Rising Star 76 - The courage to stay—louder than the will to win.

Before the big break, before the big stage, there’s a small decision most people never see.

Stay or walk away.

Rising Star 76 opens with that choice. The ordinary moment no one claps for. The moment where art isn't glamorous, and the journey doesn’t feel epic—it just feels heavy. But they stayed.

These artists didn’t wait for permission or perfect timing. They sat in the unfinished. The uncertain. The vulnerable. They created not because it was working—but because it meant something.

And meaning is a dangerous thing. It doesn't always look marketable. It rarely trends. But it moves people. And that’s what this session is about: movement over metrics.

Each voice here has been sharpened by doubt and softened by self-awareness. They’ve cut through the noise of expectation and landed somewhere quieter, more radical: authenticity.

Some of them lost something this year—momentum, love, a mentor, themselves. Some nearly quit.

But instead of disappearing, they dissolved into the music.

And what emerged is raw, disobedient, honest.

You’ll hear a singer who broke her own rules. A beatmaker who stopped producing for the playlist and started building from memory. A lyricist who turned his trauma into testimony. A trio that lost their lead and found their soul.

These aren’t tracks built for virality.

They’re built for intimacy.

They don’t scream for your attention. They whisper something deeper:

“I’m still here. And I’m still becoming.”

And that is the turning point Rising Star 76 documents—the inflection between collapse and clarity.

The sacred tension between giving up and giving in.

The refusal to fake it. The insistence on feeling it.

So don’t expect perfection. Expect presence.

Expect the friction of artists no longer willing to dilute their message for mainstream approval.

This isn’t the highlight reel. It’s the journal entry.

It’s the memo you write to yourself at 3 a.m. when no one’s watching, and you’re finally honest.

Rising Star 76 isn’t a playlist. It’s a psychological checkpoint.

A room full of artists who stopped performing and started processing—out loud.

And maybe that’s the shift.

Maybe the future of music isn’t louder.

Maybe it’s just more real.

So lean in.

Not to judge.

To witness.

Because this time, the tracklist isn’t here to entertain you.

It’s here to remind you:

You can hurt and still create.

You can doubt and still show up.

You can be unfinished and still worthy of being heard.

This is Rising Star 76.

And the real question is:

Can you handle the truth when it’s not polished for you?

H-dMan Such Isn’t Chasing the Moment — He’s Carving Out His Own

The first time I heard “Room Thirteen (The Key You Hold),” I thought I’d accidentally shuffled into an unreleased Spiritualized b-side — until the vocals hit. There’s a tension in H-dMan Such’s delivery that’s too lived-in to be borrowed, too precise to be accidental. It’s not the voice of someone trying to impress you. It’s someone telling you something they maybe shouldn’t be saying aloud. That’s what makes it work.

The track moves like a fog creeping in under a door: slow, unrelenting, and strangely comforting. Guitars shimmer, never fully settling. The drums pulse like a distant ritual. You don’t so much listen to this song as let it hang over you. And yet, there’s structure here — it’s not lo-fi noodling or shoegaze murk. H-dMan Such understands pacing. The build is deliberate. It rewards patience. It’s the kind of song that makes you pause mid-scroll and think, Wait, what is this?

Behind the moniker is an artist who’s clearly been sitting with his influences — but not just mimicking them. You can hear the fingerprints of early Depeche Mode and The National, sure, but there’s also something more angular, more internal. It’s indie rock, dream pop, Brit-rock revival — all of it, none of it. There’s a refusal to settle into a box here, which is probably why algorithmic playlists in the U.S., Mexico, and the U.K. are picking it up. The bots are confused — and curious.

What stands out most isn’t the production (though it’s gorgeous) or the references (though they're smart). It’s the mood. There’s a kind of unsaid story happening in the background of “Room Thirteen.” It’s in the title — vague, a little haunted. You imagine someone in a dim hotel hallway, hesitating outside a door. You don’t know what they’re about to walk into, but you know it matters. Maybe the key fits. Maybe it doesn’t.

There’s a complexity to H-dMan Such that feels, frankly, refreshing. Most new artists lead with the loud stuff — the big hooks, the attention-grabbing bio, the calculated branding. Not here. There’s no forced vulnerability, no overexposed origin story. Just a song that sneaks up on you, and a name that, once heard, is hard to forget. It’s rare to find a track that feels simultaneously nostalgic and impossible to place on a timeline.

