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Rock n’ roll enthusiast, Rourke, blends classic rock, politics, and compassion into his latest single, “I Can’t Breathe.” The single is part of a wider album, Starstruck , set to release before the summer.  Rourke writes about real people and events in his music, while maintaining the true spirit of rock. “My goal is to create a brand of rock that gets rock back to where it used to be. 70s meets 80s. Songs that stay in your head and you’re still hearing an hour later. That’s what’s missing from rock n’ roll these days. I want to bring rock back to basics,” shares Rourke. Rourke’s musical journey began as a preteen, when he picked up the guitar casually but decided to go to film school instead. It wasn’t until more recently that he returned to music as a platform for his beliefs.  “ In 2016, I was spending a lot of time on social media arguing with people about politics. The anger and frustration didn't bring out the best in me, so I took a break from the online community. Instead, I picked up my guitar and focused on expressing myself with music,” tells Rourke. Turning raw emotion into song became a way to connect rather than debate. Rourke began to write about a divided America and the issues that surrounded it. Within a short time, he found himself with more than 1000 unfinished songs. The moment to turn these ideas into a demo would soon arrive. Over the past five years, Rourke has dedicated his spare time to developing Starstruck  one story at a time. “The demo started as an acoustic demo inspired by Guns N’ Roses and 70s/80s rock. Little by little, it spiraled into electric bass and guitar and took on a hard rock sound. When it became an album, there were also Blues songs and more ballad-type stuff. The whole album is 10 songs with original artwork. The cover is a photo I took myself while driving in downtown LA that became a theme for division in the country,” explains Rourke. “I worked with my producer in Los Angeles and studio musicians to help record it. It started out as a demo of four songs and changed over time into a full album with a full band — a full experience,” he adds. “I Can’t Breathe” is the third single of the album and sends a powerful, evocative message. “It speaks about George Floyd and issues in the country. When I played it for a girl at work, she started crying at the bridge. It’s a song people get emotional about. Floyd wasn’t he first to die saying he can’t breathe. It’s about the bigger picture from an emotional perspective.”  The song is broken down into five parts that take listeners through five emotions of the Black experience, beginning with fear, anger, sadness, and frustration — and ending with a sense of hope. “When I first conceived it, I wrote on the acoustic guitar,” tells Rourke. “The outro was a last-minute addition. It didn’t feel complete without it.” With the help of childhood friend, Rami Jaffee of Foo Fighters fame, Rourke transformed the song into a moving statement piece. Jaffee plays keyboards on the other nine album tracks, while guitarist Richard Fortus from Guns N' Roses performs on two songs. The entire album offers additional introspection to be enjoyed song by song. Listeners who are drawn to protest themes should also listen to Rourke's single "Rise," which Rourke describes as his "Michelle Obama" song.  When Obama said, "When they go low, we go high," Rourke transformed it into the chorus "When they go low, we rise." The lyrics offer a call-and-response formula, with Trump's bullying the “call” and Obama's “response” turning the song into a searing rock anthem some have compared to Bon Jovi and Green Day.  “I Can’t Breathe” is available on all streaming platforms, with promotional support from  Starlight PR .   Make sure to stay connected to Rourke on all platforms for new music, videos, and social posts. Instagram   | Tiktok  | X   | YouTube   | Facebook  | Links    By: Nadia Sobehart

“good” is a confident escalation from  Hailey Hermida , an artist adept at translating emotional risk into sound. The track captures the surge of reconnecting with someone you never fully let go of. It’s not soft nostalgia. It’s volatile, thrilling, and destabilizing. The production is thick and intentional, built on driving guitars, heavy bass, and tense percussion. Nothing feels decorative; each element pushes the song forward, mirroring the story's emotional momentum. The sound is rooted in pop rock but carries a darker edge shaped by early 2000s aggression over polished modern gloss. Vocally, Hailey Hermida delivers with clarity and force. Her performance balances control and urgency, letting emotion rise without excess. She leans into intensity for an honest delivery. Her confidence commands the center of the track without overselling the moment. Lyrically, “good” thrives on contradiction. It captures the excitement of a spark that never faded and the vulnerability of reopening a closed door. Hermida avoids romanticizing or dramatizing the experience, presenting it as real, complicated, and unresolved. That honesty gives the song its staying power. In a cultural moment where pop punk is resurfacing without always bringing emotional weight, “good” stands out. This is not a revival for the sake of a trend. It is an evolution that respects the genre’s intensity while grounding it in lived experience. The track speaks to listeners who crave music that feels physical, emotionally charged, and unafraid to sit in discomfort. "Good" positions Hailey Hermida as more than a promising pop-rock voice. It shows an artist shaping her sound with intention and confidence, and a clear sense of why intensity matters.

