Songs From The Heart Volume 1 is a sprawling, diversified collection of collaborative tracks recording under the umbrella name “Collaborations.” This project was designed to be “a fusion of purpose and melody, (and) a unique convergence of artistry and vision.” Musically it spans what the project calls “the timeless backdrop of the 60s, 70s and 80s.”

The project was conceived by Ed Daniels, who co-wrote many of the songs. Production was by Vic Steffens of Horizon Studios, with orchestrations by Matt Oestreicher (Stevie Wonder, John Legend). The core band includes lead guitarist Al Ferrante (Edgar Winter, Cyndi Lauper), Bassist Scott Spray (Johnny Winter, Ronnie Spector) and drummer Bobby Torello (Grace Slick, Michael Bolton). Each song features a different vocalist: the project managers provided a foundational theme and structure, encouraging the singers to “weave their unique perspectives and emotional depth into the fabric of each song.” Most of the singers wrote their own lyrics. There’s videos for most songs along with the Spotify playlist, so I’ll be jumping back and forth.

The opening track “Let The Love In” is about letting your guard down and becoming more open to love. This is a showcase for the terrific vocals of Anais Preller, whose pipes evoke Anita Baker or Sade. We’re also introduced to the lovely, tight backing vocals of the four-voice Kevin Monroe Choir, an expansive string arrangement and Santana-like percussion. There’s also saxophones, along with a flute solo by Bill Holloman. Scott Spray’s bass is also noteworthy. “Ready For Love” is interesting in that the Spotify track is ONLY the backing singers! I thought it was some weird conceptual mix, but over on YouTube the track is totally filled out. Lead singer Sheila Fabrizio has a nicely “childlike” voice atop 60’s style brass and fuzz guitar. Guitarist Al Ferrante takes a killer Rickenbaker solo.

“Don’t You See” is a song about finding your own way in life and not waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Sylvia Jones takes a lovely lead vocal with Shaft-like strings by Dave Eggar. “Doing Fine” (featuring Suzanne Kiss) has the same basic sound as the previous track, and overall has similar vibes to Roberta Flack’s “Feel Like Making Love.” The core band is quite active, with double time beats, happily strummed guitars and inventive piano trills. Strings this time are arranged by Jake Polumbo. “Think About It” featuring Rose Taytro recalls both The Four Seasons and Jackson Browne (“Somebody’s Baby”). This one’s got a great, catchy chorus with the line “You better THINK about it!”

“Got a Feeling” (with Heather Joseph on vocals) takes a lateral move to Joe Cocker-Leon Russell blues, thanks both to the organ and the way the lead and backing vocals combine to create a joyful, Gospel-like sound. “Where We Belong” features Carla Zipay, who has a lower-sounding voice than the previous singers. This track stands out as a 60’s folk-pop hybrid, with a chorus arrangement weirdly similar to the pop hit “Bend Me Shake Me”. Al Ferrante takes an unexpected harmonic lead guitar solo. The closing track “Running Out of Tomorrows” was written by Ed Daniels and features a trio of singers: Heather Joseph, Ricky Alan Draughn and Suzanne Vick. This is the song that really drives home the message of the project: “Why can’t people come together and change the way we see things? Because we’re running out of tomorrows to change.” This is another pop arrangement with a good amount of gospel influence.

There’s 11 songs total and they are consistent enough in tone that the changing of the singers is not always obvious on first listen. It’s music that makes you feel good and brings hope. Not a bad deal!

On IS THIS WHAT I SEE?, Myah grapples with the passage of time—how it speeds forward, how memories slip away, how nostalgia tugs at the edges of the present. “I often find myself struggling with existentialism and the feeling that time moves too fast,” she reflects. That restless energy pulses through the EP’s eight tracks, a sleek and introspective dive into modern synthpop.  

Drawing from the same electronic lineage as CHVRCHES and Cut Copy, Myah leans into a sound that feels both familiar and carefully constructed. The production is crisp, the songwriting strong, and the melodies designed to stick. *IS THIS WHAT I SEE?* doesn’t break new ground, but it understands its place in the genre and delivers with precision.  