It’s not all perfect — and that’s part of the charm. The mix leans a little heavy on the reverb in spots, and there’s a slight stiffness in the phrasing that suggests H-dMan Such is still growing into his own vocal space. But honestly? That human edge makes the track stick. There’s nothing more forgettable than polished mediocrity. This isn’t that.

He’s not trying to be everything to everyone. He’s not here to go viral on a hook. H-dMan Such is building a world — one reverb-soaked room at a time. And if “Room Thirteen (The Key You Hold)” is your entry point, you might just want to stay a while.

Pronto Valid Isn’t Following the Script — and That’s Exactly the Point

There’s something off-kilter—in a good way—about “UK V!BES,” the latest drop from Chicago’s own Pronto Valid. From the first bounce of Zeelaa’s slick beat, you can tell this isn’t your usual Midwest rap joint. It opens like a warehouse rave but lands somewhere between a drill cipher and a London block party. The track doesn’t ask for your attention—it grabs it.

The fusion here isn’t just for flex. Hip-House isn’t new, but Pronto makes it feel like it is. There’s this controlled chaos in how he rides the rhythm, never rushing, never dragging—just coasting in his own pocket. Think if early Skepta met Prime Chance the Rapper at a basement show in Wicker Park. Zeelaa’s production slaps, but it also breathes, giving Pronto room to riff, jab, and dance around the beat. The influence from BEAM’s “Selecta” is there, but this feels like something more unbothered, more local and global at once.

What hits hardest, though, is that this wasn’t made in some million-dollar studio. It came together in Pronto’s home setup on the South Side—just a mic, a laptop, and probably a few neighbors telling him to keep it down. That lo-fi origin makes the clean final product even more impressive. The polish is there, sure, but it never loses the grit. This isn’t a SoundCloud experiment or an industry rebrand. It’s a pivot born from instinct.

And let’s talk performances. You know how some artists sound great on streaming but fall flat live? Not the case here. Pronto’s set at The Point on July 19th—opening for Yung Bleu, no less—felt like a level-up moment. A dude from Chicago experimenting with UK house energy and getting the whole room moving? That’s not normal. Then on July 26th at The Piazza in Aurora, it was his first outdoor show. You’d never guess it. The crowd didn’t just show up—they showed out.

What’s cool about Pronto Valid is that he’s not trying too hard to “be different.” He just is. He’s not abandoning Chicago rap; he’s expanding it. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he switches lanes—no dramatic rollouts, no convoluted backstory. Just a fun, unexpected record that’s smarter than it first lets on.

There’s also a contradiction that makes this all the more interesting: the music feels like summer in Ibiza, but it was made in a city known more for snow, sirens, and soul food. And yet it works. You don’t feel like he’s cosplaying UK culture—he’s remixing it through a Chicago filter. Even his bars carry that regional lingo, just stretched out across a four-on-the-floor pulse.

Honestly? I didn’t expect to replay “UK V!BES” as much as I did. I figured it was just another stylistic experiment. But there’s something sticky here—something that hints at a bigger artistic shift. If this is Pronto Valid warming up, I want front-row seats when he really goes off.

Bobby Bodega Is Back, and “Gravity” Hits Like Home

The first thing you notice on Gravity isn’t the beat. It’s the weight. That line — “Gravity keeps pulling me back to you / Right back to you…” — it loops like a thought you’ve been trying to outrun for years. Bobby Bodega, the Bronx emcee who’s been quiet since 2021’s Chariots of Fire, hasn’t just returned — he’s resurfaced with purpose. The new single doesn’t try to impress you. It pulls you in, slow and steady, until you’re knee-deep in someone else’s memories that somehow feel like yours too.

Bodega doesn’t rap like he’s performing. He raps like he’s telling you the part of the story most people leave out. His verses are lean, sharp, and sometimes uncomfortable. “Give them doors but no keys / Give them love lest he bleed…” — that’s not just clever wordplay; it’s lived-in truth. Raised on Undercliff Avenue, just blocks from where hip-hop was born, Bobby carries that DNA. But he’s not chasing retro aesthetics or trying to sound like ‘94. His music is Bronx now — where gentrification sits on top of grief, and kids are making sense of the past through cracked iPhone screens.

