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Long before algorithm playlists and TikTok snippets, one of the most recognizable sounds on the internet lived in everyone’s pocket. The bright, glassy chime that defined early iPhone culture carried the same DNA as the dreamy synth-pop world built by Owl City. While Apple never marketed its ringtone ecosystem around celebrity producers, the sonic fingerprints of Owl City’s creator, Adam Young, quietly helped shape how an entire generation experienced sound design on mobile devices. The Sound of a Bedroom Producer Meets Silicon Valley Adam Young’s rise is one of the purest internet-era success stories. Working alone in a Minnesota basement studio, he layered shimmering synths, soft percussion, and childlike melodies into tracks that felt futuristic and nostalgic at the same time. When “Fireflies” exploded in 2009, it didn’t just top charts. It introduced a mainstream audience to a hyper-clean, digital aesthetic built from software instruments and meticulous sound sculpting. Apple, at the time, was obsessed with sonic identity. The iPhone wasn’t just a phone. It was a design object, and its ringtones needed to feel modern, friendly, and emotionally neutral enough to live in millions of lives without becoming irritating. Young’s production style aligned perfectly with that philosophy: crisp tones, playful textures, and melodies that felt optimistic without demanding attention. Industry insiders have long noted that Apple’s ringtone library during the late 2000s and early 2010s pulled heavily from the same production ecosystem that artists like Owl City were pioneering. Sound designers and composers working in that orbit used similar synth engines, sampling techniques, and melodic structures that Young popularized. In other words, even when he wasn’t credited line-by-line, his aesthetic was everywhere. Why Owl City’s Style Fit the iPhone Era The early smartphone era needed a new emotional language. Old polyphonic ringtones sounded robotic. Apple wanted warmth without clutter. Owl City’s music sat in a sweet spot between electronic precision and human softness. His tones sparkled but never pierced. His melodies looped cleanly. His arrangements left space. A great ringtone has to be instantly recognizable, short, and emotionally readable in under two seconds. Young’s songwriting instincts leaned toward micro-hooks: tiny melodic phrases that felt complete on their own. The same instincts that made “Fireflies” unforgettable translated naturally into the architecture of notification sounds. Cultural Crossover: Pop Music as Interface Design The late 2000s marked a turning point where pop production began influencing product design. Phones were no longer neutral tools. They were lifestyle extensions. Owl City’s success proved that digital sparkle could carry real emotion, and tech companies noticed. The ringtone palette of that era mirrored the optimism of his music: bright, clean, and slightly whimsical. It’s not about a single contract or a headline credit. It’s about influence. Owl City helped normalize a sonic language that tech brands adopted as their own. His bedroom-pop textures became part of everyday life, embedded into alarms, alerts, and tones that millions heard daily. The Legacy in Your Pocket Today, notification sounds are more muted, more minimal, more invisible. But the DNA of that earlier era remains. The expectation that a device should sound friendly, musical, and emotionally intelligent traces back to artists who treated electronic sound as storytelling. Adam Young was one of the clearest architects of that shift. Even if most people never connected the dots, the overlap is undeniable. The same shimmering aesthetic that made Owl City a global pop phenomenon helped define how early smartphones felt to use. His influence lives less in charts now and more in memory: the echo of a chime, the comfort of a familiar tone, the moment a device felt like it had a personality.

