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There’s a reason so many Gen-Z music videos feel like they exist in their own universe right now. The colors are louder. The edits are sharper. The worlds feel handmade instead of algorithm-tested. A big part of that shift can be traced back to one New York collective quietly redefining what underground visuals look like. Family Video Store isn’t a traditional production company. It operates more like a living ecosystem. Founded in 2022 by NYC filmmaker Evan Deng, the collective has become a hub for artists, directors, and storytellers who exist outside the industry’s default settings. Their work lives at the intersection of hyperpop chaos, indie film experimentation, and internet-era surrealism. The result is a visual identity that feels instantly recognizable without ever repeating itself. Since launching, Family Video Store has embedded itself deep in New York’s indie and hyperpop scene, directing and producing videos for a wave of Gen-Z artists shaping the next era of alternative pop. Their credits include INJI, Mei Semones, Alice Longyu Gao, Namasenda, 8485, fish narc, Sophie Cates, Ravenna Golden, AJ Smith, SEBii, NOIA, Babebee, Dafna, and more. These aren’t just gigs. They’re cultural timestamps. The videos function as digital artifacts of a scene that moves faster than traditional media can track. Deng describes the collective’s aesthetic as pioneering a hyperpop visual language, but the philosophy runs deeper than style. Family Video Store is intentionally structured to challenge who gets to create images in the first place. The collective centers Black, Indigenous, queer, and Asian creatives, and backs that mission with a concrete hiring commitment: a diversity goal of 50 percent of all collaborators representing minority communities and women. It’s not branding. It’s infrastructure. That framework has allowed the collective to grow without sanding down its edge. Deng himself has appeared in major music videos for artists like Malcolm Todd, Armani White, Twenty One Pilots, and Jess Glynne, while collaborating with labels including Sony Music, AWAL, Universal Music Group, Polydor, Epitaph, and Robbins Entertainment. Yet Family Video Store still moves like an underground studio, prioritizing emerging artists and experimental visuals over safe commercial formulas. As the collective approaches its 50th official music video release, it marks a milestone that feels less like a victory lap and more like proof of concept. You can build a sustainable creative ecosystem without copying the old industry blueprint. You can champion equity and still produce work that dominates timelines. You can create a recognizable aesthetic without turning it into a factory. Family Video Store’s catalog reads like a visual archive of a generation figuring itself out in real time. The videos are colorful, chaotic, intimate, and unapologetically weird. They mirror the artists they collaborate with: internet-native, genre-blurring, and allergic to polish for polish’s sake. That authenticity is what makes their work stick. It doesn’t feel manufactured. It feels lived in. Beyond the visuals, the collective is actively asking audiences to invest in a more equitable future for filmmakers. Their platform doubles as a call to action, encouraging supporters to contribute to a system that redistributes opportunity instead of hoarding it. In an industry that still struggles with representation behind the camera, that stance isn’t optional. It’s overdue. Family Video Store isn’t chasing trends. They’re documenting the culture as it mutates, and shaping it in the process. If the next decade of music visuals looks different, brighter, and more inclusive, it won’t be an accident. It’ll be because collectives like this decided to build their own lane and dared the industry to catch up. Family Video Store feels less like a production company and more like a cultural movement. When you look at the underground scene right now, what do you think mainstream media still doesn’t understand about the artists and visuals coming out of it? We caught onto hyperpop towards the tail end of the movement, pre-Brat. We've worked with a plethora of artists like Alice Longyu Gao, Sophie Cates, 8485, Ravenna Golden, Namasenda, SEBii, Babebee, fish narc, cr1tter, etc. As early as 2020, we promoted similar music through our reels, marketing, etc., and were beyond excited when Charli XCX, AG Cook, and PC Music reached international acclaim during the Brat era. Fun fact, Charli XCX's DP follows me on Instagram! Your work is often described as hyperpop visually, but it never feels like a gimmick. How do you balance chaos, color, and intense energy without letting the aesthetic overshadow the emotional core of the artist? I'm so inspired by French New Wave, cinema verité, and Dogme 95. Fantasy but filmed like a documentary. I started off shooting on a dinky Nikon DSLR, so a lot of those creative "choices" came out of low budget and necessity. I've always filmed my music videos like it's Jean Luc Godard's Breathless, but instead of Paris, we're in the woods with Mei Semones, a fruit store with 8485, or the desert with Ravenna Golden. Truthfully, I'm in debt because of all the production design. [laughs] You’ve built Family Video Store around equity and representation in a very concrete way, not just as a slogan. Has committing to that hiring structure changed the way your sets feel or the kind of stories you’re able to tell? "Family Video Store is committed towards a diversity