There’s a line in the press materials about “wrestling with truth,” and for once, that’s not PR fluff. Gravity is heavy without ever being preachy. It touches on love, loss, AI, systemic blocks — yeah, he actually weaves in a bar about the industry getting hijacked by artificial intelligence, and somehow it lands. That shouldn’t work. But it does. Because for Bobby, every verse feels like a tug-of-war between what he feels and what he knows the world can handle.

And let’s talk about the delivery. His flow isn’t flashy — it’s measured. Almost stubborn. You can hear how much he doesn’t want to dress up the truth. It’s that same restraint you hear from emcees who’ve been through more than they post. Think early Mick Jenkins or a more internalized Dave East. But there’s a poetic edge here, too — not performative, just precise. Like someone who grew up around pain but learned to process it through bars instead of punches.

What makes Gravity hit harder is the context. Bobby’s been quiet for nearly four years. In this algorithm-chasing, content-churning era, that’s career suicide — unless you’ve got something real to say. And he does. Turns out he’s been writing through the silence, crafting tracks that don’t beg for playlist placement, but instead earn your attention. He’s not trying to be viral. He’s trying to be vital.

There’s also this subtle contradiction: Bobby raps like a loner, but Gravity feels communal. It’s the kind of track that makes you text someone you haven’t in a while. His voice cracks in places, and whether that’s intentional or not, it works. You believe him. That’s rare. There’s a photo circulating from the studio session where he’s still in his coat, scribbling in a crumpled notebook. I don’t know why, but that detail sticks with me more than any perfectly lit promo shot ever could.

If Gravity is the reintroduction, I’m sticking around for the rest. Bobby Bodega doesn’t need to be the loudest in the room — he’s the one who’s actually got something to say when the noise dies down.

Cali Tucker Isn’t Asking for Permission Anymore — She’s Taking Her Shot

You don’t press play on Last Name expecting a therapy session—but about 30 seconds in, that’s exactly what you’re getting. Cali Tucker doesn’t waste time with metaphorical smoke. The new single hits with the clarity of someone who’s learned the hard way that a recognizable surname won’t carry you when the lights dim and the calls stop. It’s not bitter. It’s not performative. It’s personal. And that’s why it works.

There’s something undeniably gutsy about an artist with Tucker’s lineage choosing to talk about not having a safety net. She’s the daughter of LaCosta Tucker, niece to Tanya Tucker, and yet here she is co-writing a song about the grind of self-made ambition. No silver spoons. No backroom handshakes. Just a voice that knows when to crack and when to soar. Co-written with Derek Robertson, Tricia Battani, and Grammy-nominated producer G’harah “PK” Degeddingseze, Last Name feels like the grown-up sister to her previous singles Country Couture and Urban Cowboy. Less rhinestones, more real life.

It’s a gamble, this level of honesty. Especially in country music, where the line between tradition and reinvention is thinner than a fiddle string. But Cali’s not trying to burn the barn down—she’s just building her own right next to it. You can hear it in the arrangement. The production leans modern, but not sanitized. There’s room for breath. For grit. For the kind of vocal delivery that doesn’t just tell a story but relives it in real time. That’s the real flex here—her vocal control. It’s theatrical without being campy, and confident without sounding slick.

Let’s be clear: Tucker’s not some new kid posting covers on TikTok. She’s done the pageant circuit. She’s hit the Opry stage. She’s shared mic time with Blake Shelton on The Voice and stared down a sea of 80,000 fans while belting the national anthem at a NASCAR race. She’s earned her bruises. And honestly, the numbers are starting to match the hustle—millions of streams across platforms, international radio rotation, and awards stacking up for her visuals. (Country Couture and Urban Cowboy cleaned up at the indie film circuit, by the way. Respect.)

Still, what really sticks with me is how Last Name doesn’t just play for the radio. It plays for the mirror. It’s for anyone who’s ever had to advocate for themselves in rooms that didn’t want them there. It’s a reminder that independence isn’t some curated aesthetic—it’s late nights, second-guessing, and standing up anyway. That kind of message lands harder when it comes from someone who could’ve coasted on legacy but didn’t.