“silver moon” does not chase a chorus that saves you. It sits with you instead. That choice alone makes Rob Linx stand out in a pop landscape obsessed with quick relief and tidy endings. This song lives in the hours after everything goes quiet. The production leans subtly yet intentionally, blending warm acoustic textures with modern pop polish and faint indie-folk undertones. Nothing feels oversized. Nothing reaches for drama. The atmosphere is cinematic without being loud, like moonlight through a cracked window rather than a spotlight on a stage. Vocally, Rob Linx sounds grounded and exposed simultaneously. His delivery is restrained, almost conversational, which makes the emotional weight hit harder. He does not oversing his pain or package it for sympathy. He lets the lyrics carry the truth. That honesty is rare, especially when the subject matter digs into depression, suicidal thoughts, guilt, and the complicated desire to save others while quietly struggling yourself. Lyrically, “silver moon” is about perseverance, not victory. Linx does not pretend growth is pretty or linear. He acknowledges the weight of unanswered questions and self-doubt while still choosing forward motion. That nuance matters. This is not a song about being healed. It is about staying alive long enough to become something else. Culturally, this track lands at a moment when mental health conversations are everywhere, but depth is often missing. “silver moon” avoids slogans and platitudes. It speaks to listeners who sit with their thoughts late at night, who feel stuck between wanting more and not knowing how to reach it. This is music for people who keep showing up even when motivation runs out. With over 340k streams already behind it, “silver moon” proves that honesty still cuts through. Rob Linx is not chasing trends or trying to be louder than everyone else. He is building trust through vulnerability. That is harder. It is also more powerful. “silver moon” does not promise light at the end of the tunnel. It reminds you that surviving the dark is still progress. Sometimes that is the most important message of all. You chose perseverance over resolution on this song. Was that a creative risk, knowing people often want clean endings? Absolutely, I think anytime you step outside the realm of what’s “normal” or “expected”, you incur a lot of risk. At the end of the day, the ultimate goal is to create something for the audience; however, I think I’ve gotten as far as I have up to this point by doing exactly that, separating myself from expectations and truly looking to create and share something that not only feels true to myself, but overall unique and in some ways, motivating. It's definitely a risk not giving the "and they all lived happily ever after" kind of ending, but it's also real. Being willing to sacrifice what's wanted for what's honest is powerful, but not always well-received.  Thankfully, it seems the record has resonated well. “silver moon” sits comfortably in silence. How did you decide what not to say musically or lyrically? In all honesty, I believe that when it comes to music and art in general, feeling is EVERYTHING. How do I want the listeners to feel? How is this record making ME feel? When I create, there are times when it feels like something greater than myself is taking over, and that’s exactly where these lyrics came from, the deepest parts of my heart and mind. I wanted something that felt honest, but also had, sadly, dark and beautiful imagery and metaphors. I think the image of the “silver moon” paints exactly that picture. In a black-and-white world, the silver moon represents balance, hope, and a longing for something felt as missing. Was there anything you were scared to admit on this song but chose to leave in anyway? Absolutely, to be honest, this was one of the most personal and honest songs I’ve made yet, which, considering my style, is kind of crazy to say. This was a lot different than talking about a relationship; it was something even more important to me. One of my closest friends and their own battle with mental health and suicidal thoughts, as well as reflecting upon my own. I think, to connect most with an audience, you have to be willing to go there. Fans are clearly connecting to this track in a big way. What reactions surprised you the most once it was out in the world? I’d say there are two things: the first being how many people were really resonating with the record. In a day and age where mental health is talked about more than ever, I feel like not that many people are willing to admit the demons that they face, especially something as extreme as suicidal thoughts, whether it be themselves or a loved one. So the reception towards it and how many people reached out to me through socials was honestly such a beautiful thing and kind of my goal with the record. Secondly, I guess just how many people sing it to me, as funny as that may sound, a lot of my friends and people I know in general, that’s kind of their go-to record for me, which I find kind of funny, but I’m beyond grateful. As your audience grows, how do you protect the intimacy of your songwriting without sanding down its edges for scale? I think this is honestly the most challenging part of the process. When I started out making music, it was solely for ME. No intended audience in mind, no thoughts of marketing, promoting, and scaling the song to become a movement. Just truly creating. Obviously, now I have a lot more attention directed towards what I’m creating, as well as multiple stages of approval from me, my team, social media, etc. So I will say I don’t get the luxury of not thinking about it. However, I think I’ve done well to build my brand on that intimacy and authenticity; in a way, it is what my audience expects and has gravitated towards. A lot of songs that I love from other artists do exactly that, they stay intimate, they’re REAL, and I think that’s my advantage in all of this, so the harder it gets, the harder I’ll work to remain authentic.