goal of 50% of all hired employees, contractors, or day laborers representing Minority Persons and/or Women." That's on our website. We've been pretty faithful to that, which has only made our productions ever more vibrant and unique. After working with both emerging Gen-Z artists and major label projects, what differences do you see in creative freedom between the underground and the industry machine, and where do you think the future of music videos actually lives? TikTok and short-form media have significantly shifted the music industry. We sell concert tickets based on eight-second reels now. Attention is the new currency. Underground artists figured that out first, and now the mainstream is catching up. As you approach your 50th official release, what scares you more: getting bigger and losing the edge, or staying underground and being misunderstood by the wider industry? How do you protect the identity of the collective while it grows? I think I'm more scared of the inevitable... this whole thing blows up and I get lost in the sauce, so to speak. I'd hate to be misunderstood, but I also think it's necessary in a weird way. Have you ever heard of a four-quadrant blockbuster? I've always thought of an artist as a canvas, anyway, blank and to be painted over, again and again. Representing the queer and marginalized will always be at the forefront of our mission.

There’s a certain freedom that comes from not trying to impress everyone, and fck being famous lives inside that space. Terrence Esquire Huggins doesn’t sound like he’s chasing algorithms or begging for viral moments. He sounds focused. Grounded. Locked in on craft. The album plays like a late-night confession booth set to moody drums and soulful textures, where every bar feels intentional, and every hook carries emotional weight. Huggins, a Latin Grammy-nominated producer with deep roots in the DC area, brings a producer’s ear to the entire project. The beats never overcrowd his voice. They breathe. Tracks like “fine with me” and “meditate” float on warm chords and minimal percussion, giving his lyrics room to land. When the energy rises on “wow” and “never quit,” the production tightens into a grittier bounce that mirrors the hunger in his delivery. He’s spitting bars, and he’s pretty good, but what makes them hit is the honesty underneath. You hear ambition, paranoia, loyalty, and exhaustion sitting in the same room, arguing with each other in real time. “dreaming big” closes the project on a reflective note, tying the album’s themes together. Fame isn’t framed as the goal. Survival, growth, and self-respect are. That tension gives the record its backbone. Huggins balances confidence with vulnerability in a way that feels human rather than performative. His message is simple but heavy: authenticity costs less than pretending. That philosophy extends beyond the music. With LDR Entertainment preparing for international festival performances starting in the UK and expanding abroad in 2026, Huggins sounds less interested in celebrity and more invested in longevity. As he puts it, “It's okay to be authentic in your creative process.. Raw, unfiltered, and human.” Fck Being Famous is proof that he’s living by that rule, and the result is a project built for listeners who still care about substance over noise. fck being famous pushes back hard against clout culture. Was there a specific moment where you realized fame and fulfillment weren’t the same thing? I don’t think it was one big moment—it was a pattern. I hit milestones I thought were supposed to feel like “arrival,” and instead I felt just as hungry, just as human. I realized if the work doesn’t feed your spirit, attention won’t either. Fame can amplify you, but it can’t define you. This project came from choosing purpose over applause. You balance vulnerability and confidence throughout the album. Which track was the hardest to write emotionally, and why keep it raw? The hardest records are the ones where you don’t get to hide behind clever bars or production. “wow” forced us to sit with things we normally move past. I kept the production raw because polish can sometimes dilute truth. Juiixe wanted the listener to hear me thinking, not performing—that’s where the connection lives. As a producer and artist, how do you decide when a beat should lead versus when lyrics carry the weight? I treat beats like environments. Sometimes the production sets the emotional temperature, and my voice just moves through it. Other times, the lyrics are the engine, and the beat exists to stay out of the way. The rule is simple: whatever serves the feeling best wins—ego doesn’t get a vote. Your career spans multiple countries and genres. How has that shaped the sound and mindset behind this project? Being in different places teaches you that there’s no single way to be successful or authentic. Different cultures value different things—rhythm, silence, storytelling. That gave me freedom. I stopped chasing trends and started chasing honesty. This album sounds like motion because it was made in motion. With LDR Entertainment preparing for international festivals, what does global growth mean to you, and how do you protect authenticity? Global growth isn’t about becoming bigger—it’s about becoming clearer. The bigger the stage, the more important the foundation. LDR as a brand protects authenticity by staying rooted in why we started: telling real stories, making timeless music, and never confusing visibility with value. If we can do that anywhere in the world, we are winning.

