Rising Star 77 — Still Here. Still Becoming.

Before the headlines, before the heat of the spotlight—there’s a pause.

Quiet. Internal. Almost invisible.

It’s not the roar of a sold-out crowd or the rush of a viral moment.

It’s a breath. A breakdown.

A choice.

Stay or disappear.

Rising Star 77 doesn’t celebrate arrival.

It studies endurance.

Because what separates artists from everyone else isn’t talent—it’s tenacity.

It’s that gritty, untelevised resolve to keep going when the algorithm isn’t looking, when the streams are silent, when the story arc dips before the triumph.

The artists in this session didn’t just survive the dip.

They lived there.

They sat in it, wrote in it, fought with it—until the discomfort became clarity, until the silence became sound.

And that’s where the magic started.

This edition isn’t obsessed with perfection.

It’s preoccupied with process.

It’s built on sweat, setbacks, self-questioning—and an unapologetic refusal to give up.

You’ll meet an R&B poet who lost his mentor but found his voice in grief.

A producer who burned every beat he made for trends and started sampling the sounds of his childhood home.

A punk duo who swapped distortion for vulnerability and found something louder than noise: truth.

A singer-songwriter who walked off a label deal and walked into a room alone—with nothing but her guitar and the audacity to begin again.

Rising Star 77 is not an answer.

It’s a document of the question: what happens when you keep creating without a guarantee?

Every verse here carries the weight of what wasn’t said before.

Every hook is a heartbeat.

Every silence is sacred.

Because this isn’t content.

This is context.

These tracks weren’t made to fit your feed.

They were made to mirror your feelings.

They won’t beg you to listen.

But if you do, you’ll feel something ancient and new at once:

Someone refusing to quit, even when no one asked them to stay.

That’s the new rebellion.

Not spectacle.

Not performance.

Presence.

And maybe that’s what Rising Star is becoming—a space not for the biggest names, but for the bravest hearts.

So if you came here looking for the usual climb-the-charts, polish-the-brand narrative, take a seat.

You’re in the wrong room.

This session is for the stayers.

The ones who turned rock bottom into a writing room.

Who chose vulnerability over virality.

Who made art not to be seen—but because they couldn’t not.

This is Rising Star 77.

Not a showcase.

A statement.

Because in a world obsessed with winning,

sometimes the most radical thing you can do is stay.

Seanchez's "Violento": Swiss-Latin Fire That Burns Without Following the Rules

The first thing that hits you with “Violento” isn’t just the beat—it’s the attitude. Seanchez doesn’t ease you in; he pulls you straight into the late-night drama of lust, ego, and power. It's bold. It’s slick. And it’s got that sharp-edged sensuality you only find in Latin trap when it’s done right. From the first bar, there’s no pretending this is just another playlist filler. You feel like you’ve stumbled into something intense and unfiltered—something he had to get off his chest.

Recorded at Del Sol Inc. in Luzern and mastered by Leslie de la Mota (whose ear for detail honestly shows), “Violento” is high-gloss but still has dirt under its nails. Producer Snake keeps things brooding and deliberate—nothing is rushed, everything lands heavy. There’s space in the beat, but not emptiness. That space is filled by Seanchez’s presence, which is more like a smirk than a statement. His delivery? Slow burn. Charisma in stereo. You don’t need to understand Spanish to feel what’s going on here.

Here’s what’s refreshing about Seanchez: he’s not chasing trends—he’s carving his lane. Luzern isn’t exactly the global capital of reggaetón or Latin trap, and that’s kind of the point. He’s out here building this sound from an unexpected place, drawing influence from the big names—Daddy Yankee, Maluma, J Balvin—but filtering them through a Swiss-Latin lens that doesn’t feel borrowed or overproduced. There’s a bit of the outsider energy to it, and that’s what makes it work. He’s not trying to fit in—he’s trying to stand out. And he does.

What’s more, he writes all his own material. Not in the “writes his own lyrics” checkbox kind of way, but in the “this story actually happened” kind of way. “Violento” sounds like it came out of a personal archive—not a songwriting camp. There’s a specific kind of tension in the track that doesn’t feel invented. Like, this guy's lived through some messy situations and decided to make them sound sexy. The contradiction is part of the appeal—there’s danger in the seduction, and vice versa.