When the official Grammy ceremony wrapped, the real exhale happened high above the city. Armand de Brignac transformed the iconic Skybar into A Toast to Music, an invitation-only Grammy Awards after party that doubled as one of the weekend’s most photographed late-night scenes. Overlooking the Los Angeles skyline, the event, curated by Adam Glove and Affinity Nightlife, pulled Grammy winners, actors, chart-topping artists and industry insiders into a single, champagne-fueled orbit. The Skybar celebration has long operated as a quiet institution of awards season. This year only reinforced its reputation. From the moment guests arrived, the energy leaned red-carpet formal but late-night loose, the kind of hybrid atmosphere that only happens once the pressure of the ceremony dissolves and the industry remembers how to party. EMG Models hosted the evening alongside their agency roster, setting a fashion-forward tone that turned the venue into a rolling runway. Meanwhile, celebrity DJ Talon Reid kept the soundtrack in constant motion, blending hip-hop, pop, and dance cuts that pushed the crowd well past midnight without a dip in momentum. The night escalated with live performances that blurred the line between showcase and surprise. Summit delivered an early set that warmed the room before The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus appeared for an unexpected guest performance. The crowd reaction peaked when Cali Swag District took the stage, triggering a collective flashback with their era-defining hit “Teach Me How to Dougie,” instantly pulling the dance floor into synchronized motion. Notable faces threaded through every corner of the venue. Grammy winner Misty Blanco arrived holding her trophy, joined by actress Vanessa Williams, actress Holly Robinson Peete, five-time Sports Illustrated model Kate Austin, Steve Ray Ladson, DJ Sky High, entertainer Gavin Magnus, and Grammy winner Wallie The Sensei, alongside a rotating mix of actors, musicians, and creators spanning film, television, music, and fashion. Brand activations added another layer of spectacle. Armand de Brignac champagne flowed continuously, anchoring the celebration, while guests moved between a Blvkbook art pop-up, late-night bites from Ike’s Love & Sandwiches, and a fragrance installation by Monbeau Afrique. A Timeless TAKES photo booth documented red-carpet arrivals and spontaneous performance moments, feeding the event’s real-time digital footprint. Produced in collaboration with DNT Entertainment, A Toast to Music didn’t just extend Grammy night; it reframed it. By the early morning hours, Skybar had once again confirmed its status as the unofficial closing chapter of music’s biggest evening: where wins are toasted, collaborations are whispered into existence, and the industry briefly steps out of the spotlight to celebrate itself.

There’s a specific kind of anger that doesn’t scream. It simmers. It watches. It waits. That’s the energy Snake and the Rabbit channel on “Small Town Blues,” a track that feels less like a song and more like a line drawn in the dirt. Blending Americana, psych-folk, and lo-fi grit, the husband-and-wife duo’s self-described Cowgirl Surf  sound feels lived-in, not styled. Nothing here is chasing trends. This is road-worn music made by people who have actually been burned by the system and decided to keep moving anyway. The story behind the song is unfortunately familiar. A promised opening slot. Fans who bought tickets. Gear still in the car. Then a dismissive “you aren’t playing” from a local sound guy, with zero explanation and zero accountability. No apology. No respect. Just a reminder of how small-town gatekeeping still works, especially when you’re not part of the boys’ club. “Small Town Blues” takes that moment and flips it. Instead of wallowing, the track turns frustration into fuel. Lee Patterson’s vocals sit front and center, steady but sharp, carrying the weight of being talked down to, overlooked, and underestimated in a male-dominated industry that still loves to hand out unsolicited advice. Her delivery isn’t theatrical. It’s grounded, and that’s what makes it hit. Musically, the song leans into restraint. The production leaves space to breathe, letting the bluesy undercurrent and psychedelic textures do their thing without overpolish. It feels intimate, like something written in the quiet aftermath of disappointment, when the adrenaline wears off, and the truth settles in. What really lands is the song’s refusal to beg for validation. This isn’t about proving anything to the people who shut the door. It’s about knowing you deserve more, even when you’re stuck in a place that refuses to see it. It’s about staying true when the industry tries to shrink you. As the band puts it, “No matter the circumstances, keep going. Don’t let anyone tell you what to do. Stay true to yourself.” “Small Town Blues” lives that message instead of just saying it. If this song is any indication, Snake and the Rabbit aren’t slowing down. They’re just getting louder, smarter, and harder to ignore. And honestly? That’s exactly how it should be. That moment of being pulled from the show is brutal and weirdly common in indie scenes. At what point did you realize it wasn’t just a bad night, but something you needed to document and turn into a song? It was definitely a rough night, and I needed to get through it somehow. I've always used songwriting to get my feelings out. I started writing the song that night, as soon as I got home, because I needed to process what had just happened. “Small Town Blues” feels less like revenge and more like reclaiming power. When you were writing it, were you trying to process the incident emotionally, or were you consciously building a statement for other artists who’ve been shut out the same way? At first, I was just trying to process the incident and write out my feelings. As I started writing, the song's focus shifted to venting my frustration with the venue and the band that skipped us. Lee’s vocal delivery is controlled, almost calm, which makes the anger land harder. How intentional was that restraint, and what conversations did you have about tone while shaping the track? This version of “Small Town Blues” actually took multiple recording sessions to get right. The first recording of the track was about 10 BPM slower and multi-tracked rather than recorded live. We thought slowing the song would lean into its melancholy feel, but it really lost energy when we slowed it down. Instead, we opted to record the song live at its regular tempo and overdub new vocals on top of the live