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Mark Janicello has lived about twelve artistic lifetimes. Operatic tenor. Elvis interpreter crowned by Elvis’s own composer, Ben Weisman. West End playwright. Award magnet. The résumé is insane. So when a man like that drops a song called “ My BFF Jack Daniels ,” you lean in. This track was eight years in the making, and you can hear the mileage. What started as a country-leaning ballad mutated into a rock confession that swings somewhere between The Eagles, Queen, and a late-night Guns N’ Roses spiral. It feels intentional and unfiltered at the same time. Vocally, Janicello is not playing small. His classically trained tenor slices straight through the mix, but there is grit in it now. Not polished opera-house perfection. There is abrasion. You can feel the New Year’s Eve heartbreak baked into every line. He does not just sing about rage. He taps into it. The chorus hits like a toast you regret making but mean anyway. Production-wise, the guitars carry a muscular swagger that keeps the song from drifting into adult-contemporary territory. There is drama, but it is not cheesy. It is lived-in. The drums push forward with urgency, like time is running out before midnight. The hook is sticky in a way that makes you replay it, half for catharsis, half because you low-key want to scream it in your car. Culturally, this lands at a weirdly perfect moment. We are in an era obsessed with curated healing and “soft life” aesthetics. Janicello basically says no. Sometimes you need the ugly stage. The angry stage. The whiskey stage. As long as you do not move in permanently. That honesty feels refreshing. Who needs to hear this? Anyone who has ever had a holiday implode. Anyone who pretended they were fine while internally combusting. Anyone over 30 who knows heartbreak hits differently when you are supposed to be emotionally evolved. “My BFF Jack Daniels” is not about glorifying the bottle. It is about admitting you needed a minute to fall apart. And in 2026, that kind of emotional transparency still hits. You rewrote this song with four different composers. What did the first three versions get wrong about your anger that the final one nailed? I wouldn't say the first three versions were "wrong," as I've worked all three composers numerous times... but all of them were leaning too much into my past.  My "normal" Adult Contemporary Pop feel... with a bit of country thrown in.  There was a feeling that the melodies didn't fully reflect what I was feeling inside when I wrote the lyrics -- but at that point, I couldn't put my finger on what was bothering me.  I knew that "Jack" needed more "bite" than anything that the first three writers came up with.  I tried, and tried. I rewrote the lyrics to suit the first 3 melodies, and I just never felt happy with the song... so, I kept looking.  When I heard the track from Sahar Twito (aka Moon), it BOTHERED me.  It was not (at all) what I originally imagined for "Jack Daniels"...but there was something very RIGHT about it, and it wouldn't leave me alone.  I worked for quite a long time to find the arrangement and to get "Jack" where it is today.  I think Sahar's track had the underlying RAGE that I didn't really realize was in the song, until I heard his music.      You built a career on big romantic ballads. Were you afraid fans would reject a more abrasive, rage-forward side of you? Of course.   I'm a classically-trained tenor.  I cut my teeth singing with the "bel canto" (beautiful singing) style -- where beauty and ease of tone are EVERYTHING.  "Jack" required me to use my voice in an aggressive manner with that amount of rage and anger in my singing that I've never put on record before.  Artistically and vocally, it was also a big step for me.  However, I wanted "Jack" to HOWL, and I couldn't do that using my regular singing style.  I've gone from Opera to Elvis to Musicals and all other styles of music, and UP UNTIL NOW I've been fortunate enough that most of my fans have followed me -- wherever I felt I needed to go musically.  "Jack", however, is a real departure.  Let's see how they react to this one.     As someone who has played Elvis 400 times, how do you separate theatrical intensity from real-life emotional exposure in the studio?  That's a very interesting question.  Singing, when it's done right, is about pure emotion.  Music speaks to the human soul.  It goes past rational thought and touches the heart and the emotions of the listener.  However, that only works on a purely emotional plane that is honest and truthful.  You can't "fake" real emotion.  People try, but the audience always knows.  I've never felt that my theatrical singing was less "exposed" emotionally than what I do in the studio.  For me, it's more a question of emotional "projection."  I've made a lot of movies.  When you make movies, the camera catches your thoughts when you're in a close-up.  In contrast, when you're performing onstage, you have to "project" those same thoughts and emotions to the last row of the house.  For me, singing's the same.  When I'm in front of a microphone, I need neither the vocal volume nor the emotional projection to transmit my feelings, as the microphone is capturing my thoughts in real time.  Those thoughts and feelings, in turn, color the sound of my voice.  