Rising Star 75 - the courage to stay in it.

There’s a moment right before the breakthrough that no one talks about.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not content.

It’s quiet.

Uncomfortable.

Holy.

That’s where Rising Star 75 begins—not at the climax, but in the low hum of persistence, in the uncelebrated days when artists keep showing up to the blank page, the empty room, the unreturned message. When they keep creating anyway.

This isn’t about trending. This is about turning—turning pain into practice, fear into form, silence into sound.

Each artist in this session has chosen to stay in it. Not just the art, but the why. They’ve rewritten rejection into rhythm. They’ve learned to hear the beauty in their own rawness. They’ve walked out of genres and expectations like old clothes that no longer fit.

And in that walk—something clicked.

You’ll hear it in the textured breath between verses, in beats built from bedroom floors and borrowed time. You’ll feel it in lyrics that weren’t meant to impress, but to free. This is not the polish of arrival—it’s the pulse of becoming.

Some of these tracks might make you uncomfortable.

Good.

That’s the point.

Because Rising Star 75 isn’t a performance. It’s a reveal. And every artist here is at a pivotal point in their journey—the messy, brave, nothing-left-to-lose chapter. The one that redefines what success even means.

There’s a producer who finally stopped making what sold and started making what hurt. A singer who laid down her first vocal since the loss. A rapper who spit truth for the first time without checking if the room would stay. A duo who almost gave up, but built this track from the ruins.

They’re not trying to be icons. They’re trying to be real.

And in a world obsessed with immediacy, Rising Star 75 is a reminder that the slow burn often lasts longer than the spark.

This isn’t an audition.

It’s an invitation.

To sit in the discomfort.

To dance in the tension.

To witness artists who haven’t just found their sound—they’ve survived to sing it.

You might not know these names yet.

But listen closely—and you’ll recognize something deeper: the sound of self-trust. The sound of healing that doesn’t rhyme, but still resonates. The sound of people choosing to stay vulnerable in a world that rewards armor.

That’s the magic.

Rising Star 75 isn’t chasing the algorithm.

It’s chasing the awe.

The goosebump line.

The cracked vocal that says I meant that.

The one song that finds you exactly where you are—and stays.

So take a breath.

Let it in.

You don’t need to understand everything you hear.

You just need to feel the truth in it.

This is Rising Star 75.

And this time, the spotlight isn’t on the artists.

It’s on you.

How brave are you willing to be?

Mahto & The Loose Balloons: The Art of Not Overthinking It

Mahto didn’t set out to make an EP that followed a concept. But when he stumbled across that old bridal rhyme — “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue” — it just kind of clicked. Not in some dramatic “lightbulb moment” kind of way, more like a quiet nod to himself: Yeah, that could work. The result is Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue, a four-track project that feels like flipping through someone’s notebook — half-formed, a little messy, but deeply personal in a way that hits harder than polish ever could.

The whole thing was recorded in Mahto’s home studio over the course of 2024 — which is really just him, late at night, hunched over his phone, playing into the mic until something feels right. There’s no overproduction here. No studio trickery. Most takes are single passes, with just enough layering to feel warm. He even added a bit-crushed harmonica for texture — not because he had to, but because it sounded cool. That kind of intuitive, no-frills approach is what makes this project special. It’s not trying to be important. That’s what makes it feel important.

The standout here might be Crisscross, a song borrowed from Mahto’s longtime friend Niko Graham. Mahto reworked it into his own style — not by transforming it, but by stripping it back to what matters. “I try to let songs come the way they come,” he says. That philosophy hums through every track, whether it's the nostalgic ache of the “old” track or the wistful melancholy of the “blue” one. You get the sense that Mahto isn’t chasing perfection — he’s chasing honesty, and that’s way harder to fake.