Karnivool were never built for quick cycles or algorithm pacing. They were built for endurance. After Themata, Sound Awake, and Asymmetry rewired what Australian heavy music could look like on a global scale, the silence that followed felt less like a break and more like a suspended sentence. Fans didn’t just wait. They aged with the absence. In Verses lands after more than a decade of uncertainty, false starts, and creative gridlock, and you can hear every year of that struggle in the album’s bones. This is not a nostalgia play. It is a reckoning. The band sounds like five people clawing their way back toward a shared identity, testing how much weight their chemistry can still carry. What makes this return hit harder is that Karnivool never pretended the process was romantic. They stalled. They doubted. They walked away and circled back. That tension bleeds into the record’s architecture. Songs stretch and snap like cables under pressure, then bloom into moments of strange beauty. It feels lived in, scarred, and stubbornly alive. In Verses is not a victory lap. It is a survival document. And that honesty is exactly why it matters now. After a decade of stop-starts, what part of your identity had to die for Karnivool to finish this record, and what replaced it? Parts of our identity, like ego and control, had to be killed off to find a way forward and to better understand each other. As challenging as it was to stop and start so often, it did allow moments of perspective. Through this, I feel we found a maturity that wasn’t present before. This allowed us to understand what record we were trying to make. Once we were through the hardest parts and we found communication through the tension and hurdles, we found a path forward. Throughout In Verses, the author feels obsessed with reflection and self-erosion. Were there moments during the process where you genuinely thought the band might not survive? Yeah, absolutely, there was. There were a few points where frustration hit a critical point, and the only option was to walk away, not knowing if and when we would be returning to the record. Thankfully, the time between these periods allowed us to regroup and understand where things fell down and where communication in the creative space needed further work. A lot of progressive bands hide behind complexity. This album feels emotionally naked. Was vulnerability a conscious risk or something you stumbled into? I think vulnerability has always played a part in Karnivool’s music. It’s one of the safest and freest spaces to be ourselves. To be honest, we’re all being hit with the emotional weight on this record just now upon completion. It still feels very new and raw. Some riffs on the record date back 20 years. How do you decide when an old idea deserves resurrection instead of staying buried? It’s not uncommon practice in Karnivool’s creative world to reach back to early ideas that were left on the cutting floor, as in some weird way, it all feels connected. Some of those ideas come back just at the right time. It’s pretty wild that one of the main riffs on Opal came from something we were vibing on twenty years ago. Now that you’ve broken the silence, do you feel pressure to move faster, or does Karnivool only function when it ignores the clock completely? No, I don’t think there’s any pressure to move faster. One thing we’ve learned is Karnivool works from a very different clock. At times, we would love things to happen quicker, but until we master the skills to manipulate time, we practice patience and more patience. We are, though, very eager to share what we have in our hands now with Karnivool fans. There’s magic that happens in those rooms night after night between the band and fans, and it’s something we just can’t find anywhere else on earth, and that we have missed.