The recording process transmits my emotions for me, instead of my using lung power to do it. You have lived in 13 countries. Did that global perspective change how you process heartbreak and masculinity in this song? I've lived in 13 countries, and I've performed in 52 countries.  People have more in common than they realize.  Audiences all over the world react pretty much the same to certain songs.  When the music and the lyrics are in harmony, even if the listener doesn't understand all the words, the emotional life of the song creates a reaction in the audience. Emotions for men and appearing "masculine" is a universal "problem." Men, generally speaking, have much more trouble showing weakness, showing pain, and showing hurt than women do.  Speaking for myself, my initial reaction to being hurt is to get angry or aggressive --  "You hurt me.  I'll show you!!"  It's involuntary, in my case.  It's a way to push the person hurting me at a distance, so that I can go somewhere, find a cave, and in solitude "lick my emotional wounds."  I think this holds true for a LOT of men all over the world.  The hurt gets buried so that a man doesn't appear "weak."  I think it's a weakness in my own character, but who am I to judge anyone else's way of "hurting??" If “My BFF Jack Daniels” represents a detour into anger, what does the next chapter of your healing sound like sonically? I'm 63 years old. I've been onstage since I was 4.  To survive in the industry, you develop a public facade, a character that serves as an avatar for the "real you" that allows you to be "private in public."  Privately, I've been through a LOT.  "Jack" has given me a lyrical sense of freedom that I've not had before.  I tore away some of the emotional "armor" of my public persona and ditched some of my ingrained vocal habits to let "Jack" come to life.  I plan on writing music that continues in that vein.   While I try to "lift people up" through my music and my performances, "Jack" has made me realize that SOMETIMES you need a CATHARTIC song to allow people to blow off steam.  I'll be blowing off ALL KINDS OF STEAM with my next releases.  I've got a new song I'm working on that deals with the never-ending battle of self-criticism and self-hate that comes with being a "perfectionist."  Wanting to improve is vital to artistic growth, but at what point will it EVER BE ENOUGH?  At which point, will I be satisfied and say, "Yes, I'm finally GOOD ENOUGH?   When do I finally CUT MYSELF SOME SLACK??  These are the ideas that I'm working on for my new music.

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When AL99, pronounced “AL Nine-Nine,” drops a new track, it’s never just another single—it’s an experience. His latest release, “WHY II,” the ninth track from his EP Elevate , is no exception. From the first bars, the song is reflective, pulling listeners into the artist’s world of introspection, faith, and cultural awareness. “I really was in the moment of reflection,” AL99 explains, recounting the creation of “WHY II.” “It was reflective from my own journey, and then reflective in terms of how I think about the world and what was going on at the time. I feel like music is so important to connect us all because then we realize we’re all the same.” The song arrives as part of Elevate , a nine-track collection that sees AL99 seamlessly navigating the highs and lows of life and Hip-Hop. Tracks like “SET IT OFF,” “POP,” “ENIGMA,” “SINK OR SWIM,” “9 GOD,” “PASSION,” and “MOMMA” showcase the versatility that fans have come to expect. Each track feels intentional, with AL99 carefully crafting every beat, hook, and lyric to reflect a broader journey. What makes “WHY II” unique in AL99’s catalog is its collaborative genesis. Unlike most of his music, which he produces himself, this track began with a beat by international producer B Noize. “I found this beat on YouTube, and I was like, ‘Man, this really speaks to me,’” AL99 recalls. “I just started rapping to it… and it kind of started the Y series.” The track continues a thematic exploration of the “why” behind his artistry—a series AL99 says is meant to connect listeners with purpose, introspection, and culture. AL99’s artistry is as much about heart as it is about craft. On “WHY II,” he reflects on the delicate balance between ambition and authenticity: “I had to separate my mindset and how I’m grinding for a goal and my heart… still keep the passion of what I’m doing… it’s all still about the love.” This philosophy permeates his work, giving tracks a depth that resonates beyond the music itself. Cultural heritage is another driving force. While not Haitian himself, AL99 draws deeply from his family’s roots. “Being around the family and speaking patois and Creole… it was always such a very spiritual, family-oriented situation,” he says. “You can manifest whatever energy you have inside you into reality. We have power in our heritages, we have power in our culture.” The influence of this lineage, coupled with his faith and personal growth, is threaded throughout Elevate , especially on tracks like “9 GOD” and “MOMMA.” Beyond music, AL99 is an entrepreneur and a visionary. Founder of TPC Music Production, he recently signed a distribution deal with Universal Music Group/Bungalo, cementing his independent grind while expanding his reach. From the early success of singles like “POP” to his ongoing rise in the Hip-Hop scene, AL99 continues to define his own path, blending artistry, business, and