There’s one line in the song—delivered almost too softly to catch—that haunted me after the third listen. I won’t spoil it, but it’s the kind of thing you only write if you’ve stared at a ceiling at 2 AM wondering if any of this is worth it. That’s the kind of vulnerability AI can’t fake. That’s lived-in.

Cali Tucker headlines the Access Showroom in Vegas this June, and the next night she shares a bill with her iconic aunt at Spirit Mountain Casino in Oregon. Honestly? That kind of poetic full-circle moment practically writes itself. But knowing Cali, she’s not thinking about full circles. She’s thinking about the next line, the next stage, the next leap. And with Last Name, she just proved she doesn’t need permission to take it.

The Jagged Truth: BSD Revenant's Unpolished Honesty

BSD Revenant doesn’t scream for attention. He screams because it’s the only way to survive what he’s lived through. That’s the first thing that hit me about “Fading Echoes” — the final scream, delivered by BSD himself, sounds like someone exorcising everything they’ve held in for years. It’s jagged, imperfect, and human in a way most records don’t dare to be anymore. You feel it more than you hear it. And for a song about ghosting, identity loss, and spiritual crisis, that vulnerability doesn’t just work — it wrecks you.

The guy behind the moniker — Austin Lohmann — isn’t some industry plant or fresh-faced emo cosplayer. He’s a 27-year-old Army vet and single dad from Austin, Texas, who survived prison, a failed marriage, and the kind of spiritual implosion most people don’t come back from. He did. Barely. And instead of wrapping that pain in metaphor, he grabbed a mic and told the truth. Not the polished version. The bleeding one. The part that says “I don’t think they ever saw me / But Jesus did.” That lyric, tucked into the song’s outro, just lingers.

“Fading Echoes” leans cinematic — think swelling violins, layered guitars, and drums that punch like someone trying to make contact with the outside world. It’s emo rock with post-hardcore bones, but there’s a strange calm to the chaos. Part of that comes from Josh Paulino’s lead vocals, which anchor the track with this aching steadiness. BSD handles the background and breakdown vocals — notably the chorus at 0:51, the biting third verse, and that closing plea. It’s a balance between restraint and rupture, like two sides of the same storm.

And here’s the thing: it’s not clean. It’s not supposed to be. BSD recorded his parts at Spitshine Studios in Austin, with Julian Muñoz Colin Jr. (aka PRODBYJULIAN) running point on the mastering. Claudio Rigo, aka Cloudhead, handled the instrumental, building something that swells like grief and crashes like clarity. The track isn’t engineered for algorithm success — it’s engineered for resonance. And that’s what makes it hit harder than it should.

What really stuck with me, though, was how personal the entire thing feels — like reading someone’s journal that was never meant to be shared. The third verse especially: “Used my soul like a shopping cart.” It’s such a weirdly specific and unpoetic line that it somehow becomes perfect. It’s not trying to be clever. It’s just honest. Brutally so. And that’s the power of BSD Revenant — he’s not asking for sympathy. He’s offering solidarity.

With just over 3,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, he’s not storming charts yet, but the foundation is there. The kind that’s built fan by fan, not by playlist placements. You don’t stumble into this kind of music — you find it when you need it. And when you do, it feels like someone finally said what you’ve been trying to say.

So yeah, “Fading Echoes” might not fix you. But it gets you. And sometimes, that’s the more powerful thing. BSD Revenant is still clawing his way through the darkness, but he’s leaving a trail behind. One scream, one verse, one brutally honest track at a time.

The Fire's Already Started: Allcapsallan's Ragnarök in Berlin as Urgent Warning

There’s a moment on Ragnarök in Berlin—somewhere between the hammering percussion and the mechanized roars—when it clicks: this isn’t just a concept album. It’s a warning. And not the subtle kind. Allcapsallan isn’t here to entertain your nihilism or politely whisper metaphors in your ear. He’s pounding on the walls with a war drum and demanding you look around. The fire’s already started.

What makes this project so gripping is how committed it is to the bit—without ever feeling like a gimmick. Allcapsallan taps into Norse mythology not for the aesthetic (though let’s be real, the aesthetic slaps) but as a brutal framework to dissect modern rot. Loki, Thor, Midgard—they're not fantasy mascots. They're stand-ins for the masks we wear: relativism, silence, stagnation. It’s myth repurposed as a scalpel, cutting into the soft flesh of Western apathy.

