Zachary Mason is the performing name for Daniel Macintyre, a 28-year-old artist based in Guildford, UK. He has one of the most unintentionally funny biographies ever: He says he's created over 200 demo tracks "on a recording kit gifted to him by a relative" (okay, he's a bedroom artist) but then reveals he's been featured in Spanish Rolling Stone, Rock Era Magazine and especially SPIN! He's even sold his songs to sync libraries! Clearly he's moved way beyond the demo phase. His new EP is a return to his folk roots titled Welcome To My Heart. 

Mason says his favorite artists include Neil Young, Bob Dylan, David Bowie and The Beatles. His own music often crosses strict genre lines, and he hopes the songs come across as "personal and emotive, full of reflection and feeling." His producer and mastering engineer is David E. Beats.

"Can't Feel My Autumn..." opens the EP with acoustic guitars and synth strings, with Mason's low-pitched vocals bathed in echo. The song details a time in Mason's life when Zoloft "inhibited him from experiencing Autumn in its full emotional depth and intensity." Musically the song is a two-chord strumming cycle, with a middle section that reminds me of a mellow acoustic jam session. 

"I Need Freedom" has a similar structure but feels more late-60's psychedelic, with banks of keys and even more echo. Perhaps the strongest influences here are Bowie or Marc Bolan. Though a bit buried in the musical wash, we have producer David Beats adding bass and Nate Barnes of the band Rose Hill Drive on drums.

The final track "Me And I" is a bit of an epic at eight minutes, and is said to be Mason's favorite. Aside from Barnes returning on the drums, we also have John Thomasson on bass. The track opens with a Spanish-sounding intro, like "The Streets of Laredo" with both acoustic and electric guitars in a sweet, melancholy interplay. Just over a minute, the intro fades and we're into the song itself with the same basic chord scheme, but with wider, fuller production anchored by acoustic piano and Thomasson's bass. Unlike the other two songs, this track has Mason's singing right up front and clear of excessive echo. It's as if we've emerged from a monsoonal storm and everyone can hear and speak clearly at last. Mason plays all the guitars and many types of keyboards, cleanly with a lot of economy. 

These three songs are superficially similar but each takes a different approach. I especially like the Bowie echoes in track two and the epic nature of the final song. A nice package!

Pop music can provide a temporary shelter from events it cannot resolve. On “Everything’s Better,” Kelsie Kimberlin returns to the brighter pop of her earlier work after spending much of the past year addressing the war in Ukraine. The change in subject does not sever the song from that reality. Instead, Kimberlin treats pleasure, dignity, and the ability to speak up for oneself as privileges that should not be surrendered.

The lyrics focus on a petty antagonist who makes the mistake of provoking someone capable of defending herself. Kimberlin answers with humor and swagger, turning a familiar personal conflict into a compact declaration of independence. The hook is deliberately simple, designed to make its point quickly and leave little room for self-doubt.

The production begins with a straightforward pop arrangement built from isolated piano notes and a thick, low synth. Kimberlin’s vocals are coated in delay and the popular Auto-Tune effect, giving the verses a glossy, digitally processed character. Hip-hop drums soon enter, but the track abruptly changes direction when the chorus introduces distorted guitars and an emo-influenced pop-punk hook reminiscent of Avril Lavigne. The contrast is sharp enough that the verse and chorus could almost belong to separate songs. Frequent changes in the drum programming reinforce that division, while a bluesy breakdown near the end adds another unexpected turn.

That restless construction gives “Everything’s Better” much of its personality, even when the transitions are not entirely smooth. Kimberlin is working with producers Pedro Vengoechea and Vasyl Tkach, along with mixer Brent Kolatalo and mastering engineer Joe LaPorta, and the finished recording is polished without sanding away its stylistic collisions. Listeners drawn to contemporary pop and early-2000s pop-punk should find plenty to enjoy.
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The video, directed by Pavlo Khomiuk, complicates the song’s upbeat tone. Filmed in Kyiv during a week of sustained Russian missile and drone attacks, it shows Ukrainian women dancing, singing, and shadowboxing in red gloves. The apartment used during production was reportedly damaged soon afterward by a nearby drone strike. Under those circumstances, the video’s cheerfulness carries a trace of resistance. Having fun becomes an act of endurance, and female solidarity becomes something physical, public, and worth defending.