culture. “WHY II” is more than a track—it’s a testament to AL99’s journey as an artist and as a person. He hopes listeners will take away the essence of authenticity and reflection that permeates his music. “I just want people to go back and listen and feel that I was always speaking what I believed,” he says. “As long as I’m doing that, I’ll be happy, and I hope people now or later on feel that too.” With Elevate , AL99 doesn’t just make music; he offers a roadmap of introspection, resilience, and cultural pride, proving once again why fans call him “Versatile AL” and peers recognize him as “The Genius.” AL99, known for his versatility as a lyricist, performer, instrumentalist, and producer, is redefining the boundaries of Hip-Hop. Drawing inspiration from icons like Tupac, Kendrick Lamar, and Drake, his music blends introspective lyricism, energetic performance, and cultural resonance. Founder of TPC Music Production, AL99 balances artistry and entrepreneurship, delivering music that inspires, entertains, and uplifts. With a mission to create tracks that connect deeply with listeners, AL99 continues to push Hip-Hop forward while remaining authentically himself. Instagram  | TikTok  | Apple Music  | Spotify  | YouTube  | X  | Facebook  | Soundcloud  | Shop merch! “WHY II” on YouTube “WHY II” on Spotify “WHY II” on Apple Music

On his new single “ Lovin’ You Yet ,” the Nashville-based artist Carson Beyer pivots into something softer, warmer, and more intimate. It is not a rowdy Friday night track or a revenge-coded breakup ballad. It is a slow burn. The kind that lingers in the air long after the song fades out. Beyer has been steadily building momentum, and this release feels intentional. His breakout hit “Bones” pulled in over 4 million streams on Spotify and positioned him as more than just another rising name in the Nashville pipeline. With “Lovin’ You Yet,” he proves he is not boxed into one lane. Instead of doubling down on grit, he leans into devotion. The track unfolds with smooth production that wraps around his rich, swelling vocals. Beyer’s delivery has always carried weight, but here it feels more restrained in the best way. Controlled. Focused. Vulnerable. The lyrics capture that suspended moment in a relationship where you realize you are not done falling. Not done choosing the person in front of you. Not done loving them yet. He describes the song as living in the space of midnight air, candlelight, old records spinning, and two people who are not ready to say goodbye. That atmosphere is embedded in the DNA of the record. It does not rush. It simmers. The instrumentation gives the emotion room to breathe, letting the chorus bloom instead of exploding. What makes Beyer interesting in today’s country landscape is the blend. Raised on a Kentucky farm but influenced by artists like Justin Timberlake, Chris Stapleton, and Eric Church, he bridges rural storytelling with a subtle R&B smoothness. Recording in Nashville on Music Row and inside the legendary Muscle Shoals studios has only sharpened that hybrid identity. “Lovin’ You Yet” arrives backed by Lucky Money Entertainment and follows prior editorial support from Spotify and Apple Music, setting the stage for continued streaming growth. But beyond playlists and placements, the real strength of this release is emotional clarity. It feels honest. It feels patient. In an era where everything moves fast, Carson Beyer dares to sit in the moment. And sometimes, that quiet confidence hits harder than any stadium hook.

On “DND,” the Nashville trio Indigo Syndicate trades their alt-pop sparkle for something darker, smoother, and way more calculated. This is not the bright, harmony-forward indie moment you expect from a band with Apple Music playlist love. This is late at night. Phone face down. Ego bruised. Pride activated. Built on a pulsing, R&B-leaning groove, “DND” slides instead of sprints. The production is minimal but intentional. Clean drums. Moody textures. Space. The kind of space where tension lives. You can feel the restraint in it. Nothing is overcrowded. Every beat feels placed, not thrown. Vocally, this is where Indigo Syndicate flexes. The trio’s layered harmonies are still here, but they are more controlled, less explosive. The hook lands with the line “You haven’t heard a thing I said, I’ve been getting left on read,” and suddenly everyone with an iPhone feels personally attacked. The repetition of “wait on me” becomes the emotional center of gravity. It sounds confident. It also sounds like someone is low-key spiraling. And that is the magic. “DND” captures the emotional stalemate of modern dating culture. The ego wars. The power plays. The soft ghosting. It feels like a soundtrack for situationships where no one wants to care more than the other. Gen Z will eat this up because it is honest without pretending to be healed. What makes this track hit harder is that it feels intentional. The band openly wanted to switch it up and make something danceable. Mission accomplished. This is groove-forward, replayable, and built for night drives or dimly lit rooms. It proves Indigo Syndicate is not boxed into one lane. They are genre-fluid by design. If you needed a reminder that indie bands can pivot without losing identity, “DND” is it. Put your phone on silent and run it back. Replay value is high. Emotional self-awareness is questionable. We respect both.

