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Pinwheel Valley isn’t just a music project; it’s a vessel for the emotional, spiritual, and existential weight of being human. Led by Jordanian-Canadian singer, composer, and multi-instrumentalist Qais Khoury, the project has carved out a space where Indie Soul, mellow Alternative Rock, and Folktronica blur into something atmospheric, cinematic, and deeply introspective. The sound feels like dusk: warm, moody, textured, and full of quiet revelations. Whether he’s layering falsetto against delicate guitar lines or weaving electronic elements into organic spaces, Qais builds worlds you step into, not just listen to. His journey has always been shaped by depth and curiosity. After graduating from Point Blank Music College in London and earning early accolades across international songwriting competitions, Khoury spent years building Pinwheel Valley into a project defined by its emotional honesty and creative integrity. That dedication led to airplay on NPR and RTE 2FM, features in Clash, Wonderland, Earmilk, Kaltblut, and recognition across major video award circuits, proof that his art resonates far beyond genre boundaries. But 2025 became a particularly transformative chapter. With releases like Going Away , Someway , Can’t Hear A Sound , and collaborations under his DJ alias Nativalien, Qais explored new textures and emotional vantage points. Yet Werewolf stands out as the project’s emotional spine. The track isn’t simply a metaphor; it’s a mirror held up to anyone who has ever felt like an outsider. It speaks to the immigrant experience, the racialized experience, the “othered” experience. It channels anger without endorsing violence, compassion without romanticizing pain, and transformation without ignoring the weight that comes before it. “Werewolf” gives shape to feelings many people carry but rarely articulate. It acknowledges what it’s like to be pushed to the edge by society’s expectations and judgments, and to reclaim that identity with self-awareness instead of shame. It’s music for misfits, for those who feel “too much,” for anyone whose life has existed on the edges of belonging. And that’s exactly what makes it so powerful. Outside of music, Qais experienced one of the most profound moments of his life: welcoming his daughter, Florence Evangeline. Fatherhood layered new meaning onto everything: his sense of purpose, his desire for balance, and the emotional color of the art he’s creating next. In his own words, it felt like a divine blessing, a grounding force that reconnected him to gratitude and personal clarity. Looking ahead to 2026, Pinwheel Valley is entering a new era: new music, a UK tour, Nativalien shows, and a fresh desire to stop measuring his success against timelines or comparisons. Instead, he’s embracing acceptance, growth, craft, and the joy of simply making honest art. “Werewolf” is the release you chose for our Best Independent Artists of 2025, a song about anger, survival, and feeling pushed to the margins. What life experiences or observations shaped the emotional core of this track? I’d say this track comes more from observation than personal experience. Thankfully, I’ve never been deported, detained in an immigration facility, or lived through bombings. But it’s not hard to imagine how marginalized people can be pushed so far to the edges that their anger becomes volcanic. The “werewolf” metaphor captures that feeling of being seen as an outcast, forced into painful transformations by systems that misunderstand or dehumanize you. Even when someone’s core is good, that pressure can drive them to a breaking point, where revolt becomes both a possibility and a powerful response. Your music lives at the intersection of Indie Soul, mellow Alt-Rock, and Folktronica, a blend that feels both intimate and cinematic. What draws you to that hybrid space, and how do you know when a song has found the right sonic identity? They say your sonic identity really takes shape in your late teens and early twenties, and I’ve always felt that’s true. Whatever you’re absorbing during that stretch, what you’re obsessed with, what hits you emotionally, starts to form the blueprint for the sounds you end up loving or even creating. For me, artists like Jeff Buckley, Fink, Ben Howard, Coldplay, and Radiohead were huge early influences, and as a young guitar player, I naturally drifted toward that crossroads of songwriting. Figuring out when a song has actually found its sonic identity took a lot longer, though. It’s been about two decades of sharpening my ear and learning what truly feels like “me.” I recorded my first album at 15 (2004) and never released it. My second album, which came out in 2013, lived on streaming for a couple of years before I pulled it. It didn’t meet the standard I was aiming for. With my third and fourth albums (2016 and 2018), I ended up cutting them both down to about half their original tracklists for the same reason. Some songs just didn’t feel like they belonged in the timeless sonic space I was trying to carve out. Looking back, it’s pretty simple: if a song gave me the ‘cringe factor’, it didn’t survive. These days, I’m much more aware of that instinct as I write and release new music. Honestly, that’s still why I don’t release half the ideas I work on now. I might finish a song all the way through, but if it even hints at cringe, I’ll move on to the next thing without thinking twice. You’ve been recognized by competitions, film festivals, international media, and editorial playlists over the years. How do those milestones impact your internal sense of success… or do you try not to let them define you? Accolades and recognition are all wonderful things to have, but it’s tricky not letting them seep into your head. It’s important that you don’t. Songwriting has to come from a real, grounded place, from the experiences that make the music feel human and relatable. The moment you allow the accolades and recognition to define your identity, your center moves and your voice changes, and suddenly you’re creating from a place of ego rather than authenticity.  Becoming a father this year feels like a major shift,  a grounding moment. How has welcoming your daughter influenced the way you think about art, ambition, balance, or the emotional layers of your songwriting? That’s an interesting question, because there’s still a part of my brain running on autopilot that assumes I’ll keep making and performing music exactly the way I always have. But the more aware part of me knows things have shifted. Becoming a father hasn’t changed the way I think about art, but I’m sure it’ll shape my songwriting in ways I don’t even notice yet. I’ve already written a song just for her, my baby girl Florence, which I’ll be releasing on December 26th through my alter alias Nativalien. That should give listeners a glimpse into that world.  Each part of your question touches on something different, so I’ll break it up a bit. Ambition-wise, I think the idea of me chasing the “world-famous rock star” dream is pretty much out the window now. My priority is stepping up for my family and keeping them safe and secure. The music industry has never been a reliable place for that. The creative side of music is beautiful, and I’m absolutely going to keep making things. But the financial side of it is often brutal and uncertain, and that changes the choices I’m willing to make. That ties directly into balance. I still want to create, to experiment, to put things into the world, but I have to be smarter about where my time, energy, and money go. Saying no to certain opportunities isn’t just about boundaries anymore; it’s about protecting my daughter and my family. And, as you and I both know, this industry is heavily plagued by scams and opportunists, so that sense of caution is even more important now. I can’t afford to operate on faith or impulse the way I used to. Fatherhood hasn’t rewritten my artistic identity, but it’s definitely sharpened my awareness of what, and who, I’m doing all this for. You mentioned wanting to stop stressing about where your career is “supposed” to be. What moment or realization pushed you toward that mindset change, and how does it shape the way you’re approaching 2026? It wasn’t a single moment that pushed me toward that mindset shift. And sorry if this gets a bit long-winded, but I think it all matters. First, as mentioned, becoming a father reshaped my sense of what’s truly important. I’d been hopping from one “next best” PR company to another, convinced each one might finally propel my career forward, only to realize none of them were actually helping me grow. They were just expensive illusions dressed up as opportunity. And while it’s true that we’re all on our own individual paths, that constant pressure of stressing about where my career was “supposed” to be wasn’t inspiring me or advancing anything. If anything, it drained me, financially, emotionally, and took a real toll on my mental health. And honestly, mental health has to be a priority if you want to stay steady in any long-term pursuit. Another layer of it was how triggered I felt seeing people I knew (from high school, college, or my close community), sometimes with very little experience in songwriting, start their music journeys later than I did, and somehow climb further up the industry ladder. It sent me spiraling through all sorts of blame: my parents’ hesitance about me pursuing music, friends or followers who only seemed supportive when things were going well, even my physical appearance, and whether it was holding me back. And while there may be pieces of truth in some of those things, I eventually realized that constantly molding myself to gain listeners or followers was only feeding my insecurity. It pulled me away from the joy of creating and pushed me into this mindset of unhealthy spending, where hiring PR companies month after month started to feel like the only viable route forward.  