Watch Me Die Inside treats genre as unstable architecture on Infinity Fall III. Piano ballads collapse into industrial electronics, emo confession gives way to screaming, and mechanical rhythms suddenly make room for warmer passages. These turns are often abrupt enough to divide each song into separate acts, but that volatility is central to the record’s appeal. The EP draws heavily from the commercial goth and emo era, when anguish was presented with arena-sized seriousness and every piano chord seemed to anticipate catastrophe.

“Uneasy” opens with dramatic piano, forceful vocals, and a drum kit mixed for maximum impact. It reminded me of Evanescence, Linkin Park, and the goth-metal bands of that period that committed fully to their own emotional stakes. Halfway through, the song changes direction so sharply that it nearly becomes another composition. The guitars and grand piano recede, replaced by white noise, a rapping delivery, and electronics pitched somewhere between The Knife and 1990s techno. Rather than connecting the two sections discreetly, Watch Me Die Inside makes the rupture part of the spectacle.

“Boring” follows a similar design. Its first half pairs an emo-inspired vocal performance with piano and layered electronics before breaking into metal, electronic drums, and sustained screaming. Despite the density of the production, the performances retain a distinctly human strain. The screaming is not merely an effect placed at the top of the mix. It sounds physically demanding, as if the polished electronic framework is being pushed past its capacity to contain the singer.

The title track was the most interesting song to me. I liked its initial piano melody, especially because the performance is rendered with the same mechanical precision as the drumming. Both sound deliberately quantized, giving the opening a rigid quality. About halfway through, “Infinity Fall III” softens into a warmer ballad, and that transition alters the character of the piano. What initially sounded rigid begins to carry genuine tenderness.

Something about the vocals sounded immediately familiar to me. The emo scream that dominates these songs was once nearly unavoidable on rock radio, and Watch Me Die Inside revives it without irony. Much of Infinity Fall III recalls the commercial goth era, with its theatrical despair, immaculate production, and refusal to treat emotional excess as embarrassing. If you have missed that style of singing, you will find plenty to appreciate here. I think many listeners will recognize exactly what these songs are reaching for.

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"What's Going On" is the ninth release from indie singer-songwriter Cheryl Craigie of Boston. Though a well-established writer herself, Craigie enjoys releasing cover versions of other artists including Taylor Swift, Lauren Daigles and now Marvin Gaye. Her catalog also includes folk, rock, country, pop, rap and Christian. 

I'm old enough to remember when "What's Going On" appeared on the radio as a new single, though I was not quite mature enough to understand the song's "powerful message of compassion, peace, and understanding that continues to resonate" as Craigie puts it. She says she “wanted to record a version that honors Marvin Gaye's masterpiece while sharing those sentiments in my own voice." Craigie performs all instrumentation, with production by longtime collaborator Eric Goldberg.

Since I've always been interested in how songs are recorded, I learned years ago that Gaye's unique "double vocal" style originated as a happy accident: he'd recorded two takes of the lead vocal, and when the engineers played them back together (with one track slightly lower) the effect was magic. I was interested to see if Craigie did something similar with her take.

Of course Craigie's version has a more modern, self-produced sound instead of Gaye's backing tracks created in Motown's Detroit studios. That said, Craigie's strummed electric guitar work is stellar, effortlessly holding together all the instruments as a perfect bed for her vocals.

​Though she doesn't do the classic "staggered lead vocal" trick, Craigie approximates that effect by having her backing vocals act as a call-and-response to her own lead vocal. Her reading of the song is a bit more gospel-traditional than Gaye's, who really made his looseness a hallmark of his style. Craigie's scatting in the C-sections (minus Gaye's jive talk in the background) is also quite smooth and in-the-pocket.

I'm a big fan of the Gaye original but I enjoyed this take very much!

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Classic rock once offered a language for distrusting authority, but that language has since become familiar enough to sell luxury cars and prescription drugs. Motihari Brigade understands the irony. On Problematic, the band uses the vocabulary of 1970s rock, funk, pop, disco, and extended jams to question a culture governed by algorithms, propaganda, artificial intelligence, and manufactured consensus. The music looks backward while Eric Winston’s lyrics remain preoccupied with the machinery gathering around us now.

The band describes its sound as “Rock-n-Roll Thoughtcrime,” drawing from Orwell, Aldous Huxley, and Socrates without turning the album into a reading list. Winston, the group’s guitarist, singer, and songwriter, writes with enough humor to offset the heavier ideas. Problematic wants its audience to resist easy answers, but it also acknowledges the absurdity of criticizing technological control through the digital platforms responsible for distributing the record. Motihari Brigade does not resolve that contradiction. The band operates directly inside it.