“ Fading Dreams ” doesn’t introduce itself like a pop single. It arrives like a memory you didn’t realize you were still carrying. Pink Crush builds the track in slow motion, letting it hover in that fragile space between sleep and waking life. From the first seconds, the production feels cinematic and suspended, as if the song is breathing rather than playing. Teresa Flowers writes from a place most artists are scared to sit in for too long: grief without theatrics. The song came from a dream encounter with her mother after her passing, and you can hear the intimacy in every line. There’s no melodrama, no forced catharsis. Instead, the track unfolds like a quiet conversation across dimensions. Her voice floats above dark pop textures that shimmer and dissolve, echoing the feeling of trying to hold onto a dream as it slips away. What makes “Fading Dreams” powerful is how it reframes loss. The song isn’t just about absence. It’s about transformation. The production swells in waves, layering soft synth haze with a subtle heaviness that hints at Teresa’s background in doom metal. That tension gives the track weight. Beauty and darkness sit side by side, never canceling each other out. They coexist, which is exactly what grief feels like when it settles into your bones. Pink Crush has always leaned into emotional intensity, but this track feels especially distilled. Every sound serves the atmosphere. Every lyric feels chosen, not spilled. You get the sense that the song exists less as a performance and more as a ritual, a way of honoring someone by turning pain into something luminous. By the end, “Fading Dreams” doesn’t resolve. It fades gently, like the title promises, leaving behind a soft ache and a strange sense of calm. Teresa describes her mother’s absence as “transformative expressive power,” and that’s exactly what the song captures. It’s a reminder that grief can be a doorway, not just an ending. How did translating such a personal dream into music change your relationship with that memory? Translating the dream into music gave the memory a place to live outside of my body. Before the song, it felt heavy and internal—something I carried quietly. Turning it into sound allowed me to interact with it differently, almost like I could step back and witness it instead of being consumed by it. Even now, every time I listen to the song, I cry at the end—but it feels cleansing rather than overwhelming. The song didn’t erase the emotional weight; it transformed it into something fluid, shared, and alive. The song balances darkness and beauty without leaning too far into either. How intentional was that emotional equilibrium? That balance was very intentional. Grief, for me, has never been purely dark—it often exists alongside beauty, tenderness, and even moments of peace. I didn’t want the song to feel oppressive or overly melancholic, but I also didn’t want to sanitize the pain. Holding both emotions at once felt more honest. The beauty allows listeners to breathe inside the heaviness, and the darkness keeps the beauty from feeling superficial. Did your work in heavier music influence how you approached the atmosphere of this track? Absolutely. Working in heavier music taught me how powerful restraint can be. You don’t always need intensity to feel weight. I brought that understanding into this track by focusing on tension, space, and atmosphere rather than aggression. The influence shows up in the way the song lingers and simmers emotionally instead of exploding—it trusts the listener to sit with discomfort rather than being overwhelmed by it. When writing about grief, how do you decide what to keep private versus what to share with listeners? I focus less on specific details and more on emotional truth. The private parts stay private when they don’t serve the listener’s experience. I want people to recognize themselves in the song, not feel like they’re reading my diary. If something feels too literal or too closed off, I let it go. What I share is what feels universal, the sensations, the shifts, the emotional aftermath, rather than the exact narrative. What does transformation through loss mean to you now, compared to when you first wrote the song? When I first wrote the song, transformation felt theoretical, something I hoped would happen eventually. Now, it feels lived-in and ongoing. Loss didn’t make me stronger in a dramatic way, but it reshaped how I move through the world. It slowed me down, sharpened my awareness, and changed how I value presence and connection. Transformation through loss isn’t about closure for me; it’s about learning how to carry something tender without letting it define or limit you.