There are albums that feel like collections of songs. Then there are albums that feel like turning points. Indiana Joe is the latter. Hailing from South Bend, Indiana, Jay Ca$h ’s transformation into Indiana Joe is not cosmetic. It’s psychological. It’s strategic. It’s survival sharpened into purpose. In a region that rarely gets national spotlight in hip-hop conversations, this project doesn’t beg to be noticed. It commands attention through discipline, cohesion, and emotional weight. This is Midwest hip-hop rooted in street reality but elevated through reflection. The emotional core of the album lives inside “Ghetto Trynna Kill Me,” one of the most vulnerable records of his career. This is not performative trauma. Indiana Joe openly confronts depression, suicidal ideation, and the generational pressure of growing up in poverty. The loss of his 16-year-old brother to suicide hangs over the record with a heaviness that feels permanent. The “ghetto” here is not just a block or a zip code. It’s psychological confinement. It’s grief that lingers. It’s cycles that feel designed to swallow you whole. The delivery is steady, almost controlled, which makes it hit harder. He isn’t screaming. He’s enduring. That restraint becomes a recurring strength throughout the album. On “Local Rappers Anonymous,” Indiana Joe addresses hometown opposition and internal city politics. Anyone from a smaller market understands this dynamic: the loudest resistance often comes from the closest proximity. But instead of spiraling into ego-driven aggression, he leans into composure. The record plays like a reminder to himself as much as a message to critics. It reinforces the Faculty mindset: loyalty over clout, strategy over noise. There’s a maturity here that separates this project from typical street rap releases. It’s not about proving he’s the toughest in the room. It’s about proving he won’t fold. “Taste of Blood” operates as the sonic and thematic bridge between Jay Ca$h and Indiana Joe. The production stands apart intentionally, signaling a shift in energy. It feels like stepping out of survival mode and into calculated ambition. The majority of the album’s production comes from This MF Slimey, who builds a cohesive Midwest soundscape that’s gritty without being cluttered. The beats are spacious, cold, and deliberate. They allow the storytelling to breathe. The two sonically distinct tracks, “Taste of Blood” and “Local Rappers Anonymous,” serve as narrative markers in the album’s arc. That intentionality matters. This isn’t a playlist-ready drop. It’s structured. “Renegade,” featuring Lil Hungry, an emerging artist from Fresno, represents forward momentum beyond Indiana. It’s hunger meeting hunger. Two independent artists from overlooked cities align without waiting for validation from coastal power centers. That collaboration underscores a bigger theme across the album: you don’t need major label machinery to build something real. You need alignment, loyalty, and long-term vision. Behind Indiana Joe is The Faculty, a collective operating on minimalism and discipline. No inflated entourages. No artificial hype campaigns. Just tight execution. That philosophy bleeds into the album’s focus. What makes Indiana Joe stand out in the Midwest hip-hop and pain rap lane is its restraint. The pain is real. The grief is real. The pressure is real. But the project doesn’t drown in it. It moves through it. Indiana Joe represents evolution under pressure, and the album feels like a blueprint for independent artists navigating trauma, hometown resistance, and ambition without losing authenticity. As he puts it: “I want people to know this pain is real, but you don’t gotta let it bury you. I’ve been through loss, depression, hate from my own city… and I’m still standing. A lot of people thought I would’ve folded by now. I didn’t. You either let the pain break you, or you turn it into purpose.” This isn’t just a rebrand. It’s a recalibration. And if Indiana Joe is the beginning of this next chapter, South Bend might not stay overlooked much longer. The transition from Jay Ca$h to Indiana Joe feels psychological, not cosmetic. What had to die in you creatively or mentally for this evolution to happen? If I’m being real, I feel like maybe my spirit died. The losses I took were incredible. Losing people. Losing pieces of myself. Watching life hit in ways you can’t prepare for. At some point, the hunger changed. The motivation changed. It stopped being about flexing or proving I could rap and became survival. Therapy through music. Legacy through pain. What had to die was the carefree version of me, the one who thought time was promised and moved off ego instead of purpose. When that version faded, something else sparked. A fire. A determination I still carry. I felt, and still feel, the weight of people who doubted me and counted me out, but I also carry the ones who believed in me and the ones I have to make proud. Family. The ones we lost. The ones still watching. Indiana Joe isn’t cosmetic. It’s psychological. It’s the rebirth after the spirit got tested. It’s understanding that pain can either bury you or build you. I chose to build. “Ghetto Trynna Kill Me” is brutally honest about depression and losing your brother. How did you balance honoring that pain without letting it consume the entire identity of the album? But I feel like showing the consumer both sides of it is vital. Yeah, we can have the party records, the super violent street records, the ones that feel aggressive and raw. But for those records to really work, we have to tell the other side too, the pain, the struggles, the depression, the losses that come with that lifestyle. Without that balance, it’s just performance. The truth is, the party records hit harder when you understand what I’m escaping from, and the street records feel different when you understand what they cost. If I only stayed in