Beyond the Charts: Session 3

Every revolution in music starts with a crack in the surface. A restless beat. A riff that doesn’t sit quietly in the corner. A lyric that dares to name what everyone else has been afraid to say. Session 3 is about finding those fissures—where rock grit collides with indie vulnerability, where the familiar fractures just enough to let something new shine through.

Unlike the charts, we’re not here to measure streams or tally followers. We’re here to measure impact—the kind you feel in your chest when a chorus hits harder than you expected, or when a single guitar line somehow rewrites your understanding of silence. This is music not as decoration, but as disruption.

In this session, you’ll meet artists who’ve chosen risk over comfort. One frontman admits he nearly walked away from his band after the weight of expectation smothered the joy of creating. Instead, he came back swinging—with tracks that burn raw and alive, proof that sometimes the stumble is the start of the story. Another indie songwriter finally stopped chasing polish and let the tape hiss stay; the imperfections became the heartbeat of her record. These aren’t just choices in production—they’re choices in identity, in how you want to be heard when the noise gets deafening.

The Hero’s Journey plays out here not in stages of myth, but in sound. The call to adventure might be a riff scratched out in a basement, the ordeal a tour that nearly broke the band, the return not to triumph but to clarity. Each track in Session 3 carries that narrative pulse: the fight to be heard, the near-collapse, the reclamation of voice.

What unites them isn’t genre—it’s defiance. The refusal to be boxed in by algorithms or industry trends. Rock and indie, yes, but filtered through a lens of urgency that makes the familiar feel unfamiliar again. These are artists who don’t just step onto the stage; they step into themselves, unguarded and unvarnished.

Beyond the Charts: Session 3 isn’t about clean arcs or tidy endings. It’s about the tension of becoming—the electricity that hums when an artist is caught between who they were and who they’re daring to be.

This is where the cracks become the story. This is where the sound goes deeper than the stream.

Welcome to Session 3. Let’s turn the volume up where it hurts—and heals—the most.

"Beaming From the North: How Devin D.'s 'Neon Lights' Bridges Two Decades of Hustle"

Devin D. isn’t a brand-new name if you’ve spent time in Canada’s club circuit over the last two decades, but “Neon Lights” feels like a reset button. The track doesn’t try too hard—it slides in with a bassline that gets under your skin, the kind that lingers after you’ve closed Spotify and gone back to your day. When I first heard it, I caught myself humming the hook while making coffee. That’s usually a good sign.

What makes Devin interesting is the way his career has unfolded—he’s not some overnight sensation who popped out of nowhere with a TikTok hit. He’s been grinding since the early 2000s, spinning sets across Halifax, Boston, New York, even Yellowknife of all places, where he once shared a bill with house legend JJ Flores. That’s the kind of resume that shows both hustle and range. You don’t play dive bars and major city clubs without learning how to hold a room.

And yet, here’s the contradiction: Devin D. is also a full-time educator, living up in the Northwest Territories. Not exactly the place you’d expect to find a house producer shaping tracks designed for late-night playlists and festival speakers. But maybe that’s what gives “Neon Lights” its charm—it carries a sense of distance, like it’s beaming out from somewhere far away, trying to reach you.

The single itself sits at this sweet spot between polished and personal. The production is sleek enough for radio, no doubt. But there’s something in the groove that feels unpolished on purpose, like he didn’t want to sand down all the edges. It makes the song stick, rather than blur into the endless feed of algorithm-friendly releases.

Live, Devin’s reputation precedes him. He’s got that combination of charisma and openness—people don’t just watch, they lean in. And “Neon Lights” was clearly made with that in mind. You can picture the lights dimming, the crowd bouncing in sync, and that one kid in the back recording the drop for their Instagram story.

For fans who’ve followed his journey from Halifax warehouse parties to club residencies and now into streaming-era releases, “Neon Lights” feels like both a continuation and a step up. It nods back to his roots in house while sliding neatly into what’s trending in crossover pop and electronic right now. The commercial potential is obvious, but it doesn’t feel calculated—it feels earned.