“Keep The Feel In” does not pretend to be deep in the moody, sad-girl sense. It is deep in the way movement is deep.  Michelle Galas  understands something a lot of dance-pop forgot along the way. Music is supposed to move you, physically and emotionally, not just soundtrack your phone scroll. From the first beat, the track is alive. The production pulses with confidence, clean but never sterile, driven by a sax line that feels like a shot of adrenaline straight to the spine. It is bold to lead with sax in 2025. It is bolder to make it feel cool instead of novelty. Galas pulls it off because she commits fully. No irony. No apology. Her vocals soar without forcing it. There is strength in her tone, but also ease. She sings like someone who trusts the groove to carry her, not like someone chasing a hook for algorithm points. The melody sticks because it feels natural, not engineered. You can hear her global roots in the rhythm. Caribbean warmth, European pop precision, and London club energy all braided together without sounding confused. Lyrically, “Keep The Feel In” keeps it simple on purpose. Love. Movement. Staying open even when life feels heavy. In a moment where everything feels loud, anxious, and over-explained, that simplicity lands as rebellion. This song is for people who are tired of being emotionally exhausted by their playlists. It is permission to feel good without having to justify it. The replay value is high because the track never overplays its hand. It builds, releases, and leaves you wanting one more run back. Perfect for a dance floor, a late-night walk, or blasting through headphones when the world feels like too much. The video seals the deal. London becomes a playground, not a flex. The joy feels real. Passersby getting pulled into the moment matters because it proves the point. Music is still a universal language when it is made with intention instead of ego. “Keep The Feel In” matters right now because dance music needs artists who believe in joy without turning it into fluff. Michelle Galas is not chasing trends. She is carving space for movement, connection, and unfiltered release. And honestly, we need that more than another sad bop pretending to be deep. You lead with sax on this track. What made you confident enough to let that instrument drive the energy instead of hiding it in the background? The sound of a saxophone, even though it is related most of the time to Jazz music when it is loud and is played with energy, gives a punch to a song and music. Your music feels physical first and intellectual second. Is that a conscious rejection of where pop culture has gone? My music and songs are to make people dance, feel good, and take life easy, but the lyrics also has meaning. Pop Music today is a mix of everything, physical vibes and intellectual vibes, up to you to choose where you want to be and how you want to feel. How does growing up in Guadeloupe still show up in your rhythm choices today, even when you are making music in London? Guadeloupe rhythms such as beguine (traditional sound) or Zouk music are based on the Djembe and melodies that inspire me, but I like to play with sounds, so my music producer groovstacymusic we are grooving crazy. We like to create and experiment. You self-directed the video. What was one visual idea you refused to compromise on, even if it made the shoot harder? I refused to compromise the presence of tourists who were watching the filming of the video and just entered the video. We did not expect this, so it was very nice to see people react to the vibe of the music just wanted to be part of our filming. When fans tell you this song helped them escape a rough day, what does that responsibility mean to you creatively? That makes me glad and shows me that my music has a mission to groove this world and make it smile. Groov’WithMe

“Mirage Lover” seduces you slowly, confident you sense every nuance. It presumes you feel the silent tension building beneath restraint. Diane and David Arkenstone, performing as The DADA Project , embrace restraint entirely in this track; that’s exactly what makes it effective. The production remains smooth and polished, with a deliberately unhurried pace. Downtempo rhythms have space to breathe while subtle textures glide beneath the surface. No sound feels accidental; each beat is measured, every pause purposeful. Designed for dim rooms and long glances, this is music for emotional distance, styled as glamorous rather than empty. Diane Arkenstone’s vocals are the anchor. Soft but confident, they move through the track like a slow dance that never resolves. She does not oversell the emotion or chase intensity. She lets desire simmer. That control gives the song its power. It feels intimate without being needy and sensual without being obvious. The songwriting explores a familiar, yet rarely discussed, moment. It captures the connection that sparks, flares, then vanishes quickly; one person lingers, another slips away. The elegance with which “Mirage Lover” frames this imbalance is notable; it sidesteps melodrama, instead making fleeting intimacy beautiful precisely because it doesn’t last. Culturally, this track lands in a moment when everything is immediate and disposable: swipe culture, fast romance, faster exits. The DADA Project does not fight that reality. They romanticize it. They lean into the fantasy of the temporary and make it feel luxurious, not hollow. That choice feels intentional and refreshing. Mood drives the replay value here. This isn’t a song to blast once and forget. It settles into your space, shifting the atmosphere around you. Each listen unveils fresh production details and adds new weight to the vocal delivery. “Mirage Lover” proves The DADA Project understands subtlety in a landscape that confuses volume with impact. It is sleek, seductive, and emotionally controlled. Not every love story needs closure; sometimes, the mystery is the point.