recording. Because Lee was singing over the recording instead of the full band, she could sing more easily and with more control. The controlled, overdubbed vocals really added to the feeling of sadness and frustration we wanted to capture for this song. You describe your sound as Cowgirl Surf, which already pushes against neat genre boxes. Do you think resistance from gatekeepers is partly about that refusal to fit, and has that tension shaped your identity as a duo? We've never fit into a specific genre. There are certainly genres we don't play, but that doesn't mean we don't listen to or get influenced by them. I think we ultimately fall somewhere in the realm of “Americana” music, but even that doesn't quite work. We aren't a country band, but we've played with some of the best country artists out there (Emily Nenni, Taylor Hunnicutt, Teddy and the Rough Riders, Ellis Bullard). We aren't a shoegaze band, but we've played with amazing shoegaze bands (Lunar Vacation, Hannah Cole). We aren't a pop band, but we've played with great pop bands (Rocket Summer, HelloGoodBye). Ultimately, it doesn't matter if we call it “Cowgirl Surf,” “Countrygaze,” or “Lofi Laurel Canyon.” We just like writing songs and playing live music with our friends. If a younger artist heard this song after their own version of that experience, what do you hope they take from it: comfort, defiance, strategy, or something else entirely? Don't let anything or anyone get you down. Even when the odds are stacked against you, just keep going. As a DIY artist, you really have to trust YOURSELF. Trust your instincts and rely on your intuition because that's where your power comes from.

“Distant Star” sounds like two artists meeting exactly where they should. Not in the past. Not in nostalgia. Right now. Björn Yttling has always lived between worlds, but this track feels like him fully letting go of the genre rulebook. Yttling Jazz builds a foundation that is loose but intentional, driven by percussion that feels physical and slightly unhinged in the best way. Toms thump, tap shoes click, brass sways in and out like it has somewhere better to be. The groove never settles, which is the point. This song moves because it wants to. Then Yukimi steps in, and everything sharpens. Her voice is unmistakable, but here it feels lighter, more playful, and more curious than what we are used to from Little Dragon. She does not overpower the arrangement. She dances inside it. Her delivery floats above the brass and rhythm like a thought you cannot shake, guiding the song emotionally without forcing it into a pop structure. There is warmth in her tone, but also distance, which fits the title perfectly. Production-wise, “Distant Star” is rich without being crowded. Bass clarinet and trumpet add texture instead of drama. Piano lines drift rather than demand attention. Every choice feels made by people who trust the listener to stay with them. That trust pays off. Culturally, this track lands at a moment where genre boundaries feel more irrelevant than ever. Jazz does not need to sit quietly anymore. Pop does not need to flatten itself to be accessible. “Distant Star” lives in that middle space where experimentation still feels inviting. It is for listeners who want to move but also want depth. For people bored with algorithm-safe music and ready for something with personality. This collaboration works because neither artist plays it safe. Yttling Jazz does not water down jazz. Yukimi does not lean on familiarity. “Distant Star” feels alive, curious, and slightly unpredictable, which makes it exciting. It is not chasing trends. It reminds people that music can still surprise you.

Some bands arrive polished. Others arrive necessary. Power Down feels like the second type. “Shelter” doesn’t sound like a debut-era experiment or a cautious industry introduction. It sounds like a statement from artists who already understand tension, restraint, and emotional payoff, then weaponize that knowledge with surgical precision. The duo pairs generational contrast with eerie chemistry. Dan Voss Jr.’s studio-hardened instincts anchor the track in deliberate structure, while Aaron “Zeus” Zepeda injects a restless energy that refuses to sit still. The result is a song that feels haunted but controlled, cinematic but intimate. From the opening moments, the groove-infused bassline coils around the listener like a tightening grip. Piano chords creep in with quiet menace, suggesting that something is wrong long before the lyrics confirm it. Lyrically, “Shelter” drops us inside the mind of someone running out of emotional oxygen. The narrator isn’t romanticizing pain. They’re negotiating with it. Lines about refusing to suffer as a martyr and retreating inward read less like defeat and more like survival strategy. There’s a subtle but powerful reframing here: withdrawal isn’t cowardice, it’s preservation. The storm outside is real, and sometimes the bravest act is choosing to close the door. The arrangement mirrors that psychological collapse with unnerving accuracy. Horn stabs land like blunt-force trauma, interrupting moments of fragile calm and pushing the track into near panic. Then, just as the weight becomes unbearable, the song lifts. The horns stretch skyward, the rhythm opens up, and the track exhales. It’s not a clean victory, but it is a turning point. You can hear the sanctuary being built in real time. The animated music video doubles down on the theme, framing “Shelter” as a horror narrative that blurs the line between external monsters and internal ones. The protagonist moves through a decaying house stalked by apparitions, headphones on, trying to mute a reality that keeps bleeding through. It plays like a metaphor for living with anxiety in an environment that offers no safe corner. The eventual realization that the terror may be self-generated doesn’t cheapen the fear. If anything, it sharpens it. The only exit is expression. What’s striking about Power Down is how confident their storytelling feels this early in their arc. There’s no filler here, no ornamental production choices made for trend-chasing appeal. Every sonic decision serves the emotional architecture of the song. “Shelter” understands that isolation is loud, that fear has texture, and that survival sometimes sounds like retreat. Instead of offering easy catharsis, Power Down offers recognition. The track doesn’t promise the storm will stop. It promises you’re not the only one building walls to survive it. And in a landscape crowded with disposable singles, that kind of honesty lands heavy and lingers.