the grief, the album would feel heavy in a way that doesn’t reflect real life. And if I only stayed in the turn-up, it would feel fake. Real life is both. Honoring my brother and my pain meant being honest without letting tragedy become my entire identity. The pain is part of me, but it’s not all of me, and the album had to reflect that. You talk a lot about discipline, loyalty, and moving with strategy through The Faculty. In an industry that rewards noise and viral moments, how hard is it to stay committed to a long-game mindset? It’s hard, I’m not even going to pretend it’s not, but the long game requires ego control. Sometimes you watch people blow up overnight doing things you know you could do, but that move is not aligned with the vision. So you stay solid. You stay consistent. You build brick by brick, even when it feels slower than you want. Because viral fades. Structure lasts. On “Local Rappers Anonymous,” you address hometown resistance. Do you think artists from overlooked cities have to develop thicker skin than artists from major markets? I feel like yes! We have it the hardest; there is little to no love for us! We have to take it by force almost.  If Indiana Joe represents evolution under pressure, what does success look like for you now? Is it numbers, influence, ownership, peace, or something else entirely? Success. That means more to me than a random viral spike. Ownership matters. Influence matters. But what I really want is depth. A core base that grows organically. People who connect to the pain records, the street records, the discipline talk, the whole evolution. Success to me now is building something sustainable. A brand. A movement. A catalog that ages well. If ten thousand people are truly locked in, that’s more powerful than a million who don’t care.

There’s a specific kind of dance record that doesn’t just want you moving, it wants you surviving. obee’s new single “DON’T STOP ME” lives in that lane. It’s a house-pop release built for dark rooms and flashing lights, but emotionally it reads like a diary entry written in all caps. This isn’t escapism. It’s confrontation disguised as a banger. The Vermont-born producer, real name Owen Barclay, has always chased what he calls heart-string euphoria, and you can hear that mission in every layer of the track. The production is clean and deliberate: pulsing bass, glossy synth lines, and a drop engineered to feel like a release valve. When the beat hits, it doesn’t explode so much as lift. It’s the sound of tension turning into forward motion. You don’t just dance to it, you exhale into it. Lyrically, “DON’T STOP ME” is a middle finger aimed at gaslighting, comparison culture, and the creeping doubt that shows up right when life is finally going well. obee frames the song as an intentional act of self-preservation, a way to metabolize old toxicity and the residue it leaves on confidence. There’s a maturity here that separates the track from generic motivational dance pop. He’s not pretending the scars aren’t there. He’s dancing with them. That emotional honesty pairs perfectly with his DIY ethos. obee writes, produces, and engineers his own work, and the control shows. The song feels tightly wound but never sterile, polished without losing its pulse. You can trace the lineage from his early electronic influences and New York club energy, but the record doesn’t feel nostalgic. It feels current, like a snapshot of late-twenties pressure translated into sound. What makes “DON’T STOP ME” stick is its dual purpose. It functions as a club weapon and a personal mantra. It’s for anyone staring down opposition, whether that’s industry gatekeeping, past relationships, or their own internal critic. obee isn’t selling fantasy. He’s offering momentum. The track doesn’t promise everything will work out. It promises you can keep going anyway, and sometimes that’s the more powerful message. You’ve described “DON’T STOP ME” as an intentional act of self-gaslighting to fight doubt. When you’re in the studio, how do you tell the difference between healthy confidence and just trying to outrun your insecurities? I’ve been doing this for a little over 10 years, it just took a lot of practice to be vulnerable. Developing a conscious voice of reason has helped me in process, and being super critical of what I write. Asking myself if I’m really being honest. I think a part of music, no matter how honest we are, is “escaping”. A lot of art is rooted in escapism. With that said, every song I write is a healing process as well. A lot of times I do a brain puke into my notebook at the start of a song, and then I hash out and rewrite like an insane person.  The track turns past relationship toxicity into dance-floor fuel. Was it harder to write from a healed place looking back, or would this song have sounded different if you wrote it in the middle of the chaos? Mmm. I like this question. I think it definitely would’ve been harder to write this song amid some of the chaos I was going through years ago. I wasn’t as skilled a writer and I didn’t have as much agency over my work. I also think reflection and time helps process things, and allows us to speak with more wisdom on what hurts us. I think if I wrote this song back then, it would’ve felt more anguish-inducing and targeted. I wrote this from a place of thinking of my audience and other people who need this song, versus getting back at someone or a group of people.  You handle your own production, engineering, and writing. Does total creative control feel empowering, or does it sometimes amplify the pressure to prove yourself? Both things for sure. I’m a control freak when it comes to my music and art. This industry can be shady. I do feel a lot of pressure for sure - at first it was super overwhelming. I’ve sort of gotten into a rhythm with the work though, and once you do it enough it doesn’t feel like weight - it just excites me. I love the process so much. The hurdles and challenges, the victories. It’s so satisfying building the obee world myself - that’s sort of how I think of it, world-building. My work feels way more authentic too knowing I made everything myself. So much of the industry is fake and plastic, I want my stuff to be an amalgamation of my blood sweat and tears.  