What’s funny is that this whole EP could’ve easily slipped under the radar. It’s short, quiet, doesn’t scream for attention. But that’s also what makes it linger. There’s something magnetic about music that isn’t trying to prove anything. You hear that in Mahto’s voice — a little tired maybe, but sure of itself. The songs sound like they were written for no one in particular, and that’s what makes them hit everyone a little differently.

Mahto & The Loose Balloons aren’t trying to define a genre, either. One day it’s dusty folk ballads. Another, it’s louder, rock-driven cuts. This EP just happened to land on the softer side — probably because of the hour they were recorded (after work, when the house is quiet). That contradiction — the guy who plays late-night folk songs but also loves a full band blast — is part of what makes Mahto feel real. He’s not boxed in. He’s just making what he can, when he can.

And honestly? The fact that all of this was recorded on a phone is kind of wild. It doesn’t sound lo-fi in the self-conscious, retro kind of way. It just sounds close, like Mahto’s right there in the room with you. You can almost hear the floor creak. There’s something comforting about that. Like music made by a person, not a brand. It’s rare.

If you’re lucky enough to catch Mahto live this year — whether at the local park in Johnson City or at Rhythm & Roots in Bristol — you’ll probably see a different side of him. Maybe louder. Maybe looser. But if this EP is the quiet introduction, consider it a whisper that makes you lean in. Because something tells me Mahto isn’t done surprising us — especially when he’s not overthinking it.

Xifiar Isn’t in a Hurry—And That’s Exactly the Point

by someone who left this on repeat

There’s a particular kind of track that sneaks up on you. Not with a drop, not with a flex, but with a feeling so low-key and golden it catches you off guard. “I Call Her Love,” the debut single from Croatian newcomer Xifiar, does exactly that. No fanfare, no chest-puffing—just groove, warmth, and a subtle sort of confidence that feels earned. It’s the kind of song that makes you check who’s playing halfway through your second listen, then quietly add it to your golden hour playlist.

The track opens with sun-drenched keys and a guitar tone that feels like it’s been aged in oak. It’s got the DNA of something classic—think 70s soft rock with a passport stamped in soul and easy listening—but it lands fresh. Nothing about it feels forced. Xifiar, who sings, writes, and plays guitar, seems more interested in building a mood than showing off. That’s probably why it works. You’re not being sold anything; you’re being invited in.

Behind the boards is Luka Čabo, a name you might recognize if you follow award-winning producers in the Balkans (or if you just read liner notes like a maniac). Čabo doesn’t overcook it here. He keeps the track smooth and unhurried, letting each element breathe. The personnel list reads like a who’s-who of Croatian session talent—Luka Čapeta on guitar, Nikola Šantek on keys, Mario Torbica on bass, Fran Krsto Šercar on drums. It’s a tight unit, clearly more about vibe than virtuosity. Nobody's trying to be the loudest voice in the room.

When I first heard it, I kept waiting for a big moment. A climax. A key change. Something flashy. It never came—and that’s the genius of it. The song doesn’t peak. It just cruises, like a vintage car with the windows down. There’s confidence in that restraint. “I didn’t want to overcomplicate it,” Xifiar told me. “It’s about catching a feeling—the kind you don’t need to explain.” That tracks. The melody doesn’t beg you to sing along, but somehow you find yourself humming it hours later anyway.

Xifiar’s not trying to dominate your feed or fight for the algorithm. There’s no viral dance, no forced trend-jacking. Just a guy with a guitar and a feeling he managed to bottle without breaking it. In an industry addicted to high-intensity everything, it’s honestly refreshing to hear someone debut with something this… patient. Even the title—I Call Her Love—feels more whispered than declared. There’s something cool about that. Quietly cool. The kind of cool you don’t teach.

There’s also a bit of a contradiction at play here. Xifiar doesn’t overshare, but there’s a closeness in the music. You don’t know the name of the girl, or if there even is one. It’s less about narrative and more about texture, presence. Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious where this goes next. Artists who open with restraint usually have range. I’m betting Xifiar’s sitting on a few unexpected turns.