Underneath all of that was a quiet resentment toward anyone I knew who got ahead without ever offering support or even checking in. And reaching out for support felt like a barricaded approach, since I’ve also come to see how fiercely people guard their own success and networks. Plenty of folks, even the truly talented ones, aren’t actually interested in helping others rise, because in our late-stage capitalist world, some measure their value (In a very Joffrey-from-GOT sort of way) by watching others struggle beneath them. That’s simply not the headspace, or the heartspace, I wanted to inhabit anymore. So moving into 2026, I’m approaching everything with a lot less pressure and a lot more intention. I want to create from a grounded, joyful place again, without constantly chasing some invisible benchmark of where my career “should” be. You’re preparing for a potential UK tour, new releases, and even shows as your DJ alias, Nativalien. What creative space or energy are you excited to tap into that fans may not have seen from you yet? I mentioned that I was preparing for a potential UK tour with my band Pinwheel Valley, although I would love to tour as Nativalien (my producer alias for electronic dance music). It would be so much easier to do a solo DJ tour with just a USB stick as opposed to a million instruments and a minibus full of flatulence :)  Back to the question: I won’t be going on a UK tour anymore. I’m happy to have drawn the attention of booking agents, but after doing some of the math around the costs of touring, I realized these aren’t pursuits I can pull off without the support of a label. And I’m not saying a label needs to cover my tour costs, because I know that’s a bit outside the ambition scale for us indies. I mean, at least a reputable entity that understands the value of my music and can get real ears on my work before I choose to single-handedly sink a new vehicle’s worth of expenses into ten days of “you never know how it’s gonna turn out.”   “Werewolf” gives voice to people who feel different or excluded. As someone who moves between cultures, genres, and identities, what does “belonging” look like to you, and how do you create that feeling in your music? Belonging, to me, always comes back to family. And yes, Vin Diesel might deliver that line with extra cheese, but I genuinely mean it in that simple, earnest way. At the end of the day, having a supportive, joyful family, whether by blood or by choice, feels like the real endgame. It’s the place you should be able to retreat to when the world gets loud or heavy, and feel warmth, safety, and comfort waiting for you. In my music, I try to build that same sense of refuge. Each song becomes its own little universe, a small world the listener can step into. By shaping those spaces with honesty and emotion, I hope to create something that feels like family. Familiar, welcoming, and personal. If someone can press play and find a moment of solace, a place where they feel understood or at home, then that’s the truest form of belonging I can offer.

Kem’Yah doesn’t just make music, he builds cosmologies. The Congolese-Canadian artist has spent the past several years crafting one of the most spiritually grounded, interdisciplinary, and culturally intentional bodies of work in modern Afro-fusion. His sound, a blend of Bantu-cosmic philosophy, hip-hop, R&B, trap, and ancestral rhythm, isn’t designed for passive listening. It’s meant to be absorbed, interpreted, and experienced on a cellular level. Rooted in Kalunga cosmology and the ancestral teachings of the Bantu-Kongo, Kem’Yah approaches music as both ritual and revelation. His work lives at the intersection of memory, reincarnation, divine identity, and liberation, the kind of art that invites listeners to confront where they come from, who they are, and what their spirit is evolving toward. With a trilogy that spans music, short films, and a graphic novel, Kem’Yah has created a universe rather than a catalog, each release expanding the narrative and deepening the metaphysical journey. 2025 marked the completion of this monumental trilogy with Truth . If Kongo Nkisi was the invocation and Bantu Liberty was the awakening, then Truth is the rite of passage. It’s the final breath, the last transformation, the moment where ancestral knowledge meets modern urgency. Across seven tracks, the album channels the fire of Bantu-Kongo memory, the pulse of diasporic spirit, and the unshakable pursuit of freedom. Every song operates like a ceremony, weaving family, community, intention, and spiritual clarity into a soundscape that feels both ancient and futuristic. This isn’t music built for charts or trends, it’s built for resonance. It’s built for listeners who crave meaning, for those who recognize the power of art to heal, confront, and liberate. Truth stands as one of Kem’Yah’s most resolute offerings: raw in message, sharp in lyricism, and deeply connected to the metaphysical world he channels through his craft. Beyond the studio, 2025 saw Kem’Yah perform twice in Africa, including Accra’s iconic Chale Wote Festival, where he represented Congolese-diaspora futurism on a global stage. Standing on African soil added a visceral weight to the trilogy, completing a creative cycle in a way that felt spiritually aligned. Now, heading into 2026, Kem’Yah’s focus is clear: touring, connecting, expanding the universe he’s built, and carrying the trilogy’s energy into a new chapter. His advice for fellow artists mirrors the transparency of Truth itself: be open, be vulnerable, be real, because authenticity amplifies impact. Truth completes a trilogy rooted in Bantu-Kongo cosmology. When you entered this final chapter, what spiritual or emotional state were you in, and what did you feel needed to be said that hadn’t been said in Kongo Nkisi or Bantu Liberty? When Eye stepped into Truth, Eye felt like Eye had reached the deepest chamber of Myself. Kongo Nkisi was the awakening, calling the spirits, remembering who Eye am. Bantu Liberty was the battle — breaking chains, reclaiming what was stripped away. But Truth… that was the mirror. Eye entered this chapter humbled, sharpened, and spiritually heavy, because Eye could hear My late Mother saying, “Now speak with no mask.” What needed to be said was the part of the journey that’s not glamorous, the spiritual exhaustion, the self-accountability, the tests, the ego deaths… and the clarity that comes after. Truth is not just about power. It’s about responsibility. It’s about becoming the center and not just a vessel. Your music fuses ancestral philosophy with modern Afro-fusion, hip-hop, trap, and soul. How do you balance cultural preservation with cultural evolution when you create new sonic landscapes? For me, there’s no conflict between preservation and evolution; they feed each other. Bantu-Kongo cosmology isn’t a museum piece; it’s alive. Rhythm is memory, and memory moves right? So when Eye blends Kikongo/Lingala chants with trap drums or spiritual proverbs with Afrofusion melodies, I’m not fusing “old” with “new.” I’m letting the ancestral code upgrade itself. Eye think of it like, My culture is the root and My sound is the branch. If the root is strong, the branch can grow in any direction and still remain true. Each track on Truth feels like a ceremony. What rituals, practices, or grounding habits helped you maintain that spiritual intention throughout the recording process? The session for Truth started as most of m y sessions do: stillness first. My Wife lights a sage, cleanses the environment, we say a prayer, hold a smoke, and then begin creating. Eye avoided low vibrational environments and wrote a lot in nature as well, brought a kind of quiet that sharpened My intuition. You performed twice in Africa in 2025, including the iconic Chale Wote Festival in Accra. How did being on the continent, within ancestral proximity, shift your understanding of your artistry or the trilogy as a whole? Afrika gave Truth its final breath ; it made the journey real. You describe the album as channeling “Bantu-Kongo memory and modern Black liberation.” What does liberation mean to you personally, and how does that definition show up in your lyricism? Liberation to Me is the ability to live as who you are before the world named you. It’s the freedom to raise Our children with their language, their ancestors, their symbols, their royalty intact. It shows up in My lyrics as honesty, sometimes beautiful, sometimes raw. I’m not trying to be perfect; I’m just trying to be free. And if My words can wake even one person out of a spiritual sleep, that’s liberation work. Your trilogy blends music, short films, and a graphic novel — a multidisciplinary approach many artists don’t attempt. What inspired you to build a whole universe rather than just drop singles? Because Our stories deserve galaxies, not playlists. Eye grew up wanting to see divine Black families, cosmic Black heroes, Bantu mythology in the mainstream, and it wasn’t there. So Eye had to build it Myself. The trilogy became more than music; it became a portal. The films, the graphic novel, the visuals, they’re not extras. They’re extensions of the same spirit. I’m giving people a world they can enter, not just a song they can hear. Moving into 2026 with touring on the horizon, what aspects of Truth are you most excited to translate into a live setting, spiritually, visually, or sonically? The live show is where Truth becomes physical. I’m excited to bring the ritual energy, the chants, the drums, the ancestral invocations. I’m excited for the visuals, the cosmic Bantu symbols, the divine-family imagery, the Afrofuturist aesthetic. And sonically, Eye want the crowd to feel the bass in their chest, the spirits in the melodies, the presence in the silence between notes. 2026 is about embodiment. Taking everything Eye channelled in the studio and letting audiences experience it with Me, not as fans, but as participants in the ceremony.