A lot of your music chases euphoria but still carries emotional weight. Do you think dance music today avoids vulnerability too much, or is the scene finally opening up to more honest storytelling? I love this, because I ask myself this question a lot. There’s so much music coming out today, it’s hard to say. I think dance music is rooted in freeing people and creating safe spaces for people to feel vulnerable and dance, set their soul free, connect. I can’t really hate on dance music. Despite a lot of the stuff I hear on social media having one liners that can feel stale, those lyrics and production still can come from very vulnerable places. Only the artist really knows. I don’t know, people are smart. You can tell when a song is written without much emotional thought. Music’s interesting, something that can feel dull and bland to an audiophile, can resonate with millions of people around the world and be a chart topper. To answer your question, I think the scene has always been open to vulnerable storytelling. Fred again is a great example of that. Some of my favorite songs today are instrumentals and have no lyrical content, and they feel more narrative than some songs that are lyrically thick. I think it just depends on the listener.   If someone listens to “DON’T STOP ME” on their worst day, what do you want it to interrupt: their thoughts, their habits, or the way they see themselves? Hmm. Gosh, I mean I hope it doesn't interrupt too much haha. I'd say a bit of everything. I just hope it strikes a chord. The walls they've put up preventing them from doing something they've always wanted to do. I hope it interrupts their voice of fear and doubt. I think we all kind of have that. I want the song to hit at people's energy and boost that, act as a sort of shield against the outside forces that distract us and bring us down. I want it to remind people of who they are and have always been... and to keep f*cking dancing. I sort of think of it as Mufasa's voice in the Lion King when he's talking to Simba on his journey... I love that scene. "Remember who you are". What has been the biggest obstacle in your process as an artist, and how did you overcome it? The COVID-19 Pandemic, and having to live back home with my family during a time that was hard for me and so many. I was dealing with depression, and my relationship with my family took a serious toll during the pandemic. At one point, I was sleeping in the garage, and I was being kicked out of my house for smoking weed. My parents wanted me gone, and for a while, they pretended like I didn’t exist. It was ugly and scary. I was checked into a hospital and underwent therapy for a long time. It took years to unpack a lot of trauma; things I was dealing with, things my parents were dealing with, and learn how to carry on with life with that trauma. I’ve dealt with adversity my whole life, and no one in my family is in music, so it was hard for my parents to understand that. I came out the other side by practicing healing techniques I learned in therapy, like meditation, breathing, and writing down my pain and struggles, in lyrics and through my production. Learning to vocalize clearly and to process things with a transparent lens… and singing. My relationship with my family isn’t what it was, and it’s hard for me to connect with them like I used to, but we’ve since reconciled our differences and are in a much better place than we were during the pandemic. I’m a mental health advocate, and a lot of my pain is what fuels my music. I want my music to help those who are struggling and have struggled, and to liberate them. I’ve always felt the most seen from the EDM community and in dance club culture - it’s the most accepting environment. Everyone is there for each other, and there’s so much love and freedom. My time in Nashville has been transformative in that - I’ve met people here who I really trust and care about, who I can call family. It’s led to collaborations and shows that have helped shape “obee”, and I wouldn’t be where I am today without the relationships I’ve made here (huge shoutout to Night We Met). The music I’ve made over the last year or so has really been the biggest healing process. I cut out a lot of distractions in my life and have some songs coming out that I’m really excited about, to say the least. What do you see for the future of your project? I’ve seen the path clearly for a long time now. I firmly believe in a higher power and believing in something bigger than yourself, call it God, the Universe, Great Spirit — I’ve had something guiding me for a long time. I want to play to bigger audiences and tour, definitely. I have a lot of collaborations happening at the moment, and I look forward to keeping that ball rolling. I want to produce and write for other people as well. A dream of mine is to collaborate with brands and organizations that have like-minded mentalities - I love fashion and art, it would be awesome to combine mental health advocacy with those, and help elevate other people’s platforms. I also dance, and I love stand-up comedy; it would be sweet to intertwine those into a live show setting. I love pure entertainment and things that challenge norms. At the end of the day, I just want to make music and write with other people every day. I want my lyrics to feel raw and ruthless and to hit home for people. Another dream of mine is to score films and do music for tv or film. I went to film school and was working in that industry for a while. It would be fun to be a part of a feature film.