Most albums ask for attention. Death Of The White Dog  demands surrender. The Uprights are selling this as an immersive experience, and for once, that is not marketing fluff. From the opening seconds of “War,” the record feels staged like a psychological play. Guitars grind and swell like machinery waking up. Voices drift in and out like narrators arguing inside your head. Every track bleeds into the next with cinematic intent. You are not meant to shuffle this. You are meant to enter it. “Psilocybin” is the first real rupture. The production bends and warps with a hallucinogenic calm that feels both beautiful and slightly hostile. The Uprights understand pacing in a way most rock records forgot. They weaponize silence. They let tension sit in the air until it becomes physical. When the drums finally land, it feels like gravity returning. What makes this album hit is its refusal to behave. “The Machine Awakens” stomps forward with industrial dread, all sharp edges and paranoia, while “Alone In A Crowded Room” shrinks inward into a lonely, neon-lit confession. The vocals never beg for sympathy. They observe. They narrate. They drag you through scenes like a tour guide who enjoys the discomfort. Lyrically, the record circles themes of identity decay and digital-era alienation without turning into preachy sci-fi. The writing is impressionistic, more concerned with mood than clean answers. Lines flicker past like overheard thoughts on a subway platform. You rarely get a thesis statement. You get fragments. Warnings. Questions that linger after the track ends. That ambiguity is the point. The album trusts the listener to do emotional labor instead of spoon-feeding conclusions. The sound design deserves its own credit. There is a tactile quality to the mix, like everything was recorded in a physical space you could walk into. Distortion crackles with heat. Synths smear across the stereo field like light trails. Even the quieter moments feel dense, packed with microscopic detail. Headphones reveal an entirely different architecture than speakers. It is engineered for deep listening, not background noise. Culturally, this falls into a moment when everyone is overstimulated and somehow bored. Death Of The White Dog is the antidote to passive listening. It is for people tired of algorithm-friendly singles engineered for fifteen seconds of attention. This record asks you to dim the lights, turn the speakers up, and actually feel something. That alone makes it rebellious. There is also a strange emotional generosity here. For all its mechanical textures and dystopian moods, the album never feels cold. Beneath the abrasion is a pulse of vulnerability. The Uprights are documenting anxiety, not glamorizing it. The chaos is presented as something to move through, not live inside. That distinction keeps the project human. It aches. It breathes. Replay value is massive because the album behaves like a film. Each pass reveals a hidden detail. A whispered line. A guitar texture buried in the mix. A thematic echo you missed the first time. The Uprights are not chasing playlists. They are building a world and trusting the audience to step inside. And honestly, in 2026, that level of artistic confidence feels rare and necessary. Death Of The White Dog does not care if it is convenient. It cares if it is honest. In a landscape flooded with disposable content, that commitment feels less like nostalgia and more like quiet resistance. This is a record that insists music can still be an environment, not just a product. And once you step into it, leaving feels optional.

There’s a specific kind of vulnerability most artists avoid. Not heartbreak. Not anger. Not even longing. The quieter, uglier fear that maybe you’re the difficult one. The one who doesn’t deserve the love you’re getting. Nailah Carrie runs straight into that discomfort on “Why Do You Stay,” and the result is one of the most emotionally disarming alt-R&B releases to come out of New York’s independent scene in a minute. Raised in Yonkers and sharpened by a background in poetry and literary arts, Nailah doesn’t write songs so much as she confesses them. Her theatrical roots show up in the pacing. Every line feels intentional, like a scene unfolding instead of a hook being chased. The production, handled by Nailah alongside Ashton Adams, gives her voice room to breathe. Warm keys, restrained percussion, and subtle harmonic layers let the tension live in the lyrics instead of burying it in gloss. At its core, “Why Do You Stay” is about self-interrogation. The song circles a painful question: why would someone stay with you when you’re convinced you’re unlovable? Nailah doesn’t glamorize insecurity or wrap it in easy empowerment slogans. She sits inside it. The writing captures the mental spiral of comparing your flaws to your partner’s patience, realizing you wouldn’t offer the same grace if the roles were reversed. It’s brutally honest without feeling self-pitying. That balance is hard to pull off, and she nails it. What makes the track hit harder is its timeline. Written in 2019, released in 2024, and now paired with a music video premiering February 6, the song carries the weight of years lived between creation and execution. That delay adds meaning. It turns the release into proof of her own message: art doesn’t expire. If anything, the distance deepens the performance. You can hear growth layered over the original wound. Nailah’s vocal delivery is the anchor. There’s a neo-soul softness in her tone, but she uses restraint like a weapon. Instead of belting for drama, she leans into intimacy, pulling the listener into the room with her. It feels less like a performance and more like reading someone’s journal out loud and realizing it mirrors your own thoughts. For anyone who’s ever stayed in their head too long, convinced they’re the weakest link in their own relationship, “Why Do You Stay” lands like a quiet hand on the shoulder. Nailah Carrie isn’t trying to be the loudest voice in alternative pop right now. She’s trying to be the most honest. And in a landscape full of overproduced emotional shortcuts, that honesty cuts deeper than any chorus ever could. You’ve said “Why Do You Stay” came from one of the lowest points in your life. Looking