Electronic music loves to talk about vibes. Jaqomo actually builds worlds. “The Egg” is the quiet flex inside  Jaqomo ’s two-project drop, and easily the most revealing moment of her catalog. This is the only track where she steps out from behind the synths and lets her own voice lead. Not filtered into oblivion. Not chopped into a texture. Fully present. In Farsi. That choice alone separates this from the endless algorithm-friendly electronic sludge clogging playlists right now. “The Egg” feels like a rebirth without announcing itself as one. The production moves patiently, with soft tension baked into the low end and a sense of restraint that most producers would not survive. The beat never begs for attention. It just breathes. Processed elements hover instead of being hit. The groove is subtle but intentional, the kind that sneaks up on you three listens deep when you realize you have not skipped once. Vocally, Jaqomo sounds intimate in a way that feels almost invasive, as if you are overhearing a memory rather than consuming a song. Even if you do not understand the language, the emotion is unmissable. That is the point. It is not about translation. It is about presence. The track trusts the listener to feel first and analyze later, which is a dying art in electronic music. Context matters here. Jaqomo is not some new producer fishing for a breakout moment. She already did the grind. She already hit her goal of 20 albums. She already walked away. Then life handed her a Lamborghini, and instead of turning that into pure flex culture, she turned inward. “The Egg” honors where she started, not where she is parked. This track matters right now because it refuses to perform for the internet. It is anti-clout, anti-noise, and anti-rush. If you are burned out on electronic music that sounds impressive but feels empty, this is your reset. “The Egg” is not chasing virality. It is building longevity. Replay value is high if you have patience. If you do not, that is on you. You waited years to release your first recorded vocals. What made now the right moment to let people hear your real voice? As “The Egg” was the first song I ever recorded, I felt timid about my vocal ability, and I particularly preferred the spoken word style over a singing vocal style. I didn’t feel confident in my vocal range to add it to my music, and I feel a lot of the trending music of today’s generation is distracting from the actual music. After I released more albums in my instrumental style, many artists requested to collaborate their vocals over my tracks, and it helped me to gain the confidence to finally release my first recorded track with my own vocals. Now felt like the right moment to release this track because after producing twenty albums, I wanted to go back to the beginning and honor my roots, and the meaning of the words in my track are more relevant today where I have gained a deeper understanding of how I want to express myself and to feel more confident with my voice being heard, whereas before I wanted to strictly focus on honing my music production skills and to have my tracks just be about the music itself. It has alot to do with the first cd I ever owned as a young girl and played on my boombox being a Yanni cd that was all instrumental and the way that music moved me as an artist to really feel the music instead of focusing on vocals and repetitive lyrics, it allows the listener to feel it differently than adding a singing voice over the track.  “The Egg” feels intentionally restrained. What did you have to unlearn as a producer to let this song stay minimal? I actually made this song in university as part of a class assignment for sound engineering, where my school provided the right equipment to record sounds. Many of my peers had recorded arbitrary noises in a way that wasn’t coherent, and my final product was well-received and highly praised by my teacher, which was actually the definitive moment that I realized I had a skill that I could actually do professionally and not just as a student. Producing more developed tracks in my future albums, I realize that for my first track, I had to unlearn the way that each layer makes my songs, where I have a bass layer, a drum layer, and a melodic layer. All of my tracks have consistently been recorded in one take with absolutely no editing, and so they are all live recordings and especially for my first track I hadn’t learned yet that having layers in the track are really what sets the tempo and rhythm to make it a uniform sound, so the minimal sound has a lot to do with the exclusion of a bass and a drum layer.  