Gregory Tan is proof that some of the most influential artists in music are, by design, invisible. While the industry obsesses over streaming numbers and viral hooks, Gregory Tan has spent the last seven years embedding himself in the emotional nervous system of blockbuster culture. Gregory Tan’s work lives in the seconds before the explosion, the slow-motion hero walk, the breath right before impact. If you’ve watched a major trailer recently, odds are you’ve already felt Gregory Tan’s fingerprints on it. Fast & Furious 9. Jurassic World: Dominion. Star Wars: Andor. Sonic the Hedgehog 2. World of Warcraft. These aren’t just credits. They’re cultural moments, and Gregory Tan’s cinematic pop and hybrid orchestral style is part of why they hit so hard. Gregory Tan’s compositions don’t decorate visuals. They weaponize emotion. The low-end rumbles feel tectonic. Strings slice through the mix like searchlights. Every drop is engineered for maximum psychological payoff. What separates Gregory Tan from a wave of copycat trailer composers is intention. There’s a clarity to Gregory Tan’s architecture. Gregory Tan builds tension like a storyteller, not a preset pack. Silence is used as aggressively as sound. When the music surges, it feels earned, like the final act of a film collapsing into a single breath. Gregory Tan’s philosophy mirrors his career trajectory. Gregory Tan didn’t chase virality. Gregory Tan built systems. Consistency over lottery-ticket moments. Reputation over shortcuts. In an industry that runs on relationships as much as skill, Gregory Tan understands that being dependable is its own superpower. People bring Gregory Tan back because the work lands and the process is solid. This feature isn’t about a single track. It’s about a composer shaping the emotional grammar of modern media. Gregory Tan is part of the unseen engine behind today’s spectacle, and the fact that most audiences don’t know Gregory Tan’s name yet almost feels like a glitch. Because if blockbuster culture has a sound right now, Gregory Tan is one of the people writing it.

NOVABLOOD hail from Carlisle in the north of England. They’ve released music before. This is the first track that made us lean in. “I Used To Live In A House” sits in a space that feels classic without sounding borrowed. There’s a clear new-wave pulse to it, the kind you’d link to bands like Talking Heads, but it doesn’t feel retro. It feels current. The bass loops and keeps the track moving. The drums stay locked in. The guitars cut across the rhythm instead of smoothing it out. Nothing here is trying to be pretty. It’s about momentum. That sense of rhythm isn’t an accident. Mark Zowie, the band’s singer and producer, comes out of club culture, with years spent making and playing electronic and house music before turning his focus to NOVABLOOD. You can hear that DJ brain in how the song locks into a groove and refuses to let go. His vocal pushes against the beat, half spoken, half driven, giving the track real frontman energy. The song feels natural. Not stacked. Not overworked. It sounds like a band in a room locking into something and letting it run. You can hear the air around the instruments. Lyrically, it lives between memory and unease. It looks back at a life that once felt solid and finds the cracks in it. When he sings about having “a roof over my head,” it doesn’t sound safe. It sounds thin. Their new album, You’re New To This Aren’t You? , is out in March via Mint 400 Records. After 2024’s Destroy The Magic  and a heavy run of touring and club shows across the UK and Europe, this feels like a band tightening its focus. A lot of new music comes and goes. This doesn’t. NOVABLOOD feel like they’re stepping into something sharper, and this track is a great example. We caught up with Matt Zowie to chat more about the record, how it came together, and where NOVABLOOD are headed next. You can read that conversation below. Hey Mark, thanks for taking the time. With the new album You’re New To This Aren’t You? coming out and marking a new chapter for the band, how are you all feeling about where things have landed right now? There’s been a lot of hard work and dedication to put this album together. Each and every contribution to the final recordings can’t be over looked as they all interact in a way to tell the full story. The icing on the cake is we’re now signed to Mint400, a label that really seems to understand the directional flow and appreciates us a band. Their overall enthusiasm for the music we send them inspired us to drive deeper into everything we feel we want to explore. You seem to play a sizable creative role in shaping the music, even though it’s clearly a shared effort. When you zoom out from the details, what