back now, do you feel like the song still represents who you were then, or has its meaning shifted as you’ve grown? I wrote “Why Do You Stay” 7 years ago while studying abroad in London, so the song is very much a time capsule that captures that particular moment in my life. For me, it does represent who I was during that time and the feelings I was wrestling with. I also think that now, so many years later, my relationship to the song has shifted. At the time, writing “Why Do You Stay” was a form of catharsis, and I’m grateful that I had my songwriting to help me process everything that I was going through so that I could move forward. Currently, I’m in a much better place emotionally, and I can appreciate the song in a different way. I’m extremely proud of the production (which I worked on with Ashton Adams and Bryan “BC” Cockett), and I’m proud of the songwriting. As I’ve gotten older, “Why Do You Stay” has taken on a new meaning in the sense that it marks a point of growth for me as an artist. It makes me grateful that I went through that low point, because if I hadn’t gone through that, I wouldn’t have gotten this song out of it.  Your background in poetry and literary arts is all over your songwriting. When you’re writing a track like this, are you thinking more like a musician or a poet first, and where do those instincts ever clash? I like to say that I have a “poet brain” and a “songwriter brain”, so when I’m writing a track like “Why Do You Stay,” I’ve definitely got my “songwriter brain” switched on. Even though I used to see my music and my poetry as completely separate entities, I now know that subconsciously they’ve always informed each other. For me, it’s never been an issue of clashing instincts and, if anything, I’m finding that the more intentional I am about creating synergy between my poetry and my songwriting, the stronger my artistic vision becomes.  The song sat unreleased for years before reaching streaming, and now a video. What did you have to unlearn about timing, perfection, or fear in order to finally let it go? I had to unlearn a lot in order to get “Why Do You Stay” out into the world. When I first started pursuing music as a career, I thought that I had to wait to be “discovered” before I could put out original work. I thought that I needed permission to do what I wanted to do. I was also afraid of being seen “trying” to be an artist without that external stamp of approval. My parents, who are my biggest supporters, recommended that I read The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. That book helped give me the courage to release music (and music videos) as an independent artist.  A lot of artists write about blaming partners or chasing love. You flipped the lens inward and questioned yourself instead. Was it scary to make a song that honest, knowing listeners might see their own insecurities in it? It wasn’t scary at all to write the song initially, because I didn’t think it was going to see the light of day. I wrote “Why Do You Stay” before I had even considered pursuing a professional music career. Once I was on that path and decided that I wanted to release “Why Do You Stay”, I did start to get a little nervous knowing that other people, especially people I knew in real life, were going to hear it. But eventually, I got over that because my desire to express myself overpowered any hesitation that I had about being so publicly vulnerable.  You talk about wanting people to feel less alone when they hear this. Has anyone shared a reaction to the song that surprised you or confirmed you hit the emotional nerve you were aiming for? Tone Shift Collective hosts a great monthly listening party and artist mixer in Brooklyn, and I presented “Why Do You Stay” at one of their events a few months ago. After all the artists had presented, a young woman came up to me and told me that she felt like the song was about her life and that she felt really seen by its vulnerability. That confirmed for me that the song was having its intended impact. There’s also something beautiful about the fact that I felt alone when I wrote “Why Do You Stay,” and it’s brought me such a sense of community since then.

Chappell Roan has reportedly cut ties with Wasserman following controversy surrounding the agency’s founder, whose name appeared in documents connected to the Jeffrey Epstein case that resurfaced online this week. The move has not yet been accompanied by a detailed public statement from Roan’s camp, but multiple industry outlets and social media watchdog accounts began tracking her apparent separation from the agency shortly after the documents reignited public scrutiny. Screenshots, archived listings, and insider chatter quickly fueled speculation that the split was a deliberate distancing decision. It is critical to note that appearing in Epstein-related documents does not in itself establish criminal wrongdoing. Legal analysts continue to stress that the records include a wide range of names tied to contacts, references, and associations, many of which have never resulted in charges. Still, the optics alone have triggered a wave of backlash, placing pressure on companies and public figures connected to anyone named. For an artist like Roan, whose meteoric rise has been powered by a deeply loyal fanbase and a brand built on emotional transparency, even indirect controversy carries weight. Modern pop audiences increasingly scrutinize not just the art, but the infrastructure behind it. Agencies that once operated quietly in the background now face the same public accountability as the artists they represent. Industry observers say the situation reflects a broader cultural shift. Younger artists are becoming more proactive about brand alignment, ethics, and perception in an era where every affiliation is instantly searchable and endlessly debated online. Reputation management is no longer a PR afterthought. It is a survival strategy. Neither Wasserman nor its founder has issued a new statement addressing the renewed attention at the time of publication. As conversations continue to unfold across entertainment media, Roan’s reported exit may become a defining example of how quickly power dynamics can shift when public trust enters the equation.