How does releasing music in Farsi change the way you think about your audience and who this work is actually for Releasing this song in Farsi was from a poem my grandma taught me when I was a child, where the meaning of the lyrics is about a golden chick being trapped in a tight space with walls of stone enclosed with no windows and doors, and shaking the body to soon emerge into a brighter world. It changed the way I thought about my audience because it was always my dream to revive traditional poems and songs of my culture in a modern way. Many songs of today’s generation are oriented just to be trendy and catchy and I wanted to make music that had a deeper meaning. It was for a country that we all lost a part of being part of the Iranian diaspora, where our musicians were persecuted and no longer allowed to make music. Making this track for all of our shared pain and trauma and the sense of nostalgia for a home that no longer exists, this song was so deeply moving for me that I knew if I ever had my own vocals on any track, they would have to be in Farsi to resurrect everything that was taken from our culture where no other vocals were even meaningful enough for me to want to record.  You completed your career goal and stepped away. Did coming back with a new identity make music feel riskier or freer? Completing my career goal of 20 albums by 2020 was a project that took me four years, starting in 2016, when I was so inspired by other artists that it influenced me to make my own style. The last song of the collection was called “Stop Awhile,” where I felt complete and finished and had the freedom to create 300 tracks and to do so independently where many other artists are restricted and exploited by the demands of a label, so much so that it takes away from the actual music and makes it an obligation instead of it being about passion. Coming back with a new identity completely liberated me as I had already done the hard part of making the music, and I could finally promote it in a way that did it justice and enjoy listening to it and sharing it with others, and that my humble goal from the start was just about having my music heard, and not so much about the artist, where i deliberately withheld my own vocals to have a sense of anonymity where it didn’t require an artist presence and was purely about the passion of the actual music.  Seeing your car become part of your art is wild. Where do you draw the line between symbolism and spectacle? Having my car become part of my art felt meant to be , where there is an existing element of having a Lamborghini and music coexist together so well that they complement one another as a pair. I always value the symbolic nature of license plates and having a foundation where I was brought up playing with little toy cars, to put my artist name on such an exquisite vehicle, it felt like I was doing so much justice for the work that I created and the dreams I had as a child. I always value humility over ostentatious behavior, so I tried to do so in a way that wasn’t a spectacle but rather symbolic of everything that I represent and am passionate about.

Songs for a Chase Sequence do not sit still. It paces, pivots, and presses forward with nervous energy, like a band that knows standing around is not an option.  Glacmanis  delivers an EP that feels wired for motion, built on tension rather than nostalgia. Sonically, the Manchester four-piece pulls from familiar post-punk DNA without cosplay. Angular guitars snap and shimmer. Basslines push the songs forward instead of anchoring them in place. Drums stay tight and intentional, never showy but always driving. There is a clear early 2000s New York indie influence here, but Glacmanis avoids imitation by keeping everything raw, slightly unpolished, and human. Vocally, Josh Haylock and Matt Lewis trade a detached urgency that fits the EP’s themes perfectly. The delivery is cool on the surface, but simmering underneath, like thoughts racing faster than the body can move. Nothing feels overperformed. The restraint makes the tension sharper. Lyrically, this EP is smarter than it first appears. Glacmanis take aim at fragile masculinity, inherited access, and an industry that talks endlessly about discovery while recycling the same names. The writing mocks without preaching and critiques without sounding bitter. It is observational, not moralizing, which makes it hit harder. What makes Songs for a Chase Sequence matter right now is its refusal to romanticize stagnation. In a scene increasingly obsessed with aesthetics and algorithm friendliness, Glacmanis sounds interested in momentum and ideas. They are not chasing virality. They are chasing movement, friction, and growth. This EP feels like a turning point. A band locking into its full lineup and sharpening its point of view at the same time. Songs for a Chase Sequence proves Glacmanis are not just part of the Manchester scene. They are actively pushing against it, and that tension is where the energy lives.