does this record represent to you personally, and where do you feel it came from? My contribution to the band is both in the initial song writing and production. I’ve produced many forms of electronica over the years and this album is simply a directive turn to a form of music close to my heart. My love of post-punk, new-wave and electronic music has simply spilled into these compositions. It’s just an expression of sound and arrangement that has been built up over time and an extreme desire to avoid current commercial dance music sensibilities. The first single, “I Used To Live In A House,” has a nostalgic pull that brings to mind that era of smart, slightly off-kilter pop from the 80s, but it still feels very current. Was that connection something you were conscious of, or did it only become clear once the track was finished? The production is what gathers its current feel and the writing is the inspiration and direction. It was with complete intent but a need for it to make me feel all the feels that the music I listened to did, in my teens. There’s a sensation of rule breaking and energy I wanted to capture within the music. There’s a strong physical drive running through the songs that feels controlled rather than overbuilt. How do you know when a track has done enough on its own without needing more layered onto it? The term, ‘less is more’ was used a lot on this album. Rather than coat the underlying tracks with deep keys and chord structuring as I’ve almost relied upon before, it was about little patterns and odd juxtapositions within the instrumentation to do the work. I work within certain realms of house music production allowing the tracks to be calm and drop to allow an energetic flow within the songs. You instinctively know when a track is finished. I didn’t allow clutter, but conversations between synths and guitar. Paul managed to bounce off a lot of the songs and not clutter. Searching for gaps and discordant guitars to bring an almost anarchic feel. You guys seem very comfortable letting things feel a little uneasy or unresolved, in a way that feels intentional. As a band, how do you decide when that tension is doing the work versus when something needs more definition? It’s about timing and not over exposing the listener to extreme repetition. Enough has to take place to maintain interest and that’s where nice compositions in key change and bridges allow the tracks to breathe enforcing groove and hypnotic slants from either basslines / guitars or a melody. Across the album, ideas seem to come through repetition and movement rather than big, obvious statements. Is that something you notice while you’re making the songs, or only later when you can listen back with some distance? I think that’s where my House Music background comes into play. Repetition is good. That is the groove. It’s the head nod. The foot tap. Dynamics in arrangement and appropriate layering must then come into play. The statements are the melodie’s, whether they are the main top line or bubbling underneath to capture the listener. James Murphy in LCD soundsystem is a master at this, The multiple layering from Talking heads also pull you in. A Certain Ratio, New Order and Brian Eno also brought this style to my ears from a very early age. The way the parts interact often feels reactive, almost like a conversation happening inside each song. How important is that sense of response between elements when you’re shaping a track? it’s totally crucial. It fills space and emphasises each note. They bounce off each other in a heavy reactive way to pronounce melody and syncopation. One instrument playing a melody can be quite dull. Having 3 or 4 different sounds or instruments to create 1 body is both exciting and exhilarating. Again, Paul did this perfectly bouncing guitars of other guitars or synths to make it complete. Compared to earlier releases, this album feels more focused and locked into its own identity. At what point did you realize this was going to be a more concentrated statement? I wanted it to reflect and respond to music I have either listened to or inspired by. I wanted it to feel cohesive and complete and the only way to do that was not sit on the periphery of a genre but consume it! When people hear NOVABLOOD for the first time through this release, what do you hope they walk away understanding or feeling about the band? I want them to realise they can’t expect us to follow a singular path. Even within a solid genre they’ll know we bring other elements and make them a part of the composition. We genuinely feel this album is a complete body of sound, energy, drive and statement. We literally feel we can take the sound anywhere we want. For more info head to NOVABLOOD's Linktree !