When Puerto Rico’s Bad Bunny stepped onto the Levi’s Stadium turf to headline the Apple Music Super Bowl LX Halftime Show on February 8, 2026, 135M+ people watched. It was a historic moment, the first time a predominantly Spanish-language artist led the halftime show, blending reggaetón, trap, and cultural pride into one of the most talked-about performances of the year. But as the confetti fell and the global buzz peaked, one fact about the show has stunned even seasoned music industry observers: Bad Bunny wasn’t paid a traditional performance fee for the Super Bowl. That’s right, the artist who just won Album of the Year at the Grammys didn’t walk away with a fat check for a 12-minute set in front of arguably the world’s largest TV audience. So let’s break it down: why no paycheck? And more importantly, what does that say about how music and culture are valued in America’s biggest entertainment vehicle? The NFL Doesn’t Pay Halftime Artists, Period. This isn’t a Bad Bunny special; it’s been NFL policy for decades. Artists who headline the Super Bowl halftime show, from Beyoncé to Kendrick Lamar, Rihanna, or Usher, don’t receive a traditional performance fee. According to league tradition and spokespeople, the NFL only covers production costs, travel, and sometimes union-mandated minimum wages for labor (often just a few hundred to a couple of thousand dollars). In fact, past performers like Usher reportedly earned only $671 for his 2024 show and dancers only a few hundred dollars per day, the union “scale” required by SAG-AFTRA. That’s it. No multi-million dollar appearance fees. No guaranteed payout for a global moment watched by 100 million+ viewers. The “Payoff” Is Supposed to Be Exposure, Not Cash. Here’s where the music business gets weird: The NFL and its partners treat the halftime slot like premier advertising space, not a concert gig. It’s one of the most-watched broadcasts every year, often exceeding 100 million viewers. Historically, streaming, sales, and artist visibility spike massively  after a halftime appearance. For example, Rihanna’s music sales reportedly jumped over 640% after her 2023 performance, and Kendrick Lamar’s Spotify streams soared 430% following his 2025 show. So the NFL’s logic is: we don’t pay you up front, because you’ll make more later in attention and monetization than any direct fee we could offer. From a purely capitalist lens, it almost makes sense, but from an artistic one, it’s easily seen as exploiting visibility without actual compensation. Artists Are Compensated With a Platform, Not a Paycheck Think about it like a deal with a major corporation: The NFL spends millions on staging, lighting, cameras, sound, and logistics. When Apple Music became a sponsor, that production budget got even larger. But that doesn’t translate into pay for the performer. Instead: The NFL offers exposure. The audience they command is massive. If your fanbase doesn’t grow, it’s on you, not them. And in an industry where streaming numbers dictate tours, sponsorships, sync deals, and brand partnerships, that exposure isn’t nothing, it’s monetary currency with real value. For an artist like Bad Bunny, an established global superstar with huge touring power, that exposure still translates into legitimate next-level commercial potential. 4. The Controversial Catch-22 Let’s be real: this setup is pretty wild when you think about it. You show up for what is arguably the most prestigious musical stage in the world, and you get... No negotiable payment. Instead, you get: A megaphone to millions beyond your core audience. A spike in streaming and catalog rediscovery. Massive social media traction. A revived cultural narrative that makes your tour, merch, and brand bigger forever. But that’s also the catch: the only artists who can play this game are the ones who already don’t need the money, the superstars with brands, tours, and revenue streams that dwarf a modest performance fee. In other words... You gotta already be at the top to benefit from not being paid. Why the System Persists There are a few reasons this awkward tradition keeps going: Brand Positioning for the NFL The league wants its halftime show to be seen as a cultural moment, not a paid concert. Paying massive fees could make it look commercial  in a way they think cheapens the spectacle. Historical Precedent Every performer who came before Bad Bunny played under the same terms. No one grandfathered in a new pay structure — and no public uproar big enough forced the NFL’s hand. Artists Still Sign Up Because the exposure legitimately works. Look at the numbers after past halftime shows, streams, and attention go through the roof.  