The opener, “with you,” kicks things off with a punchy 4/4 beat, shimmering synths, and a hook that wastes no time. “i’ll be your light” leans deeper into CHVRCHES territory, layering thick synth pads with anthemic vocal lines. Myah pulls back on “notice you,” a more subdued and melancholy track, while “summer love” experiments with a mix of piano, synths, and drums that gives it a distinct texture. “Flames” leans into retro 80s influences, carrying a faint dreamlike quality reminiscent of Beach House.  

“lost at sea” feels like a natural single, the kind of song that leaves an immediate impression. “Running” moves into warmer territory, offering a brief sense of comfort, while “say it” closes the EP with one of its strongest hooks.  

There’s a tension at the heart of these songs—a mix of youthful anxiety and polished pop sensibilities. Myah channels the emotional depth of Julien Baker but delivers it with a neon glow, shaping existential reflection into something undeniably catchy. It’s the sound of someone caught between the past and the present, watching time move forward even as they try to hold onto the moment.

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Jackie Moontan is an funk-indie rock artist who (it is rumored) arrived here by spaceship. This is not a new idea among musical artists (see Sun Ra or Lucia Pamela), but Moontan also claims to have been blinded by Elvis Presley’s rhinestone suit AND taught James Brown to do the funky chicken! Whether or not these claims are true, Moontan has a new album with the terrific title The Dark Side of the Tanning Bed.

Having heard his music, the easiest way I can describe Moontan is that he’s like Prince but with even more of a sense of humor. He wears kitschy bright-colored satin shirts onstage and calls his live show “The Big Sexy Spectacular Moon Man Show Extraordinaire.” His press release describes Moontan as “both a discreet observer and a fabulous crooner, who tenderly relates his sometimes absurd and touching tales in a colorful combination of pop, funk and soul music that is very much his own.” The Bandcamp page for this album says it “relates the chronicles of Moontan’s relatively short span of years spent on Planet Earth. From the initial ecstasy to eventual boredom, from the allure of vice to the experience of love, (then ultimately) heartbroken over a Planet that is being devoured by its own inhabitants’ relentless pursuit of self destruction.” 

Moontan writes all the music, sings and plays synth. His backing band includes Pol Belardi (bass/piano/arrangements), Charles Stoltz (guitars), Jerome Klein (synth/piano), Niels Engel (drums) and a few other guests. Recording, Mixing and Mastering was performed at Holtz Sound by Charles ‘Smooth Operator’ Stoltz. Each song is unique but I’ll discuss some favorites.

“All you can eat buffet” starts with the dramatic piano chords of Jerome Klein, like something out of a Bogart movie. The song proper kicks in with a stuttery pop beat and the terrific, smooth vocals of Mr. Moontan. He immediately shows a proclivity to sing about himself humorously in the third person in rap-like sections (“Jackie’s an old dog… he sings a song, standing there in his underwear like a broke Sinatra”). By the time of the chorus, the music has gone full party mode, with literal partying sounds, wild beats, untethered piano and the film noir sax of David Fetteman during the slower, torch song finale (and this was just track one!).

“Magic Pants” leans heavily into Prince Rogers Nelson territory, both in its uninhibited rhythms and its stacked harmony vocals with judicious de-tuning. “J.A.C.K.I.E.” starts with a very funny phone conversation with Jackie trying to remind a woman who he is. The Pop element is strong here, with an irresistible chorus of “I want you to say the name all the time / I want you to scream it loud, really loud!”. Big players here are Pol Belardi’s violin arrangement, Moontan’s organ-like keys and John Wolter’s drums. 

“All my friends are totalitarians” is the first of three songs to “feature” Lord Acton. I thought this was a famous rapper I’d never heard of, but he’s actually the dude who coined the term “absolute power corrupts absolutely” (It’s right there in the lyrics!). Musically this is a slower tune, with a dreamy synth bed and the cool guitar of Charles Stoltz, who returns with song-defining slide on the laconic “Freak Kingdom.” A fine slice of psychedelic soul-pop.