It’s also worth noting that Seanchez isn’t some SoundCloud secret. He’s been out there—on stages at the Caliente festival in Zurich and opening for Calema. Spotify’s got 30,000+ listeners clocked in, which says a lot considering how young his catalog still is. That momentum feels earned, not engineered. The fans know he’s coming up, and you get the sense they’re not just watching—they’re rooting for him.

If you dig into his visuals (which you should), you’ll see the branding isn’t an afterthought either. The covers, the promos—it all matches the energy of the music. There's no disconnect between the image and the sound. And that’s rare. A lot of up-and-comers still feel like they're trying on identities, but Seanchez already wears his like a tailored jacket. Clean, confident, sharp where it needs to be.

With “Violento,” he’s not just dropping a track—he’s planting a flag. This feels like a turning point, or at least the start of one. He’s got the look, the hooks, the story, and the numbers are creeping up. More importantly, the music holds up when you strip everything else away. No gimmicks. Just a guy who sounds like he’s lived some things, learned from them, and decided to make them bang. I’m in.

Neska Rose Is Not Getting in the Hot Tub — And It’s Kinda Brilliant

You know that split-second pause before you text someone back — when your gut’s screaming “nope,” but your brain’s negotiating? That’s the exact tension Neska Rose bottles up and spins into glittering funk-pop on her new single Bubbling!. It’s slick, it’s awkward, it’s got live brass that struts like it just walked out of a Beck video, and it’s all anchored by a painfully real moment: a guy kept inviting her into his hot tub. She didn’t go. And instead of ghosting the memory, she turned it into a three-minute bop that somehow feels like an internal monologue and a party.

Neska — who’s 19, self-producing her own tracks, and clearly not here to blend in — doesn’t hide behind aesthetics. She leans into them, hard. Bubbling! lands somewhere between Lily Allen’s smirk and Amy Winehouse’s bruised honesty, but with a Gen Z quirk that’s more “I edited this at 3am on iMovie” than “I spent six figures on a visualizer.” That’s not shade — the DIY charm is the point. The video was literally shot by her mom and edited by her stepdad. It looks like your favorite weird MTV2 find from 1998, in the best way possible.

But what makes it stick isn’t the aesthetic — it’s the contradiction. Neska's singing about not being comfortable enough to fully be herself while showing up, fully herself, in front of a camera held by her mom. She calls the track “about being in love and disgusted at the same time,” which... is honestly more relatable than most Grammy-winning ballads. Her voice walks that same line — light and breezy, but always circling something heavier underneath. You’re not quite sure where the joke ends or if it even was a joke.

Her sound is messy in a meticulous way — live instruments tangled with clever loops, playful ad-libs sneaking past lines that could ruin your day if you really sit with them. There’s restraint where other artists might reach for vocal acrobatics or maxed-out filters. Instead, Neska lets the space breathe. You can hear her thinking mid-verse. It’s not a flex. It’s just... true.

And honestly, the hot tub metaphor shouldn’t work. It’s borderline ridiculous. But it lands because it’s not trying to be deep — it accidentally is. That’s Neska’s whole thing. She’s not yelling to be heard; she’s whispering just loud enough that you lean in, and before you know it, you're knee-deep in your own emotional contradictions. She’s not selling trauma or polished rebellion — just an unfiltered, side-eyed version of what navigating closeness can feel like.

There’s a confidence in how unhurried it all is. No big debut rollout. No viral challenge bait. Just a song she made, with people she trusts, about something that made her uncomfortable — and that probably made a lot of us uncomfortable too. That’s a gutsy move in an industry that still loves its over-explained narratives and Spotify-core branding. Neska’s building something slower, weirder, maybe even more durable.

She might not be the kind of artist who explodes overnight. But that’s fine. Artists like Neska sneak up on you — one offbeat single at a time, until suddenly you realize you’ve been playing her songs on loop for weeks and quoting her lyrics in conversations without even noticing. Bubbling! isn’t just a clever little song. It’s an invitation to sit in the discomfort — and maybe not get in the hot tub. And honestly? That feels cooler than pretending to be chill ever did.