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Photo by Matthew Koma If you’ve ever screamed along to an EDM chorus at a festival, replayed a pop-leaning electronic track because the vocals hit a little too hard, or wondered who keeps singing on all these massive drops, there’s a solid chance the answer is Matthew Koma . Yes, Hilary Duff’s husband. But zoom out for a second, because that headline barely scratches the surface. Before celebrity couple discourse entered the picture, Koma was already one of the most influential and anonymous voices of the 2010s electronic boom. Not a DJ. Not a producer chasing the spotlight. A songwriter and vocalist whose voice became the emotional backbone of a whole era of EDM. You know the records. Zedd’s “ Spectrum, ” "and “ Find You ," Hardwell’s “ Dare You ,” Tiësto's " Wasted ,"  Afrojack 's " Keep Our Love Alive , " Alesso's  " Years , " Steve Aoki's " Hysteria , " Flux Pavillion's " Emotional , " Midnight Kid's " Serious " and a long list of festival staples where the chorus mattered just as much as the drop. Koma’s voice wasn’t just featured; it carried the feeling. The human weight. The part that made those songs stick long after the lasers shut off. What often gets overlooked in the Matthew Koma conversation is just how deep his songwriting and production résumé extends beyond EDM. While his voice became synonymous with festival-era electronic music, his pen has quietly shaped records across pop, country, and alternative for years. Koma has written and produced for Shania Twain on tracks like “ Life’s About to Get Good ,” “ Home Now ,” “ Roll Me on the River ,” and “ Who’s Gonna Be Your Girl ,” helping bridge her modern comeback with contemporary pop sensibilities. He co-wrote Britney Spears’ “ Swimming in the Stars ,” a fan-favorite that resurfaced her voice in a more reflective, atmospheric space. His work with Kelly Clarkson (“ Someone ”), 5 Seconds of Summer (“ Babylon ”), and Carly Rae Jepsen (“ This Kiss ,” “ More Than a Memory " ) further proves his ability to adapt without losing emotional clarity. He’s also collaborated with Keith Urban (“ Change Your Mind ”), Demi Lovato and Noah Cyrus (“ Easy ”), and P!nk (“ Turbulence ”), artists who demand strong songwriting over trend-chasing production. Even Bruce Springsteen’s “ Rocky Ground (Modern Remix)” carries Koma’s touch, underscoring just how trusted he is when it comes to modernizing legacy voices without stripping their identity. While DJs became global brands, Koma stayed deliberately low-key, stacking credits and letting the work speak. That’s why so many of those tracks still hold up. They weren’t just built for the moment; they had emotional architecture. But EDM isn’t the only lane he occupies. Photo by Paige Sara / Winnetka Bowling League Taken together, these credits tell the real story: Matthew Koma isn’t genre-bound, era-bound, or scene-bound. Whether he’s fronting EDM anthems, leading Winnetka Bowling League , or shaping records behind the scenes, his role has always been the same: translating emotion into songs that actually last. This is also where the recent chapter with Hilary Duff makes more sense and feels less like a celebrity footnote. Koma has now begun collaborating with Duff on her new music, not as a gimmick, but as someone who understands emotional songwriting, pop structure, and when not to overdo it. Duff isn’t chasing her early-2000s sound, and Koma isn’t trying to recreate EDM’s peak years. What they’re working toward appears more grown, more grounded, and far more intentional. Both of them know what overexposure looks like. Both have stepped back from the industry machine at different points. And that shared perspective shows up in the way the music is reportedly being approached, less noise, more substance. Koma has also been increasingly open about mental health, burnout, and the realities of the music industry, themes that quietly shaped his earlier work and now sit front and center in his newer projects. That context matters. Especially in a moment where pop music feels either algorithm-choked or emotionally hollow. So yeah, it’s kind of wild to realize that someone you might’ve mentally filed away as “Hilary Duff’s husband” has actually been the emotional voice behind EDM’s biggest era and the frontman of a thoughtful indie band. But it tracks. The people doing the most meaningful work usually aren’t the loudest ones in the room. Matthew Koma didn’t need center stage to shape a generation of electronic music. And now, whether it’s through Winnetka Bowling League or carefully chosen collaborations, he’s finally being seen for what he’s always been: a songwriter first, a vocalist second, and a quiet architect of songs you never forgot.