Of course there’s a couple other hit songs with the title “Baby Blue.” Moontan’s version has the romantic sensibility of a good Paul McCartney love song, with a tentative, affecting spoken-word section. “Homesickness feat. Lord Acton” has a purposely lofi piano on which Jerome Klein was told to play like a 9-year-old after his fourth piano lesson. Truthfully it sounds much better than that! When the band kicks in, there’s a vocal very much like the Oogie Boogie Man from “The Nightmare Before Christmas.” The bulk of the song is an irresistible funk stew with the players firing on all cylinders, especially Moontan’s vocals and Charlie Stoltz’s guitar. The conclusion is a spoken word section (in an office waiting room?) that may be from Lord Acton. “Life goes on” concludes the album with a song that evokes “Holland” era Beach Boys and Carl Wilson (with a Paul McCartney piano and beat). Totally unexpected but a great ending!

This is the kind of album I could write about forever, but of course I can’t. It’s out there waiting for you, so check it out!

Le Concorde, the long-dormant project of singer-songwriter Stephen Becker, resurfaces with Second Mansions, their first album in 15 years, heralded by the shimmering lead single "Corpus Christi." Becker draws from a well of 1980s sophisti-pop—Prefab Sprout, The Blue Nile, Aztec Camera, and Scritti Politti among them—but rather than treating these influences as relics to be dusted off, he channels their spirit with conviction.  

From the opening seconds, "Corpus Christi" arrives fully formed, its polished sheen and tight rhythm section a clear nod to the meticulous studio craft of its inspirations. The bassline—rubbery, propulsive, and undeniably funky—anchors the track, cutting through layers of glossy synths and bright, chiming guitars. Despite the density of the arrangement, the mix remains surprisingly spacious, evoking the layered yet breathable soundscapes of So-era Peter Gabriel.  

Becker keeps the song in a constant state of motion, refusing to let it settle into a single groove for long. This restlessness could feel disjointed in lesser hands, but here, it lends the track a dynamic quality that reveals new contours with each listen. While the production leans hard into its retro fixations, "Corpus Christi" never feels like pastiche; rather than a throwback, it plays like an unearthed artifact from an alternate timeline—one where Becker was right there in the studio, mixing it down alongside his heroes.

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Ian Roland’s "Craving" drifts between nostalgia and unease, tracing childhood memories through a haze of acoustic warmth. The song revisits Roland’s early years in South London, where his older sisters led him through the damp paths of Crystal Palace Park to marvel at its towering model dinosaurs. The experience was both mesmerizing and unsettling—prehistoric creatures emerging through the mist, caught somewhere between fantasy and relic. That tension between wonder and melancholy runs through "Craving", a song that feels like flipping through an old photo album, unsure whether to smile or sigh.  

Roland is joined by a strong ensemble: bassist Dave Coomber, drummer James Chapman, pianist Mishkin Fitzgerald (who also adds keys and vocals), and Simon Yapp on violin and viola. The arrangement is rich but never overwhelming. The acoustic guitar is warm and steady, the bass smooth and grounding, the drums carrying just enough weight to propel the song forward. Roland’s voice carries a quiet ache, and from the first verse, the song pulls you into a dreamlike recollection, like a memory half-glimpsed through rain-streaked windows.  

Then comes the shift. The chorus swells, reaching for something bigger, almost Bowie-esque in its drama. The second chorus builds even more, sweeping the song to a higher plane. But it’s the last minute that leaves the biggest impression—a quiet, weightless moment that feels like waking up just as a dream slips away.  

Rather than relying on grand gestures, "Craving" works in subtleties, shaping its emotional core through texture and restraint. It’s a song that doesn’t just recall the past but makes you feel its presence, as if those old memories are still alive somewhere, waiting to be rediscovered.

The Quivering Palm is the project of Kevin “KP” Hahn, a Minnesota-based singer-songwriter with a crisp, expressive voice and a knack for multi-instrumentalism, handling guitar, drums, bass, and keyboard.

A lifelong songwriter, he’s been recording music since the days of 4-track cassette recorders. Over the years, he’s been a member of bands like Tasha’s Laughter, The Cans, Fastest Turbo Fire Engine, and Stellar Vector but the album Perpetual Motion Vol. 1 seems to have come solely from the mind of Hahn.  

The album opens with “Fading Photographs”, a spectral meditation on memory and loss. Hahn’s vocals land with an understated poignancy, while the arrangement leans into a dreamlike haze—layered synths and a harpsichord-like tone giving the track an off-kilter, vintage warmth. It’s an evocative mix of nostalgia and restraint, his voice steering the song toward something intimate yet cinematic.  