The brief “Cowboy Armageddon” serves as an introduction before the title track establishes the album’s musical center. “Problematic” reminded me of a very specific Led Zeppelin song, particularly in its smooth, circular groove. This is classic rock 101, delivered with an obvious affection for the form. “Chatbot Don’t Like It” shifts into 1970s funk, complete with a robotic voice that makes the song’s technological satire explicit. “Save Ourselves” returns to heavier classic rock, supported by the loose interplay of a jam band.

“Not What They Seem” is another strong rhythmic performance, and I especially liked the bongos and the melodic details surrounding them. As the album continued, I found a number of high points. The nearly 10-minute “Heedless of the Storm” gives the musicians room to stretch out, with the drumming providing much of its momentum. The length is purposeful, allowing the band to develop the track through performance instead of forcing it into a tighter structure.

​“Pleasure Craft” was my favorite song on the album. It is catchy, playful, and buoyant, moving away from the record’s heavier rock foundation toward 1970s pop and disco. That change in direction brings welcome color to the tracklist. “Someone’s Dream,” by contrast, recalls the comfort of an old ballad, built from recognizable gestures and melodies that quickly settle into place.

​Problematic is primarily a classic-rock record, though Motihari Brigade makes productive excursions into funk, jam music, pop, and disco. Its influences are overt, and each song declares its genre without much ambiguity. The production also favors period-specific textures, giving the album the character of a record assembled from a well-loved collection of 1970s LPs. Listeners drawn to that era should find plenty here to enjoy, along with a pointed reminder that yesterday’s sounds can still carry questions about the present.

When you hear the story of a recording band, it often starts with a couple musicians jamming at home, then slowly expands with new members performing live shows and making albums. Ghost of Panama did it backwards: they were formed in 2022 as a full band, releasing several singles and touring Central and West London to support them. Though still occasionally playing live, the band has been reborn as a duo and proudly present their debut full-length album, The Last Food on Earth.

The members are Keith Welham (instruments/voice) and Cristabel Liu (lead voice/instruments). They've attempted to "carve out a distinctive sonic identity that deliberately sidesteps easy comparisons. Their sound channels a 1980's vibe infused with punk and post-punk energy while remaining firmly planted in the 2020's contemporary landscape." When you've been a music fan as long as me, you hear echoes in post-punk that easily stretch back another 20 years to bands like The Byrds. Aside from the jangly guitars and pop sheen, Ghost of Panama seems intent on playing with vocal arrangements, freely intercutting singing with recitation and often throwing voices to the extreme left and right.

Thematically this album is meant to "ambitiously trace the anatomy and life-cycle of a relationship from entrapment through guilt, acceptance, indecision and ultimately resolution." Though mostly recorded in a small West London studio, the album also features "found sounds" recorded across the city, which neatly blurs the line between studio-exactitude and messy reality. 

"The Lift" literally starts with an elevator bell, then kicks in with very 60's-influenced guitar pop, with B-sections embracing a totally different, spooky vibe. Cristabel Liu has a beautiful mid-range singing voice, equal parts Chrissie Hynde and Kate Bush. "Stockholm Syndrome Reversed" is a great title and is the first track to really experiment Bush-style with unusual vocal placements, as Liu seems to be running back and forth between two mics. Less poppy, this song has a smooth, jazzy piano-based arrangement, also showcasing cool bass and lead guitar. Just three minutes, and though I was sorry it ended, "Half-Life" seems to begin as a middle section to "Stockholm" with spoken word by Keith Welham. Regarding found sounds, the drums here have been replaced with loops of heavy breathing and a Geiger counter. Basically the song ping-pongs between acoustic instruments (guitar, piano), Welham's recitations and different varieties of Liu vocals. Very cool that the Geiger counter plays like castanets!

"Damage" re-embraces jangly guitar pop with rapidly-sung lyrics that evoke the duo of Garfunkel and Oates (minus the explicit imagery). Welham speaks again, and I'm wondering if one of his roles is to occasionally walk-on like a guest lecturer or poet. "The Ultimate Maybe" is a beautiful, folky love song with Liu's amazing voice totally commanding centerstage, bathed in picked acoustic and keys. Toward the end there's "laughter" that's probably some kind of pheasant. "Island" has a cool Pete Townshend-like tremolo guitar (Welham also talks like Peter, come to think of it) leading into a spiky, space rock ditty with Edge-like echoes.