Audren Turns the Page — and It’s Glorious

Audren didn’t set out to write a song about books. Which is funny, considering she’s a best-selling novelist. But when she sat down to pen A New Page, she wasn’t channeling her literary accolades — she was trying to breathe again. After years battling Lyme disease and stepping away from the spotlight, this track feels less like a comeback and more like a quiet, triumphant exhale. And yeah, you can hear it — not in some clichéd “she found herself” way, but in the shimmer of strings, the gentle pull of her voice, and the small, sparkling moments tucked into the arrangement.

What’s wild is how soft the song sounds — and yet how huge it is under the hood. We’re talking over 70 musicians recorded the orchestral arrangements, written by jazz guitarist (and partner-in-life) Chris Rime. It could’ve gone full Hollywood-score overkill, but Audren doesn’t do bombast. Instead, the track feels like a sunrise through fog — warm, intimate, and full of quiet possibility. Her daughter Jemily is on fretless bass, and there’s a vibe here that only happens when the studio becomes a living room: comfort meets precision. It’s family chemistry, bottled.

Musically, A New Page leans Indie Pop/Folk, but there’s jazz DNA in its phrasing, and a painter’s eye behind its sonic textures. You can tell Audren doesn’t write for trends — she writes for feel. And it makes sense. Early in her career, none other than David Guetta told her, “We’re not playing in the same field. You make music for musicians.” Most people would’ve spiraled. Audren took it as a badge of honor and kept going deeper into her own lane. Respect.

What’s really compelling, though, is how she marries artistry with a stubborn streak of soul. This isn’t music trying to be clever. It’s music trying to heal. There’s always been something witchy about Audren — not in a crystal-ball way, but in how she taps into emotion that feels just out of reach and names it. Her new album Think Freedom (coming October) promises more of this — both political and poetic, grounded and enchanted. The Aretha Franklin nod in the title isn’t lip service. It’s ethos.

There’s also the undeniable fact that this is a woman who disappeared from the music world because she physically couldn’t sing — and then fought her way back. She could’ve just stayed a celebrated novelist in France, where she’s now a literary name. But no, she clawed her way back to melody and microphones. That hunger? You can’t fake that. And you hear it — not in high drama, but in the way she leans into a lyric like it matters.

A fun, almost throwaway detail: way back when, a video game modeled a character after her. "Audren the Gipsy" in Darkstone — yep, that was her, complete with her song The Darkstone Will Shine making noise globally. It's the kind of fact that makes you pause and go, “Wait, what?” Which feels right for Audren. Her whole story is full of unexpected pivots — novelist to singer to mother to character in a game to near silence to full-on symphonic return. Messy. Complicated. Real.

If A New Page is the starting line of her new chapter, then count me in for the whole book. There’s a quiet fire burning in this music — no gimmicks, no trend-chasing. Just a voice that’s lived a little, loved a lot, and finally feels ready to be heard again. And if that doesn’t hit you somewhere deep, you might want to check your settings.

Emland's "You and I": The Art of Saying Everything by Holding Back

There’s a moment in Emland’s new single “You and I” — right around the 1:07 mark — when the production breathes out, just enough for you to realize how carefully everything’s been built around silence. Not absence, but restraint. That pause lets the emotion hit harder, and honestly, it kind of sneaks up on you. The whole track feels like that — relaxed and effortless on the surface, but surgically crafted underneath. Classic Emland move.

“You and I” dropped July 25, but it already sounds like it belongs to this summer. There’s something slightly nostalgic in its groove — a slow-burning, late-night beach drive kind of energy. But it never leans too hard into the retro thing. Instead, it sways between chill and heat like a sun-drenched mirage. And the hook? Sticks like sunscreen you forgot to wash off. It’s clean, crisp, and designed for looping. I caught myself replaying the bridge just to ride the drop again.

Emland — the Mallorca-based artist who writes, produces, and seemingly masterminds every detail of their sound — doesn’t do chaos. Even when the subject is heartbreak or confusion, there’s a kind of sonic architecture at play. This isn’t therapy-pop. It’s calculated emotional engineering. “You and I” was born from something as small as a text message, and that checks out. He’s the kind of artist who turns micro-moments into macro-statements, and he doesn’t need a breakdown or a scream to get the point across. Just a synth pad in the right key and a vocal take that feels like a secret.