“Uninspired” shifts gears dramatically, diving headfirst into a heavy, metal-inflected churn. The distorted guitars snarl and burn against a backdrop of vintage synths, evoking a certain ‘80s grandeur without feeling overtly retro. There’s a controlled chaos here—Hahn balancing weight and melody in a way that feels sharp rather than indulgent.  

Then comes “In the Zone,” an ambient interlude of strummed acoustic guitars and expansive pads, acting as a moment of breath between the album’s heavier moments. It rolls neatly into “Bittersweet Escapes,” where tribal percussion underpins shimmering lead guitar lines and stoic, almost detached vocals. The song finds an unusual pocket—organic yet mechanical, brooding yet strangely hypnotic.  

With “Perpetual Motion,” the album’s electronic leanings become most pronounced, Hahn embracing glitchy textures and a more synthetic pulse. In contrast, “Number One Hit” carries an anthemic drive, its energy brimming with the kind of tension that turns ballads into slow-burning showstoppers.  

Throughout, The Quivering Palm thrives on contrast—textural shifts, dynamic pivots, moments of restraint and release. It’s an eclectic yet cohesive listen, bound by Hahn’s sense of mood and melody. An album that never settles into one shape for too long, and all the better for it.

Cloh’s music exists in the hazy space between confession and dream, where soft psychedelia meets unfiltered emotion. The Detroit-based artist’s debut single, "Call It a Night," drifts with a delicate weightlessness, pulling listeners into its quiet, enveloping current.

Her voice barely rises above a whisper in the verses, a restrained murmur that feels like a secret, before stretching into something fuller on the hook. There’s a studied patience to her delivery, each line unfurling with a deliberate softness that makes the eventual release all the more striking.  

Beneath the vocals, the arrangement sways between control and catharsis. The drums roll in like distant thunder, steady but unobtrusive, while the cascading piano arpeggios shimmer with a melancholic glow. It’s an elegant, deceptively simple composition that leaves space for her voice to take center stage, letting the emotion seep through rather than forcing it.

At its core, "Call It a Night" feels like a quiet plea, a moment of reflection wrapped in a hypnotic haze. Cloh doesn’t demand attention—she draws you in with a natural pull, proving that subtlety can be just as arresting as spectacle.

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Robert McGinty is a ghost. Try searching for him, and you’ll come up empty—no backstory, no digital footprint, nothing but Chanson à La Lune, a collection of orchestral compositions that seem to materialize out of nowhere, meticulously arranged yet strangely elusive. There’s an uncanny quality to these pieces, a sense that they exist in some liminal space between live performance and digital artifice. Whether it’s the meticulous precision of the string arrangements or the hyperreal shimmer of the piano tones, the album feels both lush and slightly off-kilter, as if it were pieced together in a dream.  

McGinty’s stated vision—to craft uplifting and memorable works for Spanish guitar, piano, and orchestra—rings true in spirit, but the execution suggests something more complex. “The Awakening” unfolds with sweeping cinematic grandeur, its strings swelling like a full symphony captured in impeccable fidelity. Tracks like “Western Gavotte” and “Solo Symphonette” follow suit, their arrangements so pristinely executed they border on surreal. “The Stormy Sea Voyage to the Hebrides” channels a widescreen scope that wouldn’t feel out of place in a Christopher Nolan film, echoing the layered constructions of Mike Oldfield.  

Precision is the rule here. “Popping Popette” and “Ostinato e Semplice” are meticulous in their execution, every note landing with algorithmic accuracy. “Fanfare to Victory” blasts triumphant brass, while “Springtime Minuet” weaves intricate piano figures with mechanical elegance. Elsewhere, McGinty turns to classical guitar on “Playing to the Sunset” and the title track, “Chanson à La Lune,” offering moments of delicate restraint amid the album’s grandiosity. Even the holiday-themed compositions—“Ode to the Joyful Season,” “The Traditional Carol,” “Christmas in Times Gone By”—are executed with the same unerring control, their warmth filtered through an almost clinical clarity.  

But beneath its pristine surface, Chanson à La Lune carries an air of mystery. Every piece is contained within a tight two- to three-minute structure, lending the album a curious uniformity. Subtle artifacts lurk at the edges of the recordings, hinting at an unorthodox production process. And then there’s the elephant in the room: if McGinty really played every instrument himself, he might just be the most accomplished musician to ever live. The sheer range—brass, woodwinds, strings, percussion—suggests either a singular, virtuosic polymath or a masterful illusionist.  