Working Royals  didn’t return after thirty years to make something half-hearted; they came back to finish a story they started as kids.  Their album, Cross Country , is the sound of a band reconvening across provinces, airports, family schedules, and wildly different adult lives to put their shared history into something permanent, finally. The result is a rock/Americana record that hits like a box of old photos you forgot you saved. It’s warm, lived-in, emotional without trying too hard, and built on a simple truth: real music happens when actual humans show up in the same room and play as they mean it. The album eases open with “Second wind,” an invitation into a world where old flames and old memories suddenly swing back into view. The band paints the moment beautifully, a woman walks in, says hello like no time has passed, and suddenly the story that should’ve been over feels like it’s cracking open again. The narrator isn’t scared of the past coming back; he’s energized by it. It’s that rare feeling of cosmic timing, the “if it comes back, it’s meant to be” moment people write entire novels about. As an opener, it sets the tone for an album obsessed with the overlap of memory and possibility. “Jenny” follows as this surprisingly tender reminder that even strong people get swallowed by darkness sometimes. The song leans into the quiet, unspoken burden of trying to pull someone you love back into the light, not with force, not with pressure, but with a steady hand and a patience that feels deeply earned. Working Royals write this kind of emotional honesty really well; there’s no hero complex, just a man telling Jenny she’s allowed to shine again. “Better man” moves the record into heavier territory: heartbreak, self-confrontation, the emotional hangover of trying and failing to make something work. Instead of turning bitterness into a hook, the band goes inward, talking about drinking too much, burning old memories that don’t serve you anymore, and cutting ties with the people who keep you stuck in your comfort zone. There’s a maturity to the writing here: growth is messy, uncomfortable, and requires way more honesty than blame. By the time “Here right now” arrives, the album shifts into presence. No analysis, no questioning, no emotional paperwork, just two people choosing to exist in the same moment without unpacking the weight of the past. It’s simple, breezy, and necessary after the emotional scab-picking of the songs before it. Then comes one of the album’s most poetic turns: “Time.” At first listen, it plays like a song about a relationship, memories, fading moments, wondering why the wonder slipped away from someone’s eyes, but the more you absorb it, the more obvious it becomes that the “baby” in the song isn’t a lover at all. It’s time itself. Time as a thief. Time as a giver. Time as the thing that holds every memory together before pulling it apart again. It’s one of the most thoughtful metaphors on the album, and it adds a whole new dimension to the record’s theme of distance and change. “Us at our finest” reintroduces optimism, the kind that’s grounded rather than naïve. It’s a song about choosing inner alignment, listening to the voice inside you, and leveling up not just for yourself but for the people you love. The band frames self-improvement as something communal: when you grow, so do the relationships that matter. It’s less a pep talk and more a reminder that the best version of “us” starts with the best version of “you.” “Fighter” keeps that emotional grit alive, leaning into perseverance with a quieter kind of strength. There’s no chest-thumping bravado here; it’s about waiting, holding on, and enduring the parts of life that test your patience and your heart. It feels like the steady pulse between storms. Then, Working Royals let the light back in with “We are the night,” their most cosmic, spiritual moment. The song leans into twin-flame energy, the idea of meeting someone whose presence doesn’t just match you but amplifies you. It’s about two people whose connection turns into its own kind of electricity, lighting up the dark and creating space to be fully, unapologetically themselves. It radiates warmth without getting cheesy, which is a tough balance they manage beautifully. Just when the album feels like it’s floating toward hope, “Lonely road” snaps everything back into the reality of grief. This isn’t breakup grief, it’s the kind that comes from losing someone permanently. The writing is stripped down, honest, and quietly devastating. The narrator admits that no matter where he went in the world, his car kept taking him back to her memory. There’s a harsh kind of acceptance in that image, love that didn’t get a chance to play out, a road that ends before it should, and a truth you carry for the rest of your life. The fact that she passed away makes every lyric land with a deeper ache. “Colors to love” serves as the emotional lift afterward, a reflection on love that expanded someone’s world instead of shrinking it. The band uses color as the metaphor for perspective, for rediscovering joy, for the way the right relationship can shift everything from grey to vivid. It’s raw, organic, intimate, a reminder that real connection doesn’t just change your heart, it changes how you see the world. Finally, “Hard to be back” closes the record with the same emotional honesty it opened with. Coming back home after building a life somewhere else is complicated. The song acknowledges the ache of returning to a place that shaped you but no longer fits you, the tension between gratitude and growth, between loyalty and evolution. It’s not a bitter song; it’s a heavy one. A recognition that loving your roots doesn’t mean you’re meant to stay planted in them forever. As a full body of work, Cross Country succeeds because it embraces the messiness of adulthood, the reunions, the missed chances, the grief, the joy, the rediscovery of who you are when life blows you off-course. It’s a road-trip album in the emotional sense: you feel like you’ve traveled somewhere by the time it’s over. The band’s own words echo through the project: “It’s never too late to pick up the phone, book the flight, and chase the thing you’ve been talking about for years.” That mission bleeds into every guitar tone, every lyric, every live-off-the-floor arrangement that reminds you real music still exists. With vinyl on the way and their December 18 Holiday Rocktail Party set to turn Vancouver’s Hollywood Theatre into a full-circle homecoming, complete with support for Music Heals and the community that raised them, Working Royals aren’t just releasing an album. They’re building a legacy out of friendship, memory, and the courage to keep going. Cross Country feels like an album built from the lived experience of three decades of friendship, distance, and real adult life. Looking back, what moment or turning point made you all finally say, “Okay, it’s time, we need to make this record now”? Ben: It was very organic. Paul and I started exploring themes on his piano and making demos about a year ago … from there and without hesitation, we started working with long-time friend and collaborator Zach, who is based in Toronto . Music has always been a very important part of all of our lives, but it is often hard to dedicate and commit time to it with work and family. None of this felt planned, more so ‘we have to do this now’ because the music is really speaking to us and exciting. Zach: Paul and I have worked creatively together quite a bit over the years… Songwriting for fun, but also writing scripts and commercials professionally in the agency/advertising world. Our professional roads sort of led us in separate directions around 2020, but I continued writing a lot of