If you’ve been following his rollout, this is the fourth single from his upcoming debut album EVOLVE, and the cohesion is starting to reveal itself. Every track so far — “Fighters,” “Better off without me,” “Astronauts & Butterflies,” and now “You and I” — has its own tempo, its own texture. But they’re clearly stitched together by the same sensibility: stripped-down yet intentional, glossy but never soulless. There’s something to be said for an artist who understands pacing, not just in songs, but in an album arc. And even though EVOLVE isn’t out yet, the title makes more sense with every drop.

What sets Emland apart isn’t just the precision — it’s the contrast. He makes sad songs sound like they’re smiling. “You and I” might read as romantic at first, but there’s an undertow. Something’s unresolved, and he doesn’t force closure. That’s rare. Most emerging artists feel like they have to prove something in every track. Emland? He’s comfortable leaving things unsaid. He knows the silence between verses can be just as loud.

And the visuals? Spot on. The cover art for “You and I” is simple — soft pastel, dreamy gradient — nothing flashy. But it matches the music perfectly. There’s an identity forming here that doesn’t scream for attention but pulls you in anyway. It's giving ZHU meets Rhye but less shadowy, more Mediterranean. Still DIY, but polished enough to slip into any editorial playlist without raising eyebrows.

Look, we’re in an era where anyone with Ableton and a vibe can drop “aesthetic” music. But Emland’s stuff feels different. There’s no filler, no trend-chasing. Just consistent, well-thought-out songwriting with enough mood to set a scene but enough bite to leave a mark. Keep an eye on EVOLVE when it lands later this year — if “You and I” is any indication, Emland’s not just building a sound. He’s building a whole world.

Cydan’s Got a Blanket Over Their Head and a Promise in Their Voice

By someone who got hooked halfway through the first verse

The first thing you notice about “Promises to You” is that it doesn’t try too hard—and that’s exactly why it works. There’s no grandstanding, no studio gloss slathered on to cover emotional gaps. It’s a quiet storm of a track, built in a makeshift studio where the artist literally sang with a blanket over their head to avoid echo. That visual stuck with me. There’s something endearingly DIY about it, like an artist whispering secrets to their mic in the dark.

Cydan—Toronto-based, soft-spoken, and quietly intense—makes music that feels like a private moment accidentally overheard. Their sound sits somewhere between grentperez’s gentle grooves and boy pablo’s lo-fi bedroom charm, but what separates “Promises to You” is its emotional precision. It’s not a breakup song, not quite a love song either. It’s the sonic equivalent of that point in a relationship where you’re on the edge of something real, but your past won’t quite let you leap.

Lyrically, it’s almost too casual to be profound—until it floors you. Lines like “Let you have a part of me / Just to lose myself in you” hit like a late-night text you shouldn’t have sent but needed to. There's an almost unfiltered urgency to the writing, like someone sorting out their feelings in real-time. The chorus isn’t belted, it’s offered: “If it’s you, I’ll stay, come storm or shine.” That’s not just romance. That’s risk. That’s someone loving while flinching.

And honestly, the production matches the vibe perfectly. You won’t find pristine layers or over-engineered effects here. It’s intimate and slightly imperfect—in the best way. Cydan’s vocals sit front and center, no frills, like they’re sitting on the edge of their bed figuring out if they should send the song or keep it to themselves. You get the sense that the song was meant for one person, and we’re just lucky enough to be eavesdropping.

What’s cool is that Cydan doesn’t try to solve anything. There’s no neat resolution, no sugary hook to tie it all up. Instead, you’re left with questions: Will they stay? Will they get hurt again? Is it worth it? And that’s what makes this more than just another indie R&B track. It lingers. It makes you text someone you shouldn’t. It makes you stare at your ceiling a bit longer after it ends.

Also, side note that feels too weirdly specific to skip: when asked about their journey, Cydan quoted their parents telling them, “You have a God-given talent. Use it.” Not a PR move. Just a real thing a family says when they know you’ve got something. There’s heart behind this whole project—and not the cloying kind. The grounded kind. The “let me turn my bedroom into a studio and hope somebody listens” kind.

There’s no big machine behind Cydan—yet. But that might be what makes this release so compelling. “Promises to You” doesn’t sound like a career move. It sounds like an emotional checkpoint. And if this is where Cydan is right now, then yeah—I want to see where this story goes next.