​Chanson à La Lune exists in a league of its own—a work of classical grandeur wrapped in a mystery, each note precise enough to leave you questioning what, exactly, you’re hearing.

​Joy and the Wildfire pull from a vast pool of influences on Aftershocks, their debut album, weaving together elements of prog rock, indie, and shades of ’80s and ’90s nostalgia. Fronted by singer-songwriter Samantha Joy Pearlman and formed out of her solo project, the New York-based band—rounded out by Jared Decker (drums), Sean Decker (bass), and Meghan Doyle (guitar)—leans into a shape-shifting approach that touches on quite a bit. The band mentions wide ranging acts like  Talking Heads and Paramore as influences. The result is an album that feels restless in its ambition, never settling in one place for too long.  

The title track, "Aftershocks," kicks things off with a hypnotic groove, built on a circular prog-rock rhythm that dodges the predictability of a standard 4/4 beat. The band plays with tension and release, quieting down before erupting into a dense, synth-heavy wall of sound. When the guitars lean into distortion, there’s an unmistakable ’80s bite, channeling the kind of neon-lit atmosphere that wouldn’t feel out of place in a lost MTV rotation. It’s an impressive opener, reveling in groove-driven buildups, searing guitar solos, and soaring vocals. I would say it's a highlight on the album.

"The Assistant" shifts gears into moodier, more atmospheric terrain, pulling in ghostly synths and jagged guitar lines that recall St. Vincent’s in some ways. The track builds to a cacophonous climax, where instruments seem to splinter apart at the seams, collapsing into controlled chaos. "Shouldn’t I Be Older" pivots again, pairing its ’80s aesthetic with a rootsier, indie-folk warmth that nods toward Feist, while "Lessons" dips into lush R&B textures before taking a left turn into polished ’90s pop.  

The band cranks up the tempo on "Tears in Brooklyn," a fast-paced rocker, while "Consequence of Time" momentarily dials things back, floating into an almost new-age serenity. "Misunderstood," "Zachary," and "Paradise" all orbit around various shades of rock, but the closer, "Back to You," is one of the album’s standout moments, built on a classic funk bassline and layered with piano, sax, and a rhythmic looseness that gives it a natural groove.  

Aftershocks played out like a mixtape for me, bouncing between genres with enthusiasm but rarely settling into a distinct identity. One thing is clear enough—the band has a deep love for the sounds of the ’80s and ’90s, and no matter the stylistic detour, there’s always a thread connecting them to a different decade.

While the album’s ambition is admirable, the wide scope sometimes makes it hard to pin down exactly who Joy and the Wildfire want to be. Still, their technical skill and songwriting chops are undeniable, and they execute each stylistic pivot with confidence. It’s a promising debut, one that suggests the band is still in the process of refining their voice. Wherever they go next, they’ve already proven they can pull off just about anything they attempt.

Matt Roller approaches "Sunshine" like a controlled explosion, packing every second with energy and precision. He plays every instrument himself, and it shows—not just in the technical ability, but in the way the song feels locked in, each piece feeding off the other. The drumming alone is a spectacle, packed with intricate fills and relentless momentum, sitting high in the mix like a dare to keep up.

The guitars slash through with a raw, unpolished edge, while Roller’s vocals pivot from a comfortable melody to full-throated intensity without hesitation. It’s a high-voltage burst of sound that wears its pop-punk influences on its sleeve, nodding to Weezer while occasionally veering into heavier territory.  

There’s a reckless urgency to the song, like it could skid out at any moment, but Roller keeps it from going off the rails with tight musicianship and a knack for catchy, propulsive hooks. Even as the volume stays cranked, there’s a precision to his playing that keeps the chaos controlled. The structure is simple, but the energy makes up for it, barreling forward without overcomplicating things.

​He’s not trying to push the genre in a new direction, just squeezing every ounce of adrenaline out of it. It’s an impressive showcase of multi-instrumental talent, but more than that, it’s a song that refuses to be ignored. If "Sunshine" is any indication, Roller has a lot of ideas and sure has the talent to make them come to fruition. 

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