music, especially during the depths of the pandemic, regularly sending it to Paul for feedback and reaction. After a while, I guess Paul kind of got the bug and started working up his own piano and guitar pieces, working with Ben and occasionally sending me some ideas, asking me to “pile on” with ideas. I would listen to their work on dogwalks, quietly singing to myself… loosely working up vocal melodies and lyrics… finally, I started sharing my parts back with them, and Ben would finesse and arrange… These first tunes proved the “cross country” concept, that our songs could be written over a long distance. In fact, we found there was some magic in the separation… a little independent thought, even a little broken telephone, added some surprising depth. We thought the songs were sounding good, and it seemed obvious (to us at least) that they were worth fully producing and recording… And we haven’t stopped…  After that first song or two was recorded and we got a taste of what we actually sounded like… what we were capable of,  we just kept going! A lot of these songs reflect different stages of life: old flames returning, losing someone too soon, reconnecting, outgrowing the past, and finding clarity. When you were writing, were there any lyrics or themes that surprised you by hitting harder than expected? Ben: I can share that each song tells a specific story, and each one of us has a unique perspective on the origins. Jenny started as an unassuming guitar demo from Paul with a few lyrics for the chorus. Zach works magic with weaving a story and came up with the verses. It’s a song that we didn’t expect much from, but it’s really carried a lot of weight for the record. Similarly ‘Second Wind’ - was a grooveCreated during Covid in a cabin and Zach took the vibe and ran with it … it’s far exceeded our expectations .. I know that many of these songs are personal real-life snapshots for Zach and carry a lot of honest truth - like Hard to Be Back and Colors and Colors to Love. Zach: Most of these lyrics are a pretty literal product of my last few years… It’s been a pretty heavy, bordering on dark time for me. I’ve lost some close family members and have had to recon with some pretty traumatic events and life changes, all against a backdrop of a shaky economy, wars, a climate crisis, wildfires and drought, a growing acceptance of autocratic rule, and a general dumbing and numbing of society… These songs and lyrics have been my therapy through all of this… and yeah, it always surprises me when a lyric articulates a feeling… but Jesus, the feelings are pretty (fuckin’) big right now. Not just in me, but in the world… I believe most people are too distracted and isolated by their phones, and too sedated by cheap booze and sugar to complain or even cite their experiences as notable. This is a notable time, and I, for one, do not believe it is great. It surprises me that more people aren’t singing their truths or experiences. The truth is astonishing these days. Yet, we see so much artifice and contrived glamour through social media. These songs reflect details of a real, contemporary, human life. Any sharing of real raw experience and emotion is going to create a little tension… that tension hits hard. It’s something we need more of. The album leans heavily into human connection, literally, people in a room together. Why was that “live-off-the-floor” approach so essential for capturing the honesty and chemistry of Working Royals after being apart for so long? Ben: Most of the best hooks and arrangement ideas come together spontaneously in the studio. We don’t get too precious with things; if it feels good, we usually know it and just go for it. Zach: That’s just it. Almost all of these songs were cobbled together. Parts were written separately. Sessions were volleyed back and forth between our studios in Toronto and Vancouver. It’s lonely work… and well, getting together to literally  “PLAY” and bring the tunes to life is fun! It brings out the humanity in the arrangements… people coming together making something bigger than the sum of its parts… it feels like a celebration. It’s a privilege. We all know it is a rare and special gift to be able to do this! Songs like “Lonely Road” and “Time” dig into grief, memory, and how time reshapes us. How did you balance telling deeply personal stories while still creating music that listeners can see themselves in? Zach: I believe that the more detailed and personal a story is, the more relatable it will be to an audience. If you paint an honest and believable backdrop, people are more likely to find and recognize pieces of themselves in the small details… that’s what I try to do, invite people into my stories, illuminating the bits that I think are worth mentioning, giving people/listeners enough substance to relate back to their own experience and ideally feel something themselves. As a listener, that’s what my favourite songs do for me. You’re celebrating the album with a hometown Rocktail Party that supports Music Heals. What does community mean to Working Royals? Ben: It means everything to us - we are so lucky to have a community that supports the arts, and giving back through music heals is something we love dearly … our closest friends started Music Heals and revamped the iconic Hollywood theatre, we are thrilled to be able to give back and support local music. Zach: As Ben says above, it is everything. Working together to make lives better. That’s at the core of everything we do. It’s the reason we pour ourselves into our music… It’s the most positive contribution we can make to our community.

Los Angeles producer, composer, and all-around sonic architect Yash Kapoor  just dropped his newest single “ Secrets In Your Eyes ,” and honestly, it’s giving a midnight psychological thriller you definitely shouldn’t be listening to alone. This isn’t some copy-paste pop release thrown together in a bedroom laptop session. Yash built this world with over 150 production layers, sculpting every synth, breath, and shadow into a sound that feels less like a song and more like a chase scene through your own subconscious. If you’ve followed his behind-the-scenes grind, you already know Yash isn’t new to high-level creative ecosystems. A Berklee grad with credits connected to XO, years assisting major producer DaHeala, and time spent inside the creative circles of Belly and NAV, he’s trained in precision. But what makes this track snap is the emotion underneath the engineering. His music lives in that perfect tension between cinematic darkness and vulnerable confession, as if the Thriller era collided with the minimalist tension of The Weeknd’s newer albums. “Secrets In Your Eyes” sits right in that pocket, unraveling the story of someone losing themselves in a relationship that feels both magnetic and dangerous. Yash drags us into a fever dream where obsession, control, and identity blur. The chorus hits as a warning whispered in the dark, “I’m not alone… I don’t recognize myself,” turning the hook into a mirror you might not want to look into for too long. The production flex is unreal. Haunted ambient synths, distorted textures, cinematic drum hits, and a sonic universe that keeps tightening around the listener until you feel the psychological claustrophobia of the narrative. It plays like you’re sprinting through fog, chasing someone, or maybe being chased by your own reflection. This release isn’t just a single. It’s Yash stepping fully into his solo-artist era, building a world where pop songwriting merges with film-score tension and psychological sound design. And yes, this is only the beginning. He’s currently prepping his debut album, dropping next year, plus a run of major EP collaborations with rising indie artists across LA.