NÆ is not here to whisper. On “ Pretending to Be Cool (feat. Blizz ),” she kicks the door down with synths blazing and invites you into a world where pop is allowed to be smart, theatrical, and deeply self-aware. This track does not mock the idea of cool from the outside. It stands inside the performance, waves at the camera, and admits we are all playing along. Written and performed by NÆ (JaNae Contag) and Blizz (Ryan Black), the production is punchy and unapologetic. Swaggering 80s-inspired synths drive the track forward while a thick electronic groove keeps it firmly planted on the dance floor. NÆ’s vocals are confident without being cold, playful without slipping into parody. She delivers each line with a wink that feels intentional, like she knows exactly how ridiculous the performance is and chooses joy anyway. Blizz’s presence sharpens the track rather than crowding it. His composition and sound design lean into texture and movement, letting the song breathe while still hitting hard. Mixed by Ryan Black and mastered by Levi Seitz at Black Belt Mastering, the result is pop that feels maximalist but controlled. Every sound has a purpose. Every moment knows where it is going. Lyrically, “Pretending to Be Cool” lands because it refuses to moralize. NÆ does not pretend she is above the performance economy. She admits the contradiction. We critique the idea of cool while still chasing it. That tension is the song’s heartbeat. It feels honest in a way that hits harder than irony ever could. The music video expands the concept into a full collaborative spectacle. Directed by Kristen Smith and Kris Trgovich, the campy sci-fi universe is packed with disco balls, DIY props, and intentional artifice. Nathan Glynn appears as the voice of Kionius, guiding the narrative as the facade slowly unravels. Kristen Smith also serves as director of photography and editor, with lighting design by Celest Urban and production assistance from Lilith Sleater. Rigging by Kris Trgovich and Ryan Black adds to the tactile, handmade feel of the set, including a custom spaceship prop fabricated by Matt Ransom and a NASA console built by Ken Kovacin. Produced by JaNae Contag and Ryan Black, the video leans into spectacle while exposing it. When the spaceship spirals and the illusion cracks, the message lands clearly. Cool is a costume. Humanity shows up when it falls apart. The single cover artwork, photographed by Celest Urban, mirrors that same tension between polish and play. The project was made possible in part by a Creative Catalyst Grant from The Illinois Arts Council , with special thanks to Meg Gustafson and Hammy Wammy Gallery. That support is visible in the ambition of the visuals and the scale of the collaboration, which treats pop not as disposable content but as a fully realized art piece. In a cultural moment obsessed with optics, NÆ makes pop that laughs at the performance without losing the fun. “Pretending to Be Cool” is for anyone tired of pretending but not ready to stop dancing. At what point did you realize that pretending to be cool could be both exhausting and creatively rich? Thank you so much for the interview opportunity and for supporting independent artists. That’s a great question. I think the phrase “pretending to be cool” first came up for Blizz and me in a discussion about the performance of oneself online, through social media, personal websites, and having a “digital presence”. For artists, this can indeed be exhausting! Having a “curated” online presence is an act of conscious exclusion of showing publicly one’s other areas of life, while oftentimes putting forth our very best selves. It takes work.  At the same time, an online persona can be empowering creatively. Not only is there power in some level of anonymity granted through having an online persona, but there is also the opportunity to lean into the possible fictions, narratives, and sci-fi intergalactic conflict that can be constructed from it. Creatively, the performance of “cool” opens up weird and wild possibilities, not to mention acknowledging that it can be fun. It is important to mention that Blizz (Ryan Black, Producer and Featured Artist) and I also nod to the fact that the performance of “cool” isn’t just something we do online. The online world is an extension of the offline world, where many of us perform for various encounters on a day-to-day basis. The way we perform is coded in social expectations - whether it is making friends at a new job, going out on a first date, or hanging out at a house party. I truly think people want to be perceived as “cool” in any circumstance - and it’s even better when they’re self-aware of it. That’s the play of the song - pretending to be cool and being aware that you’re being ridiculous while doing it. How do you decide when camp is doing the emotional work versus distracting from it? I love that you asked this. In the NÆ universe, the camp aesthetic actually blurs some of the distinctions between authenticity and simulation. The characters NÆ and Blizz adventure through the galaxies in a fictional narrative that in many ways parallel real lived experience. Camp allows us to introduce a sense of imaginative play to our music and the universe we’re building around it. NÆ and Blizz meet beings on new planets with real problems or issues. This structures the narrative with questions surrounding how we can learn from the problems and experiences of others.  For example, NÆ and Blizz recently met a new friend named Xob on the planet Consumeron. Xob is an immigrant to that planet, trying to fit in by wearing a trendy hat and eating the trendy ice cream. They desperately want to fit in, and are emotionally relatable - even as an intergalactic being (technically a puppet made of cardboard, spray paint, and fur!)  