Sonically, this thing is dense. The industrial metal backbone feels forged in a Berlin warehouse, but there’s this orchestral sprawl layered underneath that almost sneaks up on you. One second you’re headbanging to mechanical chaos, the next you're floating in some eerie, symphonic limbo. The contrast mirrors the record’s tension: humanity vs. system, noise vs. numbness, past vs. present. And it’s all sung in German—cold, sharp, and unapologetically confrontational. If you're looking for a singalong, keep walking.

Here’s the kicker though: Allcapsallan isn’t screaming from some pedestal. There’s a weird intimacy to this whole thing. It feels like he's in it with us, drowning in the same digital sludge, frustrated by the same empty debates. He’s just less willing to pretend everything's fine. The lyrics don’t offer resolution. They’re riddled with discomfort—loops of questions, accusations, uneasy truths. No savior narratives, no neat arcs. Just the sound of someone shaking the bars of the cage, hoping you’ll do the same.

You can tell this project wasn’t born in a boardroom or shaped by socials trends. It feels like one person’s deep, pissed-off meditation on what it means to live in an empire that’s smiling as it sinks. There's a DIY clarity to the visuals too—stark, cinematic, almost too polished to call underground, but too intense for the mainstream to touch. The Berlin backdrop adds extra grit. It’s not just scenery; it’s a character in the story. A city that’s seen collapse before.

It’s also not perfect. Some transitions feel like gut-punches when you expected finesse. A few moments drag when the message starts to loop. But honestly, that messiness makes it feel more real. Like it wasn’t sculpted for mass appeal but forged from obsession, rage, and whatever sleepless nights do to the human brain. That contradiction—precision wrapped in chaos—might be the point.

Allcapsallan is clearly not aiming for viral charts or festival slots (yet). He’s building something slower, heavier, harder to digest—but impossible to ignore once it gets under your skin. Ragnarök in Berlin doesn’t just want your attention. It wants your conscience. And in a landscape flooded with safe bets and algorithm-chasing noise, that kind of ambition feels...almost dangerous.

Formoe’s “Always” Feels Like the Moment After a Storm—Clear, Still, and Completely Real

It’s not every day you hear a song that feels like it was written exactly for the moment you didn’t know you were in. “Always,” the latest single from Norwegian artist Formoe, crept up on me like that. I had it playing in the background, and halfway through, I found myself completely still, staring out the window like I’d just remembered something important. That’s the thing with Formoe—his music doesn’t beg for your attention; it earns it by quietly piercing through the noise.

The new version of “Always” is part of Formoe’s debut album The Beginning of the End, out this fall. It’s technically a re-release, but it doesn’t feel recycled at all. This version is longer, more cinematic, with more room to breathe. The kind of track that unfolds instead of just playing. June Baltzersen’s vocals are front and center, and man, they don’t miss. Her delivery is clean but emotional—like someone who’s cried enough to sound calm now. And the production? You can hear Alf Emil Eik’s fingerprints all over it, with that smooth layering A-ha fans will recognize instantly, plus some tasteful atmospheric touches courtesy of Roar Farstad.

What I appreciate most about Formoe is that he doesn't shove “emotion” down your throat. It’s just there—baked into the chords, lingering in the synths, resting in the pauses between verses. There’s a kind of Scandinavian restraint at play here, but it never feels cold. It’s that perfect blend of clarity and melancholy that the Nordics do better than almost anyone. And despite the clean production, it never feels over-produced. It holds tension. It trusts the listener to lean in.

Thematically, The Beginning of the End explores heartbreak and personal shifts—yeah, familiar territory—but instead of over-dramatizing it, Formoe kind of sketches around the edges. “Always” doesn’t scream I’m sad, it just sounds like someone who's made peace with the sadness. There’s a maturity in that choice. I keep thinking about how the song’s structure mirrors real grief—it stretches out, returns to itself, finds beauty in repetition. It’s not trying to heal you. It’s just being honest.