Cherie Lily is turning the holiday season into something warmer, sexier, and far more intimate with the release of “Turn The Heat Up” (DJ Gomi x Cherie Lily Sultry Holiday Mix), a slow-burning, R&B-infused holiday track featuring iconic vocals from Amanda Lepore and production from dance-music mastermind DJ Gomi . Designed for late-night glow, playful seduction, and cozy winter moments, the single arrives as a bold reimagining of what a holiday song can be. For Cherie, the inspiration came from a lifetime of seeking warmth, literal and emotional. “I’ve never been a fan of the freezing cold, and growing up in the Chicagoland area, there have been many times where I’ve had to get creative to stay warm,” she shares. What she remembers most about the holidays has nothing to do with snow or sleigh bells. “For me, the best part of the holiday season, when you’re nowhere near a mountain to snowboard, is cozying up with someone you love. There’s something magical about that shared body heat and being fully present with someone you feel connected to.” With that vision in mind, Cherie leaned into crafting a fireside fantasy—seductive, intimate, and designed to heat up even the coldest winter nights. “This remix is an even more sexy invitation to turn the heat up together,” she says, describing the track as an evolution of the warm-and-spicy original she debuted in 2024. A huge part of the magic comes from Cherie’s longtime collaborator and nightlife legend Amanda Lepore, whose airy, sensual voice helps shape the song’s flirtatious tone. Cherie beams when talking about their creative chemistry: “Amanda Lepore truly is iconic on every level, and her voice, just like her image and brand, is instantly recognizable. It’s soothing, sexy, and effortlessly inviting.” Their collaboration is rooted in trust, friendship, and mutual admiration. “Supporting Amanda brings me great joy; she’s a beautiful human inside and out, and a global inspiration to so many, including me.” On the production side, DJ Gomi brings a depth and sophistication that elevates the track into something cinematic and deeply felt. Cherie first witnessed his musical prowess while working together on Kevin Aviance’s album HIPPOPOTAMUS! and immediately recognized him as a rare kind of artist. “Gomi is prolific on every instrument and a true master of production,” she says. “We collaborate incredibly well, we’re both deeply passionate about music and have an ear for every detail. He absolutely delivered with this mix.” Their partnership has since expanded into multiple projects under her Chervana Music umbrella, with more collaborations already underway. As for the vibe, Cherie makes the intention clear: this is not your grandma’s holiday tune. “This one is 100% sexy and empowered,” she says. It’s a soundtrack for date nights, glittering parties, or “when things heat up on the couch with someone you love.” At the center of the song’s seduction is a single, playful question whispered by Amanda: “Will you be my gift tonight?” With the release of “Turn The Heat Up,” Cherie steps into the season with confidence, clarity, and a deep commitment to growth, both personal and professional. “On my wish list this year, personally and professionally, is to keep investing in myself and my dreams through better time management, continuous learning, meaningful collaborations, and consistent creating,” she says. She hopes her music continues to resonate widely, allowing her to keep building Chervana Music and supporting her roster of artists. But most importantly, she wants to remain present in the process: “The ultimate goal is to truly enjoy every step of the journey. ”Seductive, smooth, and glowing with urban-winter romance, “Turn The Heat Up” (DJ Gomi x Cherie Lily Sultry Holiday Mix) is the bold holiday anthem you’ll want on repeat, whether you’re lighting up the night or winding down somewhere warm with someone special. The single is available now on all streaming platforms.  https://orcd.co/kg7570r

Sam Shi doesn’t create music from the surface; she creates it from the fault lines. The LA-based alternative electronic artist, producer, and multi-instrumentalist has spent the last year rebuilding her artistic identity from the inside out, emerging with a sound that feels like a collision of shadow and illumination. Equal parts raw and ethereal, Sam’s music lives in the liminal spaces: the moments between clarity and chaos, destruction and rebirth, truth and the versions of ourselves we outgrow. Born into a culturally fluid upbringing, Swedish, Indonesian-Chinese, London, Sweden, Kuwait, Shanghai, New York, Sam is an artist shaped by landscapes, displacement, and the never-ending search for “home.” That restless, nomadic imprint shows up in every layer of her sound: the haunted vocal textures, the visceral electronic worlds, the rock-leaning grit beneath the surface. Her work gravitates toward people who live in transition, who are reinventing themselves, who exist on the edge of courage. 2025 was a transformative year, not because she perfected something, but because she stopped trying to. Her chosen Best Of release, Perfectionism , marks the moment Sam finally confronted the internal force that had been driving her life: the relentless pressure to be better, achieve more, shrink less, and prove her worth to an invisible audience she never actually named. The song isn’t a critique, it’s an exhale. A detangling. A release. A reclaiming of her humanity. What makes Perfectionism  powerful isn’t just the sound; it’s the truth behind it. Sam wrote it while confronting exhaustion, emotional numbness, and the realization that polishing yourself into something acceptable is a form of self-erasure. The track captures the quiet violence of perfectionism, the way it silences intuition, disconnects you from your own voice, and buries the parts of you that are most alive. But the song also cracks open light. It reminds listeners that they are allowed to be in progress, unfinished, messy, evolving. The world doesn’t need perfection; it needs honesty. Beyond the studio, Sam’s year was defined by evolution. She premiered a 30-minute Joshua Tree Live Set, grew her YouTube from 360 to over 17,000 subscribers, joined the Recording Academy, launched the SURRENDER CIRCLE community, and built a new touring band. She navigated a difficult breakup, confronted emotional patterns, rediscovered self-worth, and refused to abandon herself ever again. Heading into 2026, Sam is stepping into a new era with intention: yoga teacher training, vocal-movement fusion, workshops, deeper community-building, and her forthcoming sequel album WILD WOMAN, an exploration of instinct, truth, embodiment, and unapologetic femininity. Her advice to artists is the same philosophy that grounds her own rebirth: stop waiting to feel ready. Clarity comes from doing. Truth comes from risking something. And evolution comes from allowing yourself to be seen, not perfect, but real. Perfectionism is the release you chose for BUZZMUSIC’s Best of 2025, and you’ve described it as the most honest song you’ve ever written. What moment or realization triggered the start of that song, and what did writing it force you to confront about yourself? I was sitting on the floor of my living room — tired, confused, and asking myself a question I had avoided for years: Why am I always chasing something? Why can’t I just be still?  It hit me that I had spent most of my life running from discomfort, from stillness, from the truth. Not in a dramatic way, but in a subtle, constant state of escapism. I’ve always believed I was self-aware. But writing this song pulled back the curtain and showed me how good I am at lying to myself when the truth feels too heavy. I never wanted to ask why I was always performing or who I was trying to impress, because it meant looking back at childhood patterns. I had a beautiful childhood, but I also learned to adapt, to fit in, to stay in motion. Moving around the world taught me how to blend in—but not how to slow down and ask myself: What do you want? How do you feel? Whose voice are you listening to? Writing “Perfectionism” forced me to confront the reality of my internal state.For the first time, I had to face the questions I’d avoided: What’s wrong? Why are you numb? Why aren’t you giving yourself permission to live the way you want? The song wasn’t just a release — it was a reckoning. Your upbringing across multiple countries and cultures has shaped your identity and your sound. How did that sense of belonging everywhere and nowhere influence the emotional themes behind Perfectionism? Growing up across so many countries made me adaptable, open-minded, and curious — but it also made me hyper-attuned to my surroundings. I learned how to read a room quickly, how to shape-shift, and how to fit in. When you’re constantly starting over, you become very good at adjusting yourself to what you think people want. That chameleon effect became the foundation of my perfectionism. “Perfectionism” came from that emotional landscape — the internal pressure to be likable, impressive, put-together, and unshakeable in every environment. When you belong everywhere and nowhere, you chase identity instead of inhabit it. You chase validation instead of truth. You chase achievement instead of presence.  