"Siberia" has what sounds like Siberian cold winds mixed with teutonic chants, introducing electric keys for a jazz-rock groove along with Kate Bush-like audio experimentation. "Afterlife" has a twangy, bouncy riff, roiling bass and gospel-like keys setting the stage for an authoritative, take-no-prisoners vocal by Lui.

There's enough traditional sound here that the experimentation only increases the overall enjoyment of the songs, so I have no qualms about recommending!

On ÊMOONÀ, LAOR treats singing as a communal practice, using the voice to carry prayer, gratitude, and a desire for connection. The 11-track album moves between private reflection and collective expression, supported by classical guitar, hand percussion, horns, and vocal arrangements that often suggest ceremonial participation. Released seven years after her 2019 debut, Agradeço, it combines original compositions with interpretations of traditional medicine songs, drawing from Indigenous traditions, Mediterranean culture, Brazilian music, and LAOR’s Jewish heritage.

The title combines emunah, the Hebrew word for faith, with the moon as a symbol of guidance. It is an appropriate name for an album devoted to finding direction through music during periods of uncertainty. LAOR’s approach is openly spiritual, and the record rarely separates performance from intention. These songs are presented as prayers, affirmations, and expressions of appreciation.

“Great Eagle,” featuring Abuela Maria Valdivia Wakantitlan, begins with acoustic guitar and singing arranged in a reverent, ceremonial manner. There is a seriousness to the performance that establishes the album’s devotional character. “Minha Estrela Guia” introduces greater vocal variation, moving between a lead singer and what sounds like a group. The classical guitar is excellent here, and I also liked the addition of the horns, which broaden the arrangement without overwhelming its intimate center.

“I AM” enters warmer new age territory, with lush instrumentation and affirmational lyrics. It is among the album’s most relaxing selections. “Cainã” is more dynamic while retaining the mystical tone found throughout the record. The title track, featuring Sagiv Cohen, brings in another strong vocalist and grows increasingly sentimental toward its conclusion. In spirit, it reminded me of “We Are the World,” particularly in its emphasis on unity and collective hope.

“Indio Mensageiro” provides a welcome shift in energy. Its playful rhythms and festive character interrupt the album’s sustained seriousness, and it became my personal favorite. “Ay Aguita” contains more impressive guitar work, while “Breath” returns to the record’s meditative side.

“Niftach” stands out for its rhythms and detailed instrumental textures. “HoduLeyah” centers on appreciation and gratitude, two themes that run through much of ÊMOONÀ. The brief closing track, “Eu Peço A Meu Pai,” reduces the music to a quieter passage of voice and accompaniment, ending the album in contemplation.

Much of ÊMOONÀ belongs to the broad new age tradition, though Brazilian, Latin, Mediterranean, and other global influences continually reshape its character. I was especially drawn to the songs with overt Brazilian rhythms. The classical guitar playing is consistently strong, and the occasional use of group vocals gives the album a welcome sense of scale. There is plenty to appreciate here. Take a listen.

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Martyrs understand that melancholy and movement are not opposing forces. “Drowning Days” is constructed for the moment when private sadness enters a crowded club and becomes briefly communal, carried by repetition, volume, and the physical pressure of the beat. Welsh duo Jon Howells and Michael Hall draw from post-punk and early techno, giving the song enough melodic definition to support its emotional weight while keeping the rhythm direct and functional.

The opening beat immediately takes me back to Chicago clubs in the 1990s, when this sort of oversized drum-machine sound was becoming increasingly common. The kick hits with blunt, mechanical force, suggesting an 808 pushed well beyond its natural limits. It establishes the song’s identity within seconds and remains nearly constant from that point forward.

Electronic drums occupy much of the available space in the mix, with the four-to-the-floor kick serving as both foundation and driving force. Clean guitars treated with reverb add color around the rhythm without interrupting it, while the bass provides a simple, effective hook. Hall sings primarily within a comfortable register, giving the verses an understated delivery before occasionally reaching upward to heighten the tension. His performance is accessible and catchy without competing against the density of the percussion.

Additional instrumentation enters during the chorus, widening the arrangement while leaving the central pulse untouched. Hall’s lyrics look back at places once associated with happiness, only to find that those surroundings have changed after the people connected to them are no longer present. That sense of absence gives the chorus a bittersweet charge: the music encourages release, but the words never suggest that dancing has solved anything.

​After returning to the verse, Martyrs approach the next chorus with a slight variation in the buildup, adding enough movement to prevent the structure from becoming overly rigid. Rhythmically, “Drowning Days” remains straightforward. There are no odd meters or disruptive turns, but neither would serve the song’s purpose. Its success depends on the persistence of that thump and the presence of a melody people can grab when the chorus returns. The result is a clean hybrid of post-punk guitar music and early techno, shaped for listeners who would rather move through their sadness than sit motionless inside it. Take a listen.