The industry’s already starting to notice. “Always” picked up momentum in Brazil, Germany, the Netherlands, and the U.S.—an impressive mix for a Norwegian act that’s still relatively under the radar. But that makes sense: Formoe’s style has an international softness, the kind of pop that could sneak onto a Spotify editorial or quietly soundtrack a scene in a prestige drama. I wouldn't be surprised if this record ends up being one of those slow-burn sleeper hits. You hear it once, then again on a friend’s playlist. Then you're Googling him at 2 a.m. wondering how this song knows exactly how you feel.

Also: there's an instrumental version and one with only vocal harmonies, and both slap in a totally different way. The stripped-back versions aren’t just filler—they reveal the bones of the song. Makes you appreciate the choices in the full mix even more. And that tells me Formoe cares about the craft, not just the stream count.

If this is just the beginning, I’m sticking around to see how the story unfolds. The Beginning of the End feels like a statement—maybe even a dare—to embrace emotional honesty without the messiness of melodrama. Formoe isn’t trying to be the next big thing. He’s just trying to make music that reflects the complicated, beautiful, quiet truth of being human. And honestly? That’s enough to make me hit repeat.

Voltstorm's Break the Silence: Full-Throttle Metal That Hijacks Your Attention

When I first heard “Judas” by Voltstorm, I nearly missed my train stop. That galloping riff kicks in like it’s chasing you down a dark alley, and by the time the chorus hits, you’re either singing along or air-drumming on your thighs like a maniac. It’s the kind of track that doesn’t ask for your attention—it hijacks it. That’s Voltstorm’s thing: no subtle invitations, just full-throttle execution. And with their new album Break the Silence, they’re not just pushing their sound—they’re stomping on the gas and burning whatever map they were following before.

Voltstorm isn’t exactly new to the game, but there’s something about this release that feels like their true debut. It’s louder, riskier, and—dare I say—more personal. Frontman John D. Prasec doesn’t mince words when he says, “This album is everything we’ve gone through.” And that’s not some vague marketing line. You hear the struggle in “Black Cage”—a sludgy, heavy track that sounds like it's clawing its way out of a coffin—and you feel the clarity in “Wake Me Up,” a melodic outcry that manages to be both sharp and cinematic. If their 2022 debut was a mission statement, Break the Silence is the unfiltered audio diary.

There’s a confidence here that wasn't as loud before. Guitarist Stef Nurra has evolved into a riff architect—crafting leads that slice clean, even when everything else is rumbling around it. On “Storm Chaser,” you can practically see the pyrotechnics in your mind. It’s pure arena fuel. But they’re not just throwing fire for the sake of spectacle. There’s precision behind the chaos. Voltstorm knows their metal history—nods to Judas Priest and Helloween are all over this record—but they’re not leaning on nostalgia. They're reshaping it.

What I like most is that they’re not pretending to be anything they’re not. There’s no faux mystique here. They’re just three guys from the UK who clearly love playing loud, melodic, hook-loaded metal—and happen to be really good at it. You get the sense that they still rehearse in the same cramped room, probably arguing over drum fills and laughing at inside jokes. That scrappy energy hasn’t been polished out in the studio. And that’s why Break the Silence hits different. It’s ambitious, sure, but it’s also deeply human.

And yeah, some parts feel a bit unhinged—like “Evil Eyes,” which has this slightly chaotic tempo that flirts with spiraling out but never quite does. It’s a risk, and it works. There’s even a weird synth flourish in the bridge that feels almost out of place… but somehow doesn’t derail the track. That’s the beauty of this album. It allows room for contradiction. There’s structure, but they’re not scared to break it. There’s polish, but they don’t hide the rough edges. That tension? That’s where the magic sits.

Their upcoming shows are already drawing attention, and not just from the Euro metal diehards. There’s buzz, and for once, it feels earned. Break the Silence isn’t chasing trends—it’s speaking loudly enough to start one. That’s a rare flex in today’s algorithm-driven hellscape of recycled soundbites. You won’t find TikTok bait here. What you will find is a band doubling down on melody, shredding, and a kind of honest bombast that doesn’t take itself too seriously but still delivers at full impact.

So yeah—Voltstorm isn’t reinventing metal. They’re just doing it better than most right now. If you’re into anthems that make you want to drive too fast, lyrics that don’t feel manufactured in a writing room, and guitars that scream without apology—Break the Silence is your next obsession. Just don’t blame me if you miss your train.