There’s a very specific kind of confidence that doesn’t need to overexplain itself. “ FOUL 38 ” lives there. On this track, Amar Miller makes a clear pivot away from the exhausting Olympics of who-can-rap-the-fastest and instead locks into something way harder to pull off: restraint. This isn’t a song trying to impress you line by line. It’s a mood piece. A slow burn. The kind of record that plays when you’re already locked in and don’t need validation from anyone else. Sonically, “FOUL 38” floats. Spacey jazz textures drift over modern trap foundations, giving the song a lived-in, late-night feel that rewards patience. You can hear the Curtis Mayfield influence in the way melody carries weight, but the modern lineage is obvious too, fans of Isaiah Rashad or Smino will immediately recognize the emphasis on experience over technical flexing. Amar isn’t abandoning lyricism; he’s just not forcing it down your throat. What really lands is the confidence baked into the structure. The chorus, clean, catchy, and deceptively simple, anchors the record without turning it into a hook-factory cliché. Amar clearly knows how to write choruses that linger without begging for attention, and this one does exactly that. It doesn’t chase the listener; it lets the listener come to it. The symbolism is subtle but sharp. The .38 Special reference isn’t about violence or bravado; it’s about inheritance, carrying something forward, and knowing when it’s your turn to step up. That energy runs through the entire track. Calm, controlled, and quietly competitive. The features elevate without overcrowding. Dre Wave$ slides in effortlessly, matching the song’s measured confidence, while Wakai brings precision and musical awareness that complements the instrumental instead of fighting it. No ego battles here, just chemistry. “FOUL 38” feels like a checkpoint moment. Not a debut. Not a victory lap. More like the realization that you’re ready, and you don’t need to announce it anymore. This is music for people in motion, people betting on themselves “at all costs.” Quiet confidence is louder than flexing. Amar Miller knows that. And on “FOUL 38,” he proves it. FOUL 38” feels intentionally restrained compared to bar-heavy rap. Was it hard to trust the atmosphere and confidence instead of lyrical overexertion, or did it feel like a natural evolution? It was a little bit of both. My foundation for writing anything is through a rap lens, so I’m always trying to think of the best-sounding rhyme schemes and wordplay to use. I knew I wanted to change that up, though. I think the evolution of wanting to create more of an atmosphere is natural, but getting there definitely takes some work. I’ve made this kind of song 5-6 times behind the scenes, and it was never good enough to put it out. It took a lot of refining, revising, and learning about which sounds and voices accent different kinds of instrumentation. You’ve talked about wanting your music to feel like an experience rather than something to dissect line by line. What tells you a song has crossed that line from ‘well-written’ to fully immersive? At my best, I’d like to be able to do both for the listener, but in most cases, that’s not how people like to listen. Most times you go back to a song, it’s because it made you feel a certain way, or you associated it with a certain time or place. The way I try to create that feeling is definitely through production. I like to start out with a single beat or two and build from that, using my voice to complement the production instead of the production complementing my voice. There’s a delicate balance. I’m only 23 years old, but I’ve lived a pretty full life already. I have the privilege of having so many experiences that are saved as core memories. If I can make anything that makes me feel like being back in a core memory, I know I’ve definitely done my job. The confidence on this track is calm but still aggressive in a quiet way. How do you personally define confidence right now, and how has that definition changed since graduating from college? Confidence is quiet, pride is loud. I think it’s necessary for people to feel both. That being said, one precedes the other. The reward for being confident in yourself is being able to achieve something and then express your passion after. If you’re Ja Morant, you deserve to walk into the stands shouting if you just dunked on Wembanyama. Confidence is having certainty in yourself and who you are, but it’s quiet until you deserve to express yourself. Expressing yourself without having earned that opportunity or doing it for the sake of being seen by others is arrogance. Nobody likes arrogance. That confidence has definitely been challenged since graduating, but it’s always worked out in my favor every time, and that’s where my confidence comes from. My definition is still the same. I work very hard at my craft, my passions, my goals, and on myself. I’ve reaped the rewards from my hard work on every one of those points. However, learning, improving, and growing are never