In this way, we use camp as a means to evoke humor and acknowledge the low-tech props and puppets we have (and our own lack of acting skills). But it also sets up a world that is relatable, with sincere characters, and a visual aesthetic that is authentic to us. If it’s distracting from the emotional work, that’s okay! It can be fun and silly for someone who experiences the campy qualities of our work for the first time. But on a deeper level, I think the camp aesthetic of our work resonates with our friends in the queer community, people who want to reconnect with their inner child, and kids of all ages. The video leans into visible artifice. What did letting the seams show unlock for you creatively? Good observation. We love showing the seams in the production of our visuals! It unlocks the excitement and interest of understanding more than the surface value. It’s as though we’re winking at the viewer and saying, “dig deeper… there’s more.” It is a little bit of showing the viewer how we perform the “magic trick”, without giving away all the secrets. I think there is also an aspect of celebrating craft itself. It’s the idea that the human hand is visible in the work. Our use of cut paper, wires, strings, googly eyes, and tactile materials keeps the “Unaeverse” grounded in something physical and handmade. I think there’s something inviting about seeing how something was built; it reminds the viewer that imagination is accessible, that magic can come from everyday materials, and that creating a universe doesn’t require perfection. How do live audiences react when they realize the joke includes them, too? I’m not sure if it is a conscious or subconscious realization, but “Pretending to Be Cool” definitely gets folks at our shows dancing and singing with us! I think when we embrace that aspect of performance / pretending, the stage dissolves and we’re all just moving together. It’s exhilarating! We once performed the song at a festival when it rained during our entire set. The audience was with us dancing in the rain until the end! We’ll always remember that. What risks did you take on this track that you would not have felt ready to take earlier in your career? The last time we did an interview with y’all was in 2021, when we released our music video for the song “Sugar Pumps”. It’s been almost five years since then, and I feel we’ve evolved in so many wonderful ways as artists and musicians. This track doesn’t have a typical pop music structure and has a unique way of building to a chanted bridge towards the end of the song. We’ve also performed so many more shows on live stages in Chicago, and that gives us the opportunity to really “play test” each song, how we want to sing it, dance to it, and perform it.  I think earlier on in songwriting, Blizz and I would be hesitant to have a lyrical line that repeated so much, like “going higher, higher, higher, higher, higher, higher up,” thinking it would feel overdone or redundant. But having experienced this song in the context of our live shows, the audience loves the build of it and can sing along with us! In the produced version of the song, it keeps that live energy and rewards listeners who sing along. In the music video, we really let our guards down in terms of the performance of “cool”; whereas in the past (“Sugar Pumps” is a great example), my performance was fully trying to appear cool (even in a ridiculous situation). In the “Pretending to Be Cool” music video, NÆ and Blizz fully spiral; they fully lose their cool, as the spaceship metaphorically overloads, lights on fire, and starts crashing back down towards an unknown planet where adventure awaits the duo!

“ High ” doesn’t beg for attention. It assumes it. IVY steps into her most self-assured era yet, and she’s not looking back. Some pop songs try way too hard to convince you they’re confident. “High” is not one of them. IVY doesn’t oversell this moment. She owns it quietly, dangerously, like someone who already knows the room is watching. “High” is icy, minimal, and sharply dressed. The production from Liam McCluskey is clean to the point of arrogance, leaving no clutter. Every synth pulse feels intentional. Every beat lands with control. This isn’t maximalist chaos or TikTok-core noise pollution. It’s late-night European pop energy, designed for low lights, reflective floors, and loud headphones. IVY’s vocals are the real weapon here. She doesn’t oversing. She glides. There’s restraint in her delivery that makes the song hit harder because she’s never chasing the listener. She lets them come to her. The confidence is runway-ready but never cold. Think hypnotic, not hollow. Controlled, not detached. Lyrically, “High” leans into clarity and momentum rather than melodrama. It’s not about spiraling. It’s about elevation. Emotional, social, artistic. That matters right now. Pop is overloaded with chaos-core confessionals and trauma-as-content. “High,” says something sharper: self-assurance doesn’t need a breakdown to be valid. Context matters. Following the bold electropop punch of “Corvette,” this track feels like the tightening of the vision. Less noise, more authority. It’s part of IVY’s upcoming EP, which is clearly positioning her in a lane where cohesion actually exists, a rarity in an era of algorithm-first releases. Who needs this song? Anyone tired of pop that screams instead of speaking? DJs want something sleek between bangers. Listeners who want to feel powerful, not forced. “High” doesn’t explode on first listen. It lingers. And that’s why it works.