And this is only the beginning of his next chapter. Devin’s already lined up more singles for later this year, expanding on the soulful, rhythmic pulse that has always defined his sets. If “Neon Lights” is any indication, the guy’s finally ready to break through beyond the underground. It’s the kind of track that makes you want to keep tabs on what’s coming next, because chances are, the best is still in front of him.

"Foreground Music: How Kevin Keller's 'Arcadia' Demands Your Full Attention"

Kevin Keller doesn’t make background music. He makes foreground music that asks you to sit down, close your eyes, and follow it somewhere unexpected. His new album, Arcadia, is one of those projects that doesn’t just play—it transports. From the first track, you can feel Keller’s fascination with medieval composer Hildegard of Bingen bleeding through the arrangements. It’s not revivalist, though. This is Keller’s own world, an “ambient chamber” landscape where synths and strings feel just as spiritual as plainchant and Latin verses.

The collaboration with Sofía Campoamor gives the record its heart. Her voice doesn’t just float above Keller’s textures; it feels embedded in them, like another instrument woven into the fabric. There’s a track, Et lux perpetua, where she improvises against a drone and strings, and it feels less like performance and more like prayer. Not heavy-handed religious prayer, but the kind of quiet plea you might make when you’re staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. wondering what comes after all this.

What strikes me is the ambition. This is Keller’s fifteenth album, but he’s not coasting. Arcadia is a direct sequel to 2023’s Evensong, which traced life from conception to death. Most composers would have left it there. Keller, apparently unsatisfied, wanted to know what happens next. So he wrote an entire album about the afterlife. Not in a cliché “heaven vs. hell” way, but through scenes—a soul alone in dark woods, the discovery of a lighthouse on a windy shore, the eventual arrival at eternal light. It plays almost like a film score for a movie that doesn’t exist yet.

The ensemble he pulled together makes this world feel bigger than one person’s imagination. Campoamor’s vocals are matched with sopranos Katherine Wessinger, Danya Katok, and Wendy Baker, plus string players Sarah Zun, Laura Metcalf, and Angela Pickett. Recorded at Reservoir Studio—a space with Bowie, Nile Rodgers, and Lou Reed on its history wall—you can almost hear the room’s legacy resonating through the mix. And having Grammy- and Oscar-winning engineer Robert L. Smith at the helm certainly doesn’t hurt.

Still, for all its grandeur, Arcadia has these fragile, human touches. The Latin texts, the long syllables stretched across minutes, the improvisations captured in real time—it feels vulnerable. Campoamor’s melodies weren’t meticulously plotted in advance; they were born in the room, later transcribed, polished, and elevated. That spontaneity is rare in a genre that often leans on perfection. Keller lets imperfection lead, and the result is more alive.

It’s worth saying: this isn’t casual listening. You don’t put on Arcadia while answering emails. It demands space and patience. But if you give it that, it pays you back with moments that are haunting in the best way. Personally, Arcadia 2: Et nox ultra floored me—the way it builds on a single Latin phrase, drawing it out until you lose track of time, almost like meditation. It’s both unsettling and comforting, which is probably the point.

Keller may be deep into his career, but Arcadia feels like a turning point. The kind of project that defines an artist’s voice rather than just adding another chapter to the catalog. He’s not just asking listeners to hear his music—he’s asking us to consider our own journeys, what comes after, and how sound can shape that imagining. The album ends with Veni intus, a lullaby that whispers “come inside” and rest. It doesn’t tie everything up neatly. Instead, it leaves you suspended in that in-between space, which somehow feels like the most honest answer of all.

"Three Years Strong: Why Ralston Van Der Schyff's 'Tempest' Still Hits Like Lightning"

If you’ve ever been swept up by a solo piano track that feels like it’s both whispering secrets and throwing a thunderstorm at you, Ralston Van Der Schyff’s Tempest is probably the one to blame. Released back in June 2022, it still lands with that same punch three years later—cinematic, virtuosic, and impossibly human. The thing that hits first is the texture: the piano isn’t just played; it’s coaxed, pulled, spun into melodies that feel like they’ve been lived before they were written.