For now, though, “I Call Her Love” feels like a mission statement. Not flashy. Not loud. Just... right. If you're the type who appreciates the slow burn, the late-afternoon kind of track that makes you look out the window a little longer—this one's for you.

Meet Benj: The Swiss Artist Channeling His Inner Beast

Benj didn’t overthink it. That’s probably what makes “BEAST” hit so hard. The single, cooked up in his personal studio in Fribourg, Switzerland, was less of a drawn-out process and more of a creative lightning strike. “It all came together really fast,” he says—and you can hear it. There’s a certain urgency in the track, like it needed to exist and wasn't going to wait around for permission. From the first bass drop, it sounds like a challenge: to the listener, to the artist, maybe even to the industry.

He calls it a song about “empowerment and self-improvement,” but that barely scratches the surface. “BEAST” feels like Benj grabbing himself by the collar and saying, get up, it’s time. It’s not preachy or overly polished—it’s direct. The lyrics and production push you forward without trying to be motivational for the sake of it. There’s a rawness, sure, but not the kind everyone likes to throw around in press releases. This is personal. It’s Benj talking to himself first. The rest of us just happened to be in the room.

There’s something refreshing about an artist who openly embraces his alter ego—not as a costume, but as a version of himself he’s striving toward. That’s the ethos behind Benj’s whole creative direction: not pretending to be someone else, but pushing to become that “better” version that lives just out of reach. “I AM A BEAST,” he says without flinching. It’s not cocky. It’s earned. You can tell this track is the result of real growth—internally, musically, probably even spiritually.

The production? Heavy. No fluff. The kind of bassline that makes your chest tighten up a little—but in a good way. It hits like a personal trainer for your mindset. You don’t walk away humming a melody so much as feeling like you just went twelve rounds with your excuses. It's not a club banger in the traditional sense, but it’s built for movement. Whether it’s in the gym, on a long solo drive, or in front of the mirror hyping yourself up for a job interview, “BEAST” fits.

And while Benj isn’t lining up live performances at the moment, there’s a kind of mystique in that too. Not every artist needs to prove their worth on a stage right away. Some build the legend first. Think of this as his origin story—not the climax, but the part where the mask is still coming on. Where the transformation is still happening in real time. That’s part of the intrigue. You’re catching Benj mid-shift.

There’s a detail he mentioned offhandedly that stuck with me: how the track made him and his producer feel when it clicked into place. That’s not a minor thing. It means this wasn’t a “maybe this will blow up” kind of record—it was a this-is-it moment. The kind of studio energy that can’t be faked or fabricated. And you can feel it when you press play. It’s in the way the vocals ride the beat. In the restraint. In the punchlines that don’t need explanation.

So what’s next? Hard to say. But if “BEAST” is any indicator, Benj isn’t waiting for the industry to hand him anything. He’s building his identity on his own terms, beat by beat, verse by verse. And if you’re paying attention now, congratulations—you’re early.

Kestrel Is Building Neon Memories One Synth at a Time

The first time I heard Apricot Sunshine, I was scrolling through a pile of half-dead demos in my inbox when this bright, cinematic shimmer cut through like a Miami sunrise on a cloudy day. It’s the kind of track that doesn’t beg for attention—it just quietly demands it. There’s this electronic riff that hums like a memory you can’t quite place, and just when you think it’s all glitz and groove, it lands on these big, open-hearted chord changes that make you feel like you’re the main character in your own coming-of-age movie. It’s synthwave, sure, but not the kind you’ve heard a thousand times. There’s something a little... sunnier.

Behind the name Kestrel is Naomi Haworth, a solo artist out of the Isle of Man—a spot better known for its motorbikes and foggy coastlines than shimmering Nu-Disco. But that makes sense. Her music feels like the exact opposite of her surroundings, like she’s spent years dreaming up neon skylines and vintage club scenes in her head, only now giving them form. There’s intention in the contradiction. You get the sense she’s building something she doesn’t see enough of in the world.