Covering a song as culturally cemented as Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used To Know” is risky business. You’re not just reworking a melody. You’re stepping into people’s memories. SUPER-Hi and Luke Spiller don’t try to out-sad the original or chase its shadow. Instead, they flip the emotional temperature entirely, transforming heartbreak into something strangely euphoric without erasing the bruise underneath. SUPER-Hi’s production is instantly recognizable: warm synths, buoyant rhythm, and a glossy, sunlit bounce that feels built for open windows and long drives. But what keeps the track from drifting into pure escapism is Luke Spiller’s voice. He doesn’t sing this like a detached cover. He inhabits it. There’s theatrical ache in his delivery, a rock-frontman intensity that cuts through the polished EDM sheen and reminds you the story is still about loss. The tension between breezy production and wounded vocals is the whole point. It’s the sound of dancing through something you haven’t fully healed from. Rather than recreating the icy minimalism of the original, this version expands the emotional palette. The chorus lifts instead of collapsing. The pain glows instead of freezing. It reframes the song as a memory you’ve learned to live with rather than a wound that’s still bleeding. That subtle shift gives the cover its identity. It’s not trying to replace the classic. It’s asking what heartbreak sounds like years later, after time has softened the edges. The black-and-white video leans into that reflection. Watching Spiller drift along empty English roads with only the sea and his thoughts feels intimate and cinematic, a deliberate contrast to SUPER-Hi’s usual sun-drenched aesthetic. Stripping the visuals of color puts the focus back on motion and mood. He’s not chasing closure. He’s coexisting with the memory, letting it ride shotgun. What could have been a nostalgia grab ends up feeling like a conversation between past and present. SUPER-Hi and Luke Spiller prove that reinterpretation works best when it’s fearless. They don’t preserve the song in glass. They let it breathe again. What was the first conversation you had about reimagining such an iconic song, and what boundaries did you refuse to cross? SUPER-Hi Rick: The original is one of our favourite all-time songs; it definitely finds that heartbreak evolution vein… we always knew the hardest part of making our version would be finding someone to sing it, as soon as Luke started singing, we got chills and knew we’d found the right voice. How did you balance honoring the emotional core of the original while reshaping it into something brighter and more cinematic? Luke: The SUPER-Hi guys really guided me throughout the session, and we’re not shy about telling me to hold back and control my delivery. Good thing I respect them and have known them for years! SUPER-Hi George: We’ve always loved this song. What makes it slightly different from our other records is the darker lyric - we’re obsessed with juxtaposition, usually happy uplifting lyrics over minor chords, and this was the other way round.  Luke, your vocal performance feels theatrical but restrained. How did you approach singing a song already tied to such a distinct voice? Luke: It definitely was a challenge for me, but in the best way possible. I’m so used to putting so much energy into a vocal. I have to say it   was honestly refreshing to approach recording to serve the song and the feel, the best we could.  SUPER-Hi, your production usually leans sun-soaked and colorful. Why did the visual world for this release go black-and-white? SUPER-Hi George: When we spoke to Luke, he had a clear vision for the aesthetic, which was in line with the lyric. He’s such an amazing artist, and we trust wherever he wants to take it, in the same way that he trusts us to get what we want sonically. Needless to say, we love the visuals! Do you see this cover as nostalgia, reinvention, or a statement about how heartbreak evolves over time?  SUPER-Hi The nostalgia comes from the familiarity of the original, the reinvention is the sonic twist we gave the record, which gives a more hopeful feel, highlighting heartbreak evolving, so I guess we’d have to say all 3!

There’s a huge difference between a love song and a real love song. Dani Ivory knows it. On “ Get Through ,” she doesn’t give us fairy tale devotion or toxic glamorization. She gives us the version where love is heavy, complicated, and still chosen anyway. From the opening lines, she sets the tone with zero polish: “I really want to write a love song, but I can’t seem to get it right.” That’s the thesis. This isn’t about candlelight and perfect timing. It’s about loving someone who’s spiraling and admitting you’re not perfect either. When she sings, “I really want to tell you I miss you, but you’re drunk out of your mind,” it lands like a gut punch because it’s specific. And specificity is what makes it universal. Vocally, Dani doesn’t oversell it. That restraint is powerful. Her tone carries emotional weight without theatrical overreach. You can hear her touring background in the control, but this feels intentionally stripped back. The production leans organic and grounded, reflecting the shift she’s making away from the ethereal pop and EDM textures of Dreamland into something more rooted in country storytelling. It feels closer. More human. The chorus doesn’t offer escape. It offers commitment. “There’s no other way around it.” That line hits like someone deciding to stay when leaving would be easier. And then she turns the knife inward. “I wish I was stronger not to enable you, but I’m human too.” That’s where the song levels up. She doesn’t position herself as the savior. She acknowledges her own flaws. That mutual imperfection is the core of the track. “Get Through” isn’t naive. It doesn’t promise that love fixes everything. It just honors the act of meeting in the middle. Of choosing someone even when it’s inconvenient and messy. In a culture that either glorifies chaos or runs at the first sign of it, Dani Ivory is offering something braver: accountability, empathy, and the quiet strength of staying.