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Kinsley’s Humans turns personal history into three loud, concentrated songs about the cost of growing older. Christopher Jones and Adam Staley address loss, betrayal, mental health, fatherhood, duty, and redemption without treating any of them as separate concerns. Each subject becomes part of the same attempt to understand how childhood friendships, private failures, and adult responsibilities shape a person over time. The music gives that inquiry physical force, surrounding autobiographical writing with distorted guitars, forceful drums, and vocals that become increasingly urgent.

The EP takes its title and track names from Carl Jung’s autobiography Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Kinsley does not attempt to translate Jung’s ideas into a formal psychological exercise. Instead, the book provides a loose framework for Jones and Staley to examine their own lives. The two have been making music together for 14 years, beginning when they met as elementary school students in Raleigh, North Carolina. Jones handles the compositions, lyrics, guitars, and lead vocals, while Staley contributes drums, auxiliary instrumentation, backing vocals, engineering, mixing, and mastering. Their long history is evident in the precision of the performances and the consistency of the production.

“Memories” begins quickly with thick distortion and a heavy attack that recalls Deafheaven. Jones initially sings in a restrained monotone, placing the words above a fuzzy and fairly direct rock arrangement. His delivery gradually opens into a wider dynamic range as the song grows louder. Staley’s drums are less predictable, occasionally disrupting the otherwise straightforward structure with accents that give the performance additional movement. The vocals ultimately carry the song, with Jones increasing the pressure until the final section reaches its most intense point.

“Dreams” continues with an equally heavy hard-rock foundation. The structure remains direct, and the guitars preserve the dense fuzz introduced on the opening track. Like “Memories,” the song builds its intensity gradually rather than relying on abrupt changes. “Reflections” introduces one of the EP’s most distinctive rhythmic choices. Its metronomic drums sounded like an organic/electronic to my ears, especially the kick, while the guitar adds melodic detail around the rigid pulse. Jones also delivers some of the record’s catchiest vocal lines here, closing the EP with another solid performance.

​The similar aesthetic between these songs is one of Humans’ greatest assets. Kinsley works within a limited instrumental palette, allowing the three tracks to function as related chapters rather than isolated statements. I tend to gravitate toward that level of cohesion. Humans is loud, distorted, and emotionally direct, with strong vocals guiding each escalation. Fans of post-hardcore and heavy alternative rock should appreciate its focused construction and autobiographical weight.

Digital culture has made absurdity part of the daily routine. We click through warnings we do not read, surrender personal information to machines we barely understand, and accept every new disruption as the price of staying current. Co.LeGa’s “Digitally Modified” enters that confusion with a crooked smile. Rather than issue another grave warning about technology’s influence, the track turns our dependence on it into theater. Its electronic textures, repeated phrases, and exaggerated vocal exchanges present modern life as a system that is both sophisticated and completely ridiculous.

Co.LeGa builds the song from dark electro-pop, post-punk, trip-hop, and industrial production. Synthesizers and programmed drums provide its foundation, surrounding the vocals with an arrangement that remains busy without becoming disorganized. The conceptual influence of Radiohead and Björk is apparent in the song’s interest in technology, alienation, and altered identity, while the sharper rhythmic elements recall Depeche Mode and Portishead. Those reference points help locate the track, though its comic attitude gives it a personality of its own.

The song is loose and knowingly tongue-in-cheek. Multiple vocalists exchange lines through a playful call-and-response structure, adding a conversational quality to the performance. Their delivery carries some of the irreverence of LCD Soundsystem, particularly when the voices begin piling up and treating strange declarations with complete seriousness. Co.LeGa does not attempt to present every statement as profound. Some lines are funny because they hover between social commentary and nonsense, allowing the listener to decide where one ends and the other begins.

I especially liked the groove near the end, when the vocalists begin singing about “turning knobs.” The production seems to act out the phrase in real time, with the electronics becoming part of the joke. It is an inventive collision between language and arrangement, as if the song is demonstrating its own construction while commenting on the machinery behind it. 

​For all its references to digital processes, “Digitally Modified” does not sound cold or impersonal. The vocalists give the track humor and character, while the steady pulse keeps its abstract ideas connected to something physical. Co.LeGa has written a song about technological interference that understands the value of a strong groove. It is strange, funny, intelligent, and carefully assembled. I can recommend it.

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