What’s refreshing about Kestrel is how dialed-in her artistic vision is, without it feeling like a marketing ploy. She writes everything. Sings, plays keys, co-produces. There’s something kind of old-school in that approach—like Prince in a bedroom studio. She told me Apricot Sunshine is a concept track, pulling from subliminal memories of 80s Miami. But it’s not retro cosplay. It’s about evoking a feeling—of warmth, of longing, of joy that feels just out of reach. And that extended version she’s teasing for next summer? If the current track is Act One, then we’re just getting started with this story arc.

Visually, she’s as deliberate as she is musically. There’s this saturated, VHS-daydream aesthetic to her covers and visuals that matches the sonics without trying too hard. She’s not chasing trends—she’s mining a very specific vibe and refining it. It’s like she’s curating her own little genre bubble. And honestly? It works. She’s not just writing songs; she’s world-building. A parallel universe where the past and future hang out, drink something fruity, and dance it out under soft pink strobes.

That said, there’s something undeniably personal about what Kestrel does. It's not just nostalgia for the sake of it. There’s heart. You hear it in the melodies—always carrying a hint of melancholy even when they sparkle. You sense it in the restraint. She doesn’t overload her songs with tricks. She gives them space to breathe. Space for you to feel whatever you need to. She told me she wants to make music that uplifts people. It’s a lofty aim, sure. But sometimes? Lofty’s exactly what we need.

If you're into artists like Roosevelt, Chromatics, or early Robyn—but want something with a more melodic backbone and just a little less irony—Kestrel might be your next obsession. She’s not here to dominate the algorithm. She’s building her own lane, one synth pad at a time, and inviting you to cruise with the top down, even if it’s raining outside.

I’ve got Apricot Sunshine on loop, and I’m not mad about it. When the extended version drops, you’ll find m first in line—sunglasses on, volume maxed, waiting for the next chapter.

Weather Systems: Blindness & Light's Beautiful Drift Across Continents and Sound

There’s something refreshingly unbothered about Blindness & Light. They’re not here to chase trends or squeeze into the usual post-punk box. Instead, they move like a creative weather system—drifting across continents, time zones, and genres with a kind of beautifully scrappy intent. Their latest single, You Solitude, is a jangly, slow-burning gem—first track on the B-side of I Dreamt I Had Insomnia and already buzzing in the indie underground. It's the kind of song that makes you pause mid-scroll and actually listen.

The band—or more accurately, the collective—is less a traditional lineup and more of a global organism. From Anglesey to Argentina to Tokyo, its members orbit each other loosely, united by sonic instinct rather than spreadsheets. At the core is Colin M Potter, who handles vocals, songwriting, and guitar. Melisa Dopazo anchors the low end on bass, Glenn Welman keeps time with tasteful restraint on drums, and Helen Reynolds adds just the right shimmer with her backing vocals. Their sound? Somewhere between early Echo & the Bunnymen and a bootleg from a forgotten Factory Records session. But even that doesn’t quite cover it.

You Solitude is an indie kid’s dream—guitar tones like faded Polaroids, melodies that loop in your head for days, and lyrics that sit somewhere between poetry and pub confession. Thematically, it’s rooted in the emotional maze of social repression—Colin calls it “about the hope of liberation of a socially repressed friend.” You can hear the empathy in every note. There's no melodrama, just this persistent heartbeat of understanding and frustration. It’s a track that feels personal, but not preachy. That balance is rare.

And yeah, they’re charting. Three singles from the new album hit #1 on the European Indie Music Chart, and Shards broke into the top ten too. But they’re also turning heads in less obvious ways. In Tokyo’s indie bars—especially in Koenji—you can apparently hear I Dreamt I Had Insomnia spinning between craft beers and old-school shoegaze. Not bad for a DIY band that once walked away from a gig because the promoter wanted them to play MP3s off a USB stick. “It felt absurd so we left,” they say. Honestly? Respect.