This song was me stepping out of that pattern and finally asking: If no one was watching, who would you be? That question is still changing me. You’ve said the song exposes the “quiet violence” of perfectionism. What does that violence look like in your everyday life, and how did you reclaim your voice from it creatively? The violence of perfectionism is subtle. It doesn’t scream — it whispers. It tells you you’re not ready. It tells you you’re not enough. It tells you to shrink, to wait, to polish, to prove. For me, it looked like: Overthinking every decision Making myself small to avoid judgment and being too much Constantly moving so I wouldn’t have to feel too deeply  Working endlessly and still feeling behind Editing my emotions before anyone else could see or feel the real depth of them Feeling numb even when life looked “good” It’s a war no one else sees. Creatively, reclaiming my voice meant choosing honesty over aesthetics. Letting things be raw. Letting lyrics be imperfect. Letting my vocal take hold of emotion instead of flawlessness. Showing the cracks instead of covering them.  “Perfectionism” was the moment I stopped performing and started telling the truth. In 2025, you rebuilt your artistic identity, launched a new live band, produced a cinematic Joshua Tree performance, and joined the Recording Academy. How did these milestones shape your confidence as both an artist and a woman evolving out of a difficult chapter? Each milestone was a reminder that I’m not pretending or chasing or squeezing myself into the industry — I belong here. Rebuilding my artistic identity, forming a new band, releasing the Joshua Tree film, joining the Recording Academy… all of it affirmed that being fully myself is not only allowed, it’s respected. These wins helped me trust that I am not “aiming to be” an artist. I am one.  And I don’t need to contort myself to earn that place. The SURRENDER CIRCLE and your retreats merge movement, community, and creativity. How does physical embodiment, yoga, breath, and presence influence the emotional honesty in your songwriting? In 2023, when I began experiencing chronic illness, my body was speaking long before my mind was willing to listen. I tried everything — moving apartments, medication, supplements, dietary resets. Some things helped temporarily, but the symptoms always returned. My body was still communicating: something wasn’t right. Through meditation, yoga, and consistent embodiment practices, I realized I had been carrying years of unprocessed pain, resentment, and trauma. My mind refused to acknowledge it, but my body never stopped telling the truth. And the moment I began releasing that emotional weight, my chronic illness started to dissolve — and stay gone. I could eat normally again, live normally again. That experience changed me. It taught me that the body always knows before the mind is ready to understand. Movement, meditation, and journaling slowed me down enough to feel what’s actually happening beneath the surface. Movement reveals the emotions I’ve been suppressing; stillness reveals the ones I’ve been avoiding. Presence brings clarity. This is why the mission behind the SURRENDER CIRCLE means so much to me — it’s not just a community, it’s a practice of returning people to their bodies. When I’m physically connected to myself, my songwriting becomes clearer, simpler, more truthful. I stop performing. I stop pretending. I stop pushing for the “perfect” line. And what comes through is real. You ended a four-year relationship this year and described it as a moment of confronting demons and reclaiming your self-worth. How has that personal transformation impacted the kind of music you’re ready to make next? What mattered most about ending that relationship wasn’t the betrayal — it was recognizing the pattern I had been participating in. I entered that partnership from a lower frequency, as a version of myself who was disconnected, people-pleasing, and afraid to take up space. I felt myself evolving out of that identity, and I realized I couldn’t complete that transformation inside the relationship. I needed to meet myself again — fully, honestly, and on my own. That shift has completely changed my creative voice. I’m writing from honesty, autonomy, and a reclaimed sense of self-worth, not from the wounded patterns that shaped my earlier work. I’m no longer afraid to be bold. I’m no longer softening my truth or creating from fear of judgment. I’m letting myself sound exactly like me — not like an aesthetic, not like a vibe, not like someone I’m supposed to emulate. In many ways, I had to sound like something else first in order to understand what “me” actually sounds like. And now, the music I’m making reflects who I really am, not the woman I was surviving as. Heading into 2026 with your sequel album WILD WOMAN on the horizon, what new emotional territory or creative expression are you stepping into that didn’t exist in your earlier work? WILD WOMAN is me stepping into parts of myself I used to hide — the sensual parts, the chaotic parts, the intuitive parts, the untamed parts. It’s a return to instinct, desire, and unapologetic self-expression. Unlike my earlier work, which often processed pain, confusion, or longing, this next era holds: confidence instead of self-doubt embodiment instead of numbness boldness instead of carefulness self-acceptance instead of shame trust instead of fear  It’s more experimental sonically — louder guitars, heavier drums, darker synths, more primal textures — but it’s also more emotionally liberated. WILD WOMAN isn’t about who I’ve been surviving as — it’s about who I truly am. A woman who is done apologizing. A woman who listens to her instinct. A wild woman.

Jamie Alimorad did not come to play nice with the North Pole this year. And honestly? Respect. Every December, we’re force-fed the same Hallmark-core jingles telling us Christmas is perfect, magical, and full of joy if you just believe hard enough. Meanwhile, the rest of us are sitting there remembering that one year Santa ghosted us harder than a situationship. Alimorad finally said the quiet part out loud and turned it into a pop-rock banger. “Santa Sucks” is the holiday song for everyone who played by the rules, stayed on the Nice List, and still woke up to absolute crumbs. It’s sarcastic, it’s theatrical, it’s a little petty in the best way, but Jamie wraps it all in the same polished, radio-ready vocals that’ve carried him from Boston campus hero to viral sensation to Carnegie Hall performer. Dude knows how to sing, even when he’s dragging Santa through the snow. The track leans into cheeky storytelling and nostalgia, that sweet spot where humor meets heartbreak. You can feel the childhood wonder Jamie’s family built around Christmas Eve — and the tiny emotional bruise left behind when the holiday stopped hitting the same. Instead of pretending everything’s fine, he channels it into a song that’s basically a group therapy session for anyone who’s ever unwrapped socks. The real kicker? Over 50 friends, family members, and loved ones hopped on the chorus. It turns the hook into a full-blown rally cry, less jingle bells, more “we’ve been wronged, and we ride at dawn.” It’s the kind of communal chaos that makes the track feel like a cult classic in the making. And honestly, Jamie’s earned the right to have fun. His résumé is stacked: viral ballads, award-winning singles, chart placements, hit collaborations with the Vannellis, and a Carnegie Hall debut. He’s proven he can do the serious, soulful, award-bait tracks. So, his dropping a goofy, catchy, family-powered Christmas song? That’s an artist who’s secure enough in his craft not to take himself too seriously. “Santa Sucks” isn’t just a holiday release; it’s a reminder that Christmas nostalgia hits different when you’re grown, jaded, and still waiting on that one gift you swore the universe owed you. And instead of sulking about it, Jamie Alimorad turned it into something we can all scream-sing with pride. You’ve written emotional ballads, rock anthems, and award-winning singles . W hat unlocked the chaos gremlin