly, that’s the appeal. With Mono Modern on the way, “Everything is Chrome” feels like a warning. This is the accessible version. It only gets stranger from here.

Let’s not pretend the club scene hasn’t been getting a little too polished lately. Too clean. Too safe. Too worried about being aesthetic instead of actually fun. Dirty Versachi does not care about any of that. “ENBY COWGIRLFRMHELL” comes in loud, messy, and fully unhinged in the best way possible. From the first few seconds, it feels like walking into a packed room where the air is thick, the floor is sticky, and nobody is pretending to be anything they are not. It is chaos, but it is controlled chaos. Sonically, Dirty Versachi lands between electro-pop and dirty underground dance, but it's the execution that lands. The bass hits aggressively without overwhelming. The pacing drives nonstop. It's built for movement, not passive listening. This isn't a background track. It takes over the room whether you like it or not. Vocally, things get way more interesting. Dirty Versachi is not just delivering lines; they are shapeshifting. The use of pitch manipulation and formant shifts turns the voice into multiple characters at once. Masculine, feminine, somewhere in between, somewhere outside of it entirely. It keeps you guessing, and more importantly, it keeps the energy unpredictable. And that is really the point here. This track is not about fitting into identity boxes. It is about blowing them up completely. There is a raw, almost reckless confidence running through the entire record that feels earned, not manufactured. It taps directly into that feeling of being out, being free, and not caring who is watching. Lyrically, it leans into camp and provocation without turning gimmicky, which is a hard line to walk. The title alone could have been a joke. Instead, it becomes a full character, a full energy, a full night out packed into three minutes. What Dirty Versachi understands better than most is that dance music is not just about sounding good. It is about feeling something physical. Release. Escape. Control. Loss of control.

Brooklyn's Sharkswimmer are on to something. "Meticulous Reach," the new single from their upcoming EP Course Correcting (out via Trash Casual), is the kind of track that gets better the more you sit with it: a tight, melodically sharp piece of post-hardcore that earns every second of its runtime. The song lives in a specific psychological space: the early stages of a relationship coming apart, where paranoia quietly takes the wheel. Sharkswimmer describe it as exploring "all the paranoia and stories we can allow to bubble over in the process of letting go," that particular kind of spiral where you become your own worst enemy, manufacturing damage before anyone else can cause it. What makes it work is the slight tongue-in-cheek awareness around all of it. The band knows how absurd the internal noise gets, and "Meticulous Reach" captures that imbalance sharply. One person emotionally checked out, the other in full overthink mode. "And did you notice that you don't notice anything?" hits exactly the way it should. We dig this one. It's confident, it's emotionally exposed, and it lands with the kind of urgency that feels earned rather than performed. The track comes paired with a vertical music video, a deliberate format choice that reinforces the song's claustrophobic interiority and meets audiences where they actually are. It works. Recorded with Brian Dimeglio (Bartees Strange, Pinkshift, Superbloom) and mastered by Jon Markson (Drug Church, Koyo), Course Correcting builds on the foundation of Sharkswimmer's debut LP Serenity while pushing into something more direct and fully realized. Keep an eye on these guys.

There’s a difference between writing a breakup song and writing a boundary, and Desiree Choy knows exactly which side she’s on with “CAKE.” Let’s be real. A lot of pop R&B right now is still stuck romanticizing toxic loops. Late-night texts, emotional breadcrumbs, men doing the absolute bare minimum, and somehow still getting songs written about them. “CAKE” shuts that entire narrative down in under three minutes. From the jump, the production feels clean but intentional. It leans into that nostalgic R&B DNA but filters it through a modern, almost cinematic polish. Nothing feels overproduced or desperate for attention. It just sits confidently, like it knows you’re going to run it back anyway. Vocally, Desiree doesn’t overdo it. That’s what makes it hit. There’s control, there’s clarity, and there’s just enough attitude baked into her delivery to make every line land like a direct message you probably should’ve sent months ago. When she draws that line, you believe her. And that’s really the core of this track. It’s not just about rejecting an ex. It’s about rejecting the entire expectation that women should stay polite, stay open, stay available, even when the situation is clearly disrespectful. The songwriting doesn’t try to be poetic for the sake of it. It’s sharp. It’s direct. It calls out the exact behavior everyone’s tired of, but rarely addresses this cleanly. Exes circling back while they’re already taken. Guys in DMs offering nothing but audacity. “CAKE” doesn’t entertain it. It laughs at it. Culturally, this is where things get interesting. Songs like this are starting to shift the tone. Less longing, more self-respect. Less confusion, more clarity. And honestly, it’s about time. People are tired of pretending the bare minimum is enough. “CAKE” isn’t just a song you play. It’s a statement you send. And yeah, some people are going to feel personally attacked by it. That’s kind of the point. You made a conscious choice to be direct rather than vague about “CAKE.” Was there a moment when you decided you were done softening your message? CAKE actually started as a freestyle—just me getting some pent-up feelings out. I realized I had been trying to stay nice and polite about my ex reaching out inappropriately, but in doing that, I was kind of reinforcing the behavior by not speaking up. I’ve always leaned more indirect because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings… maybe it’s the Asian in me wanting to save face and hope what’s implied is understood– but clearly that wasn’t landing.  To be honest, I wasn’t even fully at the point of saying these things to his face yet, so writing it into a song felt like a safe first step. It was empowering. Like… ok maybe I can say what I mean in the best way I know how to. The production walks a line between nostalgic R&B and something more cinematic. What specific references or risks shaped that sound? I love that you picked up on that. The song started really simply, just keys and bass, but it had an attitude from day one. I wanted to preserve that rawness while building something empowering off it too. My producer Jaye and co-writer Luke, and I had so much fun building that vibe around the initial pass and the final ended up being so layered and rich… pun intended :P  The biggest ‘risk’ was not over-polishing it. I wanted it to feel honest and a little playful, and deliver the message in a way that feels true to me.  A lot of artists still romanticize toxic dynamics. Do you think songs like this are part of a bigger shift in how people view relationships? I think music absolutely shapes how we view relationships: what we normalize, what we accept, even subconsciously. Toxic dynamics are relatable, and they can feel intense and exciting, so I get why they show up so often. But for me, I’m more interested in shifting the narrative toward self-worth. ‘CAKE’ is about reminding yourself who you are, and having fun while basking in your glory. You talk about maintaining standards even when it would be easier not to. What does that look like in your real life outside the music? To me, maintaining standards is about not shrinking yourself to fit what’s easy or expected. There’s a lot of messaging out there that subtly encourages us to settle or play small, and it takes awareness to push back on that. In my real life, it looks like staying aligned with what I actually want, even when it’s uncomfortable or takes more time. Showing up consistently, trusting that I’m deserving of what I’m working toward, and not accepting less just because it’s available. And for the record, sliding into someone’s DMs with “you’re so beautiful” isn’t effort… If someone sends “CAKE” to an ex or a situationship, what reaction are you secretly hoping it triggers? I hope it creates a little “no scrubs” moment, where it clicks that you don’t get access to a high quality woman with that kind of half effort, low-quality approach.