What makes this crew click is their refusal to conform. When their original producer couldn’t keep up, they took over production themselves. That move—equal parts necessity and rebellion—ended up defining the second album’s DNA. Now they’re already deep into recording album number three. And that artwork? A surreal painting by Austrian artist Gary Lanthaler. It adds a strange beauty to the record—another piece of this strangely cohesive chaos.

There’s a full-circle vibe happening, too. These days, Blindness & Light are repped by a PR agency operating out of the former offices of Factory Records in West Didsbury. A spooky, satisfying twist for a band obsessed with Joy Division. “It’s nice to come home,” they shrug. Full circle indeed.

As Colin puts it: "Song writing is like base-jumping for the soul. I wouldn't have it any other way." That pretty much nails it. Blindness & Light aren’t trying to be anything—they’re just doing. And in a music scene oversaturated with calculated moves, that kind of honesty hits different.

Mr. Rockstar Isn’t Just Playing the Part—He Is the Part

You don’t just stumble across “All Day (Studio Mix)”—you trip, fall face-first into it, and by the time you stand up, shirt half-off and adrenaline spiked, you’re already humming the hook. Mr. Rockstar doesn’t ask for your attention; he rips the aux cord out of your hand and hijacks the party. The track opens with grunge-soaked guitars slamming against those trunk-rattling 808s, like a muscle car drifting through a mosh pit. It’s rowdy, loud, and shamelessly engineered for summer chaos.

That blend—half rock show, half rap flex—is where Mr. Rockstar lives. It's not a gimmick. It's not even fusion. It's a full-throttle identity. This dude’s building a sound that's unapologetically loud and sonically hype without trying to fit neatly into genre tags. You get the sense he grew up switching between Travis Barker and Travis Scott playlists, never feeling like he had to pick a side. That kind of freedom oozes out of the track. “All Day” feels sweaty and alive, like it was made for blaring through cracked iPhone speakers at a beach party you weren’t invited to but showed up at anyway.

What’s wild is how the track exploded organically. Over 300 reels? No label-made virality here—this is grassroots, digital word-of-mouth, hype built one summer skater kid at a time. There’s this effortless charm to Mr. Rockstar’s whole presence. His music isn't overly polished, and that’s the point. The “No Shirt” energy he’s cultivating through songs like “American Made” and “Lazy” taps into something primal—sunburnt skin, torn denim, doing donuts in a Walmart parking lot because why not.

But don’t confuse casual with careless. Mr. Rockstar knows exactly what he’s doing. The production on “All Day” isn’t some SoundCloud freebie—it’s a calculated mix of nostalgia and new-school energy. That grunge guitar doesn’t drown in distortion; it rides clean over the beat. And those 808s? They hit like they’ve got something to prove. There’s a clarity to the chaos, like someone who knows how to throw a punch and land it.

Here’s the kicker, though: Mr. Rockstar doesn’t fully let you in. There’s a bit of mystery, a “figure it out yourself” vibe. No sappy backstory. No faux-vulnerable acoustic interlude begging for playlist adds. Just vibes, distortion, and sweaty hooks. It's kind of refreshing, honestly. He’s not chasing algorithms—he’s chasing that feeling of too much energy and nowhere to put it.

And yet, there’s a wink underneath all that bravado. A little contradiction. The guy who writes “All Day” is probably also the dude who stays up til 4 a.m. tinkering with transitions, obsessing over guitar tones. There’s craft behind the chaos—you just have to listen closely. That duality? That’s where the longevity hides. It’s not just a viral summer track. It’s the groundwork of a cult following in the making.

So yeah, “All Day (Studio Mix)” bangs. But Mr. Rockstar? He’s building something bigger than a single song. He’s carving out a whole damn lane. No shirt. No apologies. All gas. And I don’t know about you, but I’m riding shotgun.