inside you that led to “Santa Sucks”? There's a little chaos gremlin inside all of us! It's funny you phrase it like that, because as we were recording it (producer) Jordan (Sherman) was saying how in some strange way this is the most personal song I've ever written. And I knew what he meant. I love love songs, and I've mainly written from an autobiographical place, whether that be about relationships, places, or moments in time. There have been a few moments with songs like "Crawling Back to Me" and "Lucky Me" where I've shown my humor, but this one takes it to another level. The song started as a joke between my friend and me. We were discussing writing a song together, and he brought up the idea of doing a Christmas song, and that it should almost be an anti-Christmas song, like a kid not getting anything for Christmas. I thought it was brilliant! We got together on several occasions with the intention of writing it, or at least I did, but then we wound up going onto different projects. I made the commitment at the outset of the year that I would finally record a Christmas song, and I decided to just give it a go myself. What came out is very Jamie. If you hang out with me for an afternoon, you'll see this is my sense of humor. You said over 50 loved ones appear on this track. What was that recording session like, and were there any hilarious moments you almost kept in the final cut? Getting all those voices was really fun! Everyone did it remotely. I asked people to sing into their phones and send me the voice memos. A few of my music students have dialogue in the track. I did those with them, but again, it's just spoken into my phone. It would've been awesome to have everyone all together in one room, but they're literally from all over the country! I included everything that was sent to me, so nothing is on the cutting room floor. Holiday music is notoriously predictable. What was the biggest rule or cliché you wanted to break when making this song? I always loved Christmas music! That is, until I got a seasonal job at Bloomingdale's. I worked these eight-hour shifts, and I heard the same five songs over and over and over. I couldn't stand it! How many versions of "White Christmas," or "Have A Holly Jolly Christmas," or "The Christmas Song" do we need? Then whatever pop ones that were played were always the same thing - I miss my lover. Santa, please bring them back to me! I was really surprised that a lot of the songs I grew up listening to, which were all hits, weren't in rotation. I always thought I'd follow in the footsteps of those favorite artists' Christmas singles and albums: 98°, Backstreet Boys, Richard Marx, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Wham! But I thought it would become just another Christmas song. I always want to go against the grain, so I thought more "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" than "All I Want For Christmas Is You." You’ve been racking up awards all year ,  Carnegie Hall debut, chart placements, and Amazon and iTunes wins. How does it feel to follow all that with a comedic Christmas track, and did that contrast feel refreshing? It's been a tremendous year in many ways! It's felt fantastic to get back to my pop/rock sound and to see the new material be so well received. For "Santa Sucks" to be the capstone is rather fitting. I think when we get to this time of year, it's a time for reflection, and it's always nice to have a smile come to your face upon doing so. I went so overboard with this track in the studio. I told Jordan to put everything in it. Church bells? Yes! Sleigh bells? Need 'em! Easter eggs of classic Christmas songs sprinkled in the arrangement? Gotta have it! Dozens of people shouting, "Santa sucks!" at the top of their lungs? Duh! I've never had more fun working on a track because at times it was utterly ridiculous!  “Santa Sucks” pokes fun at disappointment and nostalgia. What’s one real-life holiday letdown of yours that didn’t make the song but totally could have? I gotta say, Santa was always good to me! I can't really think of any time that there was something I really wanted and didn't get. That being said, I've had birthdays, anniversaries, and other special occasions where I was extremely disappointed. There was one time an ex got me concert tickets for Def Leppard. She insisted on planning the whole day, and that I wouldn't have to lift a finger. She didn't even tell me the date or location of the show because she wanted it to be a full night of surprises. Well, she got the date wrong, and we missed the show. So thanks for that, babe. But at the end of the day, I think a lot of those stories, at least mine, are ones I can look back on and laugh at. I don't know if eating my veggies helped get me on the Nice List, but I wasn't about to see if it wouldn't!

'Little Gems' by The Star Prairie Project might be Nolen Chew's universe, but one of the brightest forces shaping its atmosphere is the soft-spoken, genre-shifting vocalist and producer Ive Marie, who helped give the album its emotional backbone. Her presence threads through the record like sunlight through stained glass, subtle, intentional, and quietly transformative. From early 2000s nostalgia to dreamlike soundscapes, she brings a warmth that turns Nolen’s stories into full-blown worlds you can actually step into. In this conversation, she breaks down how she found her place inside the album’s ever-shifting genres, why “Sunshine Skies” needed to feel like a blissed-out daydream, the effortless synergy behind her collaborations, and how The Star Prairie Project ended up giving her the confidence to step deeper into production than ever before. Your presence on Little Gems brings so much softness and cinematic depth. When you first heard the early demos, what pulled you into the world Nolen was building? I think the simple, yet authentic vibe his writing gives. I've always loved early 2000s music. I feel like the artist wrote more straight from the heart. Even if it was a serious subject, somehow the music still felt good and oddly carefree. When you listen now, you feel a sense of nostalgia; that's what his songs make me feel and how they pull me in. Plus, they give me a chance to mix older and modern sounds.  The album jumps genres constantly, but your vocals somehow glue everything together. How did you approach keeping your identity intact while moving through so many styles? I've always loved most genres. So, singing different genres and different vocal styles is quite normal for me. However, to keep my identity intact, I always make sure to add in my "signature sounds"; simply in the way I sing my soft vocals or how I do my ad-libs. For the production side, I typically like to use unique sounds for the percussion that people don't typically add. Also, a big thing is probably how I like to warp my vocals, even if it's just in a small part of the song. That way, it feels like my own vibe.  “Sunshine Skies” feels especially airy and emotional. Can you walk us through the headspace you stepped into while recording that track? When you first read the lyrics, you automatically picture the whole scene that Nolen describes. He talks about birds singing, the sun shining, smelling the sea, seeing that special person, and being with them. It feels like bliss. When producing the beat, I wanted it to feel like a dream with that sense of happiness, like you never want to leave or wake up.  You and Rudiger share some really beautiful chemistry on the acoustic version of “When I Look At The World.” What was that collaborative dynamic like behind the scenes? Rudiger has a beautiful voice, and he's very easy to follow and get along with. He typically sends me the project we're going to work on together with his vocals, and I work off of that. I feel like our voices just automatically mesh well together. That's what makes it fun!  The Star Prairie Project has such a distinct visual and emotional universe. What do you feel this album says about who you are as an artist right now, and how has it shaped what you want to do next? I think it shows that I stay true to myself by always incorporating a part of myself into each song. I love and treat it as if it's my own, and am able to give any genre my unique sound. As far as shaping what I did next, Nolen was the first person to allow me to produce for him. He didn't look at me and assume I was a young woman who didn't know what I was doing (as a lot of people used to do). He took a chance on me, and it helped give me the confidence I needed to offer more of my production services to other people. I knew I had it in me, but sometimes you need someone else to believe in you. So, I'm forever grateful to him for that!