Sean Griffin is not easing into his solo era. He’s coming in swinging, a little unhinged, and fully aware of it. “Space Girls” feels like a left turn in the best way. Built on a gritty, barnburning foundation, the track leans into absurdity without losing control. Alien abduction as a concept could easily fall flat, but Griffin plays it with just enough humor and edge to make it land. It’s tongue-in-cheek, but it’s not a joke. There’s still real songwriting underneath the chaos. Coming off the legacy of The Ruffians, this release makes one thing clear. Griffin is not trying to recreate anything. He’s expanding. People Are Mad already sounds like a project that’s pulling from different timelines of his life, and “Space Girls” sets the tone as something unpredictable, a little reckless, and fully intentional. “Space Girls” is chaotic on the surface, but it still feels controlled. Where do you draw the line between being ridiculous and actually saying something real?  With “Space Girls,” I leaned into the insanity and chaos, and relied on the structure and form of the arrangement and rhythm section to still give it a skeleton. In all seriousness, what could be more real than getting abducted by amorous space women? I think we captured the experience in a very vivid and authentic way, and I will not be surprised if it starts a new category of song. I hope my example will empower other people to open up about their experiences with space girls.    You built a strong identity with The Ruffians. What did you feel like you couldn’t say or explore there that pushed you into a solo project?  The Ruffians are still around; it was a matter of scheduling and realizing my vision for the songs.  It felt freeing to be able to open up my songbook and not have to imagine how to fit it into a certain lens of Irish punk. I am very happy with what we accomplished and think it should be in everyone’s collection.    The concept of alien abduction is funny, but it also plays with control and power dynamics. Was that intentional, or did that meaning reveal itself after the fact? The concept of Alien abduction, or creating an intergalactic “love” fantasy, was  NOT the initial intent. I wasn’t expecting a Fifty Shades of Grey but in silver jumpsuits. It started out with a fun riff on my guitar, and loving bands like The Cramps and the B-52’s, and just having fun with it.  It is all in good fun.    People Are Mad is a loaded title. Who exactly is mad, and do you see yourself as part of that?  Yes, People Are Mad as a title does have multiple ways to interpret; however, I grew up near Danbury, CT, which is known as “Hat City.” Back in the day, mercury vapors were released during the hat-shaping process, and they had poorly ventilated factories, leading to mercury poisoning in the workers, which made the workers seem crazy, hence the phrase “Mad Hatter.”  I was going for more of that angle on it.  So yes, “people are mad, people are crazy from the moment you’re born till you’re pushing up daisies.” We all have a bit of silliness, craziness, and madness in all of us, certainly myself included.  You have to just laugh, or you’ll cry.    There’s a sense that you’re not trying to be “liked” with this release. Do you think artists hold themselves back by trying to be too digestible? What are you saying exactly?  Haha. You are right, I don’t want people to like the songs or the record, I want them to absolutely love it! I look at each song as its own little world, or environment, and try to give it space for the characters or the listener to exist in that space. I hope that people can identify with the song on a level that means something to them, or that they can at least enjoy.  I think there is a bit of something for everyone with this collection of tunes. As far as what other artists do, I can’t speculate, but I hope they enjoy what they are doing as much as I did making this album.  I really feel we made an absolute classic with this album.