Covering a sacred text in country music is risky. Writing a sequel to it is borderline unhinged confidence. Heidi Vincent pulls it off anyway. “Mean Jolene” takes Dolly Parton’s mythic homewrecker and fast forwards the tape to the part nobody romanticizes: the aftermath. Spoiler alert: Stealing the man was not the happy ending. It was a downgrade. The brilliance of the track is how casually it delivers the punch. Heidi leans into classic country textures without turning the song into cosplay. The guitars twang with purpose, the drums move with a steady barroom heartbeat, and her voice rides the mix with a smoky clarity that feels lived in, not borrowed. There is a subtle yodel tucked into the phrasing, a wink to the old guard, but the production stays modern enough to sit comfortably next to contemporary country pop playlists. It is heritage without dust. Vocally, she sells the perspective shift. This is not the desperate woman begging Jolene to back off. This is the older, sharper narrator looking back and realizing she dodged a lifetime of disappointment. Heidi’s tone carries humor and bite in the same breath. You can hear the smirk when she lands certain lines. The songwriting is cinematic, cutting between memory and present day like a film edit, revealing a portrait of karma that is both funny and a little cruel. Country music works best when it tells the truth with melody, and “Mean Jolene” is brutally honest about bad choices aging poorly. In a culture obsessed with instant clapbacks and viral revenge fantasies, this track lands differently. It is patient. It is long-form storytelling in a singles era that forgot how to sit with a narrative. Anyone raised on classic country, or anyone who has ever watched an ex’s life implode from a safe distance, is the target audience. Heidi Vincent is not chasing trends here. She is extending a lineage. “Mean Jolene” proves country still has room for sharp women who remember everything and write it down. You stepped into a story that country fans treat like scripture. Were you ever worried about backlash, or did that risk make the song more exciting to write? Well, anytime you touch a song like “Jolene,” you are stepping on sacred ground. But I wasn’t interested in competing or rewriting the song; I just really wanted to answer a nagging question in my head. What happened after the plea? My song comes from respect and lived experience; country music always makes room for hard truths.  The humor in “Mean Jolene” is subtle but lethal. How do you balance empathy for the characters with the satisfaction of letting karma hit? I wasn’t intentionally trying to punish her; I was observing the aftermath. People have historically made these mistakes forever, no?. Hard truths are how we learn and over time, we sharpen our judgement… hopefully.  I let time, humour, and a little karma do the talking. Empathy comes from understanding that everyone in the story thought they were choosing something better, and perspective changes once you live with the consequences. That’s how we grow. In my family, we had a lot of plain-spoken wisdom. Grampa used to say, “If you fly with the crows, you’ll get shot with the crows.” Papa always told me, “The grass isn’t always greener on the other side.” When I messed up, Nana and Mom would say, “You made a mistake—it’s not the end of the world. Quit your cockeyed cryin’, pull up your socks & keep walkin’ head high.” Maybe Jolene thought she was choosing well, maybe selfishly, maybe under false pretenses, but now she knows better. It’s all perspective. Knowing doesn’t have to be the end of the story either. With a little reframing, Jolene can still have a good life. In fact, she does have a good life, beautiful babies and a future that’s still hers to shape. Now she gets to decide what comes next. Maybe that’s another song. You weave vintage vocal techniques into a modern mix. What parts of classic country singing do you think today’s artists overlook or underestimate? There are an awful lot of great artists out there, perhaps a restraint to achieve perfection? I feel like there is a bit too much polish overall. Slightly imperfect edges are great, that’s where character lives! This song plays like a short film. Do you see your writing as cinematic first and musical second, or do the images come after the melody? My process is pretty neat, I get an urge to play the guitar, a few chords birth a vocal melody, and the melody gives way to lyrics. But, simultaneously at the first chord progression, a movie and images walk in. I don’t plan to be cinematic, but I do think in “scenes,” where we are standing, what just happened, what isn’t being said. If the listener can “see” the moment, then I’ve done my job.  When listeners tell you they relate to the narrator, what does that say about how people process regret and relief as they get older? The end of a situation doesn’t always feel triumphant; it’s usually quiet or complicated. When we’re older, we can recognize the losses that saved us. That realization, that some doors closing were actually mercy, lands hardest when you are able to see the alternative, like my narrator.