done. There are always more ways to push myself and more benchmarks to hit. At the end of the day, I have to have the confidence in myself to enjoy the rewards, but as I say to myself all the time, “onward.” You brought in Dre Wave$ and Wakai not just as features, but as complements to the sound. What do you listen for in another artist before deciding they belong on a record like this? Well, for one, I think they’re both amazing. Overall, I think they contrast each other very well, which is important for keeping a song interesting. I found Dre as I was just starting to take my career further, and kept in touch. We eventually organized a show together at my college. It was a cool little show with a lot of great people, and I’m grateful he came to kick it with us. It felt right for him to be on the song. Likewise, I’ve been tapped into Wakai for a minute, but his most recent work is some of the best in the genre to me. I truly think he’s one of the best rappers out there right now, beyond the so-called “underground” scene. I can’t think of many other artists who  compliment their production yet still do throughly elaborate their thoughts. It’s perfect. This sound and style fit both Dre Wave’s & Wakai’s pallets so well that it just made perfect sense.  “FOUL 38” feels like a ‘locked-in’ song, music for when someone already knows who they are. What does ‘at all costs’ look like for you in this phase of your life and career? To be honest, I’m still learning the balance of ‘knowing yourself’ and still learning how to push my limits, but at the end of the day, challenging myself to the extent I do does a lot for me. That’s how I get songs like “FOUL 38.” At this stage in my life, I definitely have that “at all costs” mentality, but it’s less from a place of desperation and more from a place of certainty…the idea that it’ll shake out how it’s supposed to; by way of my faith in God and belief in myself. There are plenty of things I’ve accomplished in the last several years that I didn’t know I could have, both inside and outside of music. That speaks for itself, and it’s good to keep those trophies in the back of my mind as I continue to challenge myself in all aspects of life. Onward.

Reinvention gets thrown around a lot in music, usually by people who haven’t actually done it. Denise Marsa is different. Over the last year and a half, she’s quietly but decisively carved out a new lane in dance music, not by chasing trends, but by translating lived experience into motion. “HOLE (Until Dawn Remix)” feels like the sharpest version of that mission so far. Originally rooted in emotional excavation, the remix reframes the song as a release. Not escape in the shallow sense, but the kind that happens when you let yourself move through something instead of getting stuck inside it. The UK remix team behind the track understands restraint as much as impact. The production doesn’t drown the song’s meaning. It lifts it, wraps it in momentum, and lets it breathe under club-ready pressure. There’s a reason Marsa’s run on the UK Music Week Commercial Pop Club Chart hasn’t slowed down. These tracks don’t just aim for energy; they carry intention. “HOLE (Until Dawn Remix)” pulses with buoyant synths, ringing guitar accents, and a rhythm that feels cinematic without turning sterile. It’s emotional, but not heavy-handed. Euphoric, but not hollow. What really lands is how the remix reframes vulnerability as movement. The song doesn’t deny the chaos of the moment we’re living in. It acknowledges it, then asks you to keep going anyway. There’s resilience baked into every build, a quiet insistence that healing doesn’t have to look like stillness. Sometimes it looks like dancing until the sun comes up. The accompanying video pushes that idea even further. Set inside Music Inn, the oldest music store in Manhattan, the visuals strip away gloss in favor of something warmer and more human. Downstairs, away from the noise of the city, Marsa gathers musicians, friends, family, and collaborators in a space that feels lived-in and sacred at the same time. It’s not about spectacle. It’s about presence. Seeing Marsa perform alongside longtime collaborators, staff members, and even family turns the video into a quiet argument for why music still matters. Not as content. As a connection. In a world that keeps accelerating toward burnout, this feels like a pause without losing momentum. “HOLE (Until Dawn Remix)” works because it understands its purpose. It’s not pretending music can fix everything. It’s offering relief, recognition, and a shared moment of joy in the middle of uncertainty. That balance between emotional honesty and dancefloor catharsis is hard to pull off, but Marsa makes it feel natural. This remix isn’t just another club iteration. It’s a continuation of a larger story Marsa is telling with RISK + HEAL, one where pain and pleasure aren’t opposites, and movement becomes a form of survival. If this is where her dance era is headed, it’s not just worth paying attention to. It’s worth showing up for.