Holiday music is usually unbearable. Too sweet, too sanitized, too "everything is perfect." But Sydney Gordon clearly didn't get the memo, because "Naughty List" pulls up like the holiday record for people who roll their eyes at matching pajamas and forced cheer. It's pop, but with teeth. A warm winter glow with a shot of tequila in it. Gordon taps into the side of December nobody wants to admit out loud. The messy decisions. The flirty chaos. The nights you definitely shouldn't be out, but you go anyway. Her vocals are crisp and deliberate, cutting through dreamy synths with that signature New York bite she never hides. She doesn't sing like she's trying to be cute. She sings like she's telling on herself and daring you to relate. The production leans into glossy holiday pop, but the attitude underneath is what sells it. The track sparkles, sure, but not in a Hallmark-movie way. More like walking into a party you absolutely weren't invited to, but somehow become the main character. The groove is subtle but addictive, and the hook sticks to your brain like peppermint lip gloss. What makes "Naughty List" work is how grounded it feels. Holiday releases usually play pretend. Gordon refuses to. She captures the real December energy: wanting joy, craving connection, making questionable choices, and not apologizing for any of it. Her quote seals the deal. This isn't about rebellion for shock value. It's about owning the gap between how you're "supposed to act" and who you actually are. For fans of her earlier releases like "Bad Habit" and "Good On Me," this is Gordon leveling up that emotional precision she's known for, but with a playful twist. She keeps the honesty and vocal polish but swaps the vulnerability for charisma and mischief. The result is a holiday track that feels alive rather than manufactured. If you're tired of Christmas songs that sound like scented candle commercials, "Naughty List" is the antidote. It's cheeky, confident, relatable, and way too replayable for a song about being festive in all the wrong ways. Sydney Gordon just gave December its villain era, and honestly, we needed it. When you were writing “Naughty List,” what was the exact moment you realized this song wasn’t going to be another cookie-cutter holiday track? The second we hit that pre-chorus. The song snapped into this little fantasy world of wanting everything oversized and over-the-top, and it stopped feeling like “a Christmas song” and started feeling like my Christmas song.  You’ve carved out a reputation for emotional precision in your past work. What emotional truth were you trying to protect in this song, even while keeping it fun and chaotic? I wanted to keep that feeling of craving connection without making it heavy. Like underneath all the sparkle and the jokes, the song is really about wanting someone who feels like your safe place during the wildest time of the year.  Holiday music usually plays it painfully safe. What was the riskiest creative decision you made on this track, and why did you double down on it? Probably the attitude. We let the vocal be a little sly, a little wink-wink, and we didn’t soften it. There’s this instinct in holiday music to round all the edges so it feels family-friendly but we did the exact opposite.  If your fans could hear the first demo version of “Naughty List,” what would surprise them the most about how it sounded before it became this polished troublemaker? Actually, the demo had a totally different chorus, lyrics, and melody. And the post hook was the outro. We recorded the final vocals, and something just did not feel right. The concept was there, but the attitude wasn’t fully cooked yet. You’d hear it and be like, “Oh, she’s cute… but she needs a personality.” You grew up in New York, a city that basically turns into both a snow globe and a survival test every December. How did NYC energy shape the attitude or aura of this track? New York is who I am. So I think every song I write has that grit to it. New York is a Christmas wonderland, and I wanted a track that you imagine playing as you’re walking down 5th Avenue as it’s snowing. It’s glossy and magical, but there’s a little bite to it… like a Christmas song that learned how to survive midtown at rush hour.

Emerging Las Vegas artist Rhaina Yasmin steps into a powerful new chapter with Magician , a five-track release that blends indie rock, folk subtlety, and a deeply introspective singer-songwriter sensibility. It’s a project that invites listeners into an inner world shaped by nostalgia, grief, and the quiet, persistent search for meaning, all delivered through Rhaina Yasmin's gentle, luminous vocal style. Across the EP, Rhaina Yasmin explores the emotional weight of memory and the fragile beauty found in its aftermath. Magician doesn’t chase grandeur; instead, it thrives in restraint, leaning into soft tones, atmospheric arrangements, and lyrics that read like pages from a journal. What emerges is a body of work that feels both intimate and universal, grounded in the emotional honesty of someone who isn’t afraid to sit with difficult feelings. Opening track “Your Daughter” acts as a tender entry point, setting the project’s reflective tone. From there, Rhaina drifts into “Little Moon,” a song that glows with innocence and longing, capturing the bittersweet warmth of childhood wonder. “Patchouli” takes a deeper, earthier turn, pulling listeners into memories marked by loss and the sensory imprints that linger long after. “Dagger” sharpens the emotional arc with subtle intensity, before the EP culminates in the title track, “Magician,” where Rhaina Yasmin repeats the mantra “I’ll get by with the sleight of my hand.” It’s a simple phrase that becomes the emotional anchor of the project, a quiet promise of survival and resilience. What makes Magician compelling is the way it transforms heaviness into softness. Rhaina Yasmin doesn’t mask her grief or her longing for the magic she once believed in; she transforms those emotions into something delicate and deeply human. The EP feels like a sanctuary for listeners working through their own unspoken feelings, a safe, hushed space where vulnerability becomes strength. Reflecting on the project, Rhaina Yasmin shares, “I hope people find this release and feel comfort in expressing their deepest emotions. I want those who listen to connect and see parts of themselves intertwined.” It’s a mission the EP fulfills with clarity and grace. With Magician , Rhaina Yasmin establishes herself as an artist with a strong emotional viewpoint and a rare ability to translate introspection into sound. Thoughtful, immersive, and quietly powerful, the EP marks a significant step forward in her artistic evolution and positions her as a voice to watch in the indie landscape. Your songs carry this beautiful balance of innocence and ache. When you were writing Magician , what memories or moments were the hardest to revisit, and why? I visited my childhood home in New York in October of 2024, which clung to me all year and largely inspired the underlying theme of Magician. There was a particular ache that came from being there and leaving, letting go of the past, while simultaneously yearning for what could have been. I’m a deeply sensitive person, in that it feels like my experiences with grief and nostalgia are always present, but in writing them down, I find release.  “Your Daughter” and “Dagger” were both written in a stream of emotion, as I'd also been coping with my mother’s health this past year. These songs are some of my most honest and a genuine plea for hope. I was lighting candles and writing pieces of music every night throughout the spring.  There’s a quiet but powerful sense of grief woven through the EP. How did you navigate turning something so heavy into something so gentle and luminous? Grief often shows up in flashes of memory, a scent, or anticipation, and the process of sitting in that isolation resulted in something gentle, yet raw and explosive. I think softness has always felt organic to me and naturally flourishes in the way that I write. As I worked through building in energy, the luminosity shimmers underneath, as there is a prevalent longing to heal. Each track feels like a different fragment of the same spell. How did “Your Daughter,” “Little Moon,” “Patchouli,” “Dagger,” and “Magician” reveal themselves as belonging to the same emotional world? They’re all different incantations circling the same wound. A lingering ache of nostalgia, a desire, or fear of the uncertain– it finds its way into each track because those emotions are always with me.  You close the EP with the line “I’ll get by with the sleight of my hand.” What does that phrase mean to you now, after finishing the project? The line “I’ll get by with the sleight of my hand” is a repetitive mantra, an echo from the powerful women in my life who guide me to be strong. Now, when I play it, it feels like an affirmation to myself, a reminder that I can create my own path and not let my fears or anxieties stop me from living in the moment. As someone who writes from such an internal, vulnerable space, what do you hope listeners understand about you , or about themselves , when they sit with this EP in a quiet moment? When someone sits with these songs in a quiet moment, I hope they feel inspired to be honest and sensitive. Each song was written with a cathartic intention of expressing the emotions that weigh so heavily on me. If they recognize themselves intertwined– their fears, longing, and even a possibility for healing– then I hope they also recognize that they’re not navigating those feelings alone.