Ralston’s roots in Cape Town seem to seep through every note. Born into a musical family and immersed in the city’s vibrant jazz and gospel scenes, he carries that energy into the classical framework he’s clearly obsessed with. Listening to him, you catch glimpses of Rachmaninoff’s expansiveness, Scriabin’s drama, and Chopin’s intimacy—but then there’s a swing, a looseness, that only jazz legends like Keith Jarrett or Oscar Peterson could inspire. It’s a blend that shouldn’t work on paper, but somehow, in Ralston’s hands, it does.

I caught myself wondering, mid-track, how much of this was technical skill versus instinct. Turns out, it’s a bit of both. He records in a home studio with minimal editing, relying on pure imagination and a meticulous piano sound palette. That decision alone makes the music feel immediate—like you’re intruding on a conversation he’s having with the keys. You hear the quiet hesitations, the sudden bursts, the moments where he’s just… holding back before the next wave hits. That tension is what makes Tempest stick with you.

What’s refreshing is that Ralston’s not trying to impress with complexity for its own sake. There’s an intimacy here. You can tell he’s composing for himself as much as anyone else. Each composition, each chord choice, feels personal—like he’s negotiating between jazz improvisation, gospel warmth, and classical rigor. There’s a story in every swell of the keys, a kind of narrative without words. I found myself imagining the storms he talks about, not as literal weather, but as emotional tempests we’ve all faced.

It’s also worth noting the physicality of his playing. Watching videos of him perform, his fingers fly with grace but also with weight, like he’s aware that every note carries a little fragment of his world. It’s a contradiction that’s oddly compelling: disciplined yet spontaneous, polished yet human. There’s a confidence in that, but it never tips into arrogance. You can sense him still discovering, still exploring, even in tracks that sound fully formed.

What strikes me most is how enduring Tempest has been. Three years on, and it’s still circulating among listeners worldwide. It’s not just a track—it’s an experience, one that doesn’t rely on gimmicks or overproduction. Ralston’s approach reminds the listener that solo piano can be as dynamic, dramatic, and transformative as any full orchestral arrangement, and he’s doing it from his home studio, which feels almost revolutionary in its simplicity.

Looking ahead, Ralston’s schedule is steadily filling up, and it’s easy to imagine these pieces translating to live performance in ways even more gripping than the recordings. For anyone chasing music that blends technical brilliance with emotional depth, Tempest is a benchmark. And for me? It’s one of those albums you’ll return to when you need music that feels alive, unpredictable, and entirely human.

"Drift Into This: R3b3l I's 'Carousel' and the Power of Personal Sound"

If you close your eyes while listening to Carousel, it’s easy to imagine a carousel spinning in slow motion. R3b3l I—real name Ijah—builds his tracks around these fleeting images, little fragments of memory and sound that insist on existing. That recurring piano motif that sparked Carousel came to him uninvited over several days, and instead of brushing it off, he leaned in. Layered violins, soft claps, and gentle kicks followed, shaping something playful yet subtle, like a whisper from the past. It’s music that doesn’t demand attention but rewards it.

R3b3l I’s approach to sound is unconventional, in part because his relationship with music is a deeply personal one. As a high-functioning autistic listener and creator, he doesn’t just hear music—he lives it. Melodies intrude into his dreams, rhythms follow him through quiet moments, and instead of ignoring that constant soundtrack, he’s learned to shape it. The result is an intimacy in his instrumentals that feels like a private conversation made public, inviting listeners into his internal world without pretense.

There’s a quiet tension in his work, too. It’s easy listening, but listen closer and the textures reveal complexity: micro-dynamics in the keys, the gentle imperfection of hand-played beats, the subtle layering of strings that seems almost accidental. You sense the contradictions: simplicity and sophistication, childhood nostalgia and adult mindfulness, solitude and connection. That tension is precisely what makes his sound linger in your mind after the track ends.