Even if you don’t get paid upfront, the swell in your metrics and brand power can launch tours and business deals that earn way  more than a basic fee ever could. But Here’s the Bigger Cultural Conversation Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl moment is bigger than money. He didn’t just perform, he brought Puerto Rican culture and Spanish-language music into a national spectacle that’s usually dominated by English-language pop. That was a legacy shift in itself. But if you strip away the cultural impact, the business reality remains: There’s a power imbalance between the NFL’s revenue engine and the artists filling its stage. The league sells billions in ad dollars. Artists get the spotlight. That’s the deal. And whether it’s fair? That’s up to the culture to decide. The Bottom Line Bad Bunny didn’t get paid for his Super Bowl halftime show because the NFL has never paid any artist a performance fee for the halftime show; that’s just the way the contract works. Instead, performers trade paycheck for unmatched exposure, a platform that historically explodes streams, visibility, and subsequent revenue opportunities. It’s a move as strategic as it is controversial, and one that puts into focus how culture and commerce collide at the biggest moments in music. And for an artist like Bad Bunny? That collision just became one of the most powerful cultural pulses of the year.

Thai singer, songwriter, and producer Pran is steadily carving out his own lane in pop, one built on self-sufficiency, emotional continuity, and global influence. With the release of his second single, “’ Til The End For You,” Pran continues to expand the sonic and emotional world he introduced earlier this year, signaling a new chapter in his evolving artistry. Unlike artists who arrive fully formed, Pran’s journey has been intentionally hands-on and experimental. He began exploring music production at just 13 years old, developing foundational skills through trial and error on GarageBand before he ever considered writing lyrics. While production came first, songwriting followed naturally, only about two years ago, making this current era a formative one for the young artist. “I’m kind of in between everything,” Pran explained. “I’m a singer, songwriter, and producer all at the same time.” That multidisciplinary approach defines “’Til The End For You,” a track Pran largely produced himself, with creative guidance from his manager to help spark the initial direction. From there, Pran took the reins, writing the music and lyrics before handing the final mixes off to collaborators in the U.S. Sonically, the song is rooted in pop, with R&B-inspired drums and subtle EDM textures, drawing influence from artists like Justin Bieber and other contemporary male pop stars. While his earlier work nodded toward The Weeknd, this release signals where Pran sees his sound heading: polished, emotive, and globally accessible. “’Til The End For You” also continues the narrative arc first introduced in his debut single “All I Need Is Love.” Where that song explored self-love and healing after heartbreak, the new track picks up after the emotional storm has cleared. “It’s about finding a fulfilling relationship,” Pran said. “Feeling like you’d go to the end of the earth for someone, but also realizing that even with love, you still have to fight for it.” The single arrives alongside an official music video that leans more abstract than traditional storytelling. Packed with layered visual effects and a cinematic tone, the video introduces a second character representing the love interest, reinforcing the song’s themes without spelling them out. “’Til The End For You” is now available across all streaming platforms, with the video streaming online as well. The song will appear on Pran’s upcoming album—still untitled—which will also include his previous single. The full project is expected by the end of the year, with another music video planned to coincide with the album release. Born Jessada Malakul in Bangkok and currently balancing his music career with university studies in Sheffield, England, Pran represents a new generation of globally minded pop artists. Inspired in part by K-pop’s production style and the success of Thai artists like Lisa, a member of South Korean girl group BLACKPINK, Pran sees possibility in crossing borders—sonically and culturally. With only two official releases, Pran is still early in his journey, but “’Til The End For You” makes one thing clear: he’s building something with intention, patience, and heart. Fans should stay tuned, this is just the beginning. “Til the End for You” is now available on all streaming platforms, with promotional support from Starlight PR . Apple Music  | Spotify  | Instagram  | TikTok  | Twitter

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