Ijah’s creative process is as meticulous as it is intuitive. He describes drifting into a sound and letting it tell its story, but there’s discipline behind the drift. Carousel wasn’t just built from one piano line; it’s the sum of a few days’ obsession with that sound, combined with experiments in timing, space, and texture. The track’s charm lies in its imperfection—tiny pauses, hesitant notes, a violin that hesitates just a fraction too long—making it feel lived-in, like a snapshot from a personal memory rather than a studio exercise.

What stands out about R3b3l I isn’t just the technical craft, but the openness in how he shares himself. There’s no air of mystique for the sake of it, no forced persona. When he talks about music, it’s simple and direct: “I want you to drift into this. Build your own stories around it.” That approach aligns perfectly with the current independent music landscape, where listeners crave connection more than spectacle. His music invites that intimacy effortlessly.

Even when you know the backstory, though, the tracks surprise you. You expect gentle Lofi and soft jazz elements, but there’s often a quirky swing, a momentary harmonic twist, or a playful rhythm that throws you off-guard. It’s like discovering a hidden doorway in a familiar room, something small but enough to make you listen again. That balance between comfort and curiosity is R3b3l I’s signature—and it’s what makes following his catalog feel like a series of small discoveries rather than a passive experience.

Right now, R3b3l I is quietly building a body of work that rewards patience and attention. There’s no grand announcement of a genre takeover, just an ongoing, subtle conversation with listeners who choose to follow along. For anyone willing to step into his world, Carousel is the perfect entry point—a reminder that music doesn’t always need to shout to be felt, and that the most personal sounds can resonate the loudest.

"Leaning In Closer: Jack Agdur's 'Temporal Singularity' and the Power of Imperfection"

Jack Agdur’s new single, Temporal Singularity, lands quietly but insists on your attention. The first time I pressed play, I thought I’d just slipped into a minimalist piano piece, the kind that asks you to slow down, maybe check your phone a little less. But there’s something stubborn in the way the notes linger, in the slight irregularities that make it feel lived-in, almost like a memory you can’t quite place.

If you know Agdur from albums like Timing Cloud Flights, you’ll recognize the familiar mix of restraint and emotional pull. His work sits somewhere between contemporary classical and ambient, but it’s not academic. You feel the piano, the silence, the spaces in between as choices, not default settings. And yet, there’s a modern pulse—something that doesn’t let the music float too far away. I kept thinking, who is this person who makes something so meditative feel slightly urgent?

What’s fascinating about Temporal Singularity is that it’s rooted in something old, something “found a long time ago,” as Agdur puts it. You can hear the weight of that history, but not in a dusty, archival way. It’s more like he’s holding a conversation with time itself, letting the music bend around memory and curiosity. There’s a tension here: contemplative, yes, but also forward-moving, like a heartbeat under a calm surface.

Agdur’s creative approach is minimalist, but the minimalism is deceptive. Tiny shifts—hesitations, repeats, small inflections—become the narrative. You start to notice them after a few listens, and suddenly the single is less a track and more a short story unfolding in real time. I found myself thinking about how these patterns would hit live, wondering if the physicality of performance might give it another layer. Something about the simplicity makes you imagine the complexity behind it.

What’s refreshing is how he connects without trying to manipulate your emotions. There’s no crescendo meant to “get you,” no dramatic punchlines—just space for listeners to feel their own response. And yet, that subtlety is magnetic. It’s exactly what makes Agdur’s place in the indie scene interesting; he’s quietly carving a niche that values patience over immediate gratification, depth over spectacle.

You also get a sense of Agdur’s contradictions through the music. Minimalist but expansive. Calm but insistent. There’s a human touch—maybe a misplayed note, maybe a hesitation in tempo—that reminds you someone lived through these sounds, someone considered each decision. And that imperfection is part of the draw; it makes you lean in closer rather than turn away.

With Temporal Singularity, Agdur isn’t changing the game—he’s refining it, shaping the quiet corners of contemporary music so they feel almost tangible. You’re left thinking about what comes next: more subtle revelations, more quiet intensity. For listeners willing to sit with him, there’s a reward. And honestly, I’m already spinning it again, trying to catch every tiny shift I missed the first time.