Rising Star 79 - "The Space Between Creation and Recognition"

In music, there’s always a moment when the story could end before it even begins. Not because of failure, but because of silence—the long stretch between creation and recognition, where no applause comes and no algorithm lifts you to the surface. It’s in that silence that most artists either fade or find out who they really are.

Rising Star 79 picks up in that space. Not in the roar of a crowd, but in the pause before the next step—where doubt feels heavier than ambition, and the only compass is conviction. For the artists gathered here, continuing wasn’t about chasing numbers, shortcuts, or industry validation. It was about committing to the work when the work was the only thing standing with them.

Each voice in this session carries the residue of that struggle. One singer, once known for flawless production, stripped her songs bare until only her lived experience remained. A producer left the comfort of algorithm-friendly rhythms to sculpt tracks that sound more like journal entries than commercial releases. A rapper faced the weight of his own history, deciding that truth—unfiltered, uncomfortable—was more powerful than performance. A band fractured mid-tour and, in the breaking, discovered a sound more honest than anything they had rehearsed.

The common thread isn’t genre, strategy, or even ambition—it’s authenticity as resistance. These artists aren’t in search of the next trend; they’re building connections that can’t be gamed, because they’re anchored in honesty.

Rising Star 79 isn’t a finish line or a victory lap. It’s a checkpoint, a reminder that progress in art isn’t always visible or immediate. What you’ll hear in these tracks is resilience in real time—the sound of artists choosing to keep moving forward even when the path isn’t guaranteed.

This isn’t about spectacle. It’s about substance. Not the noise of the moment, but the signal that cuts through it. Rising Star 79 is proof that the most powerful music doesn’t just survive uncertainty—it’s born from it.

Because in the end, this session celebrates not just the act of making music, but the courage to keep making it when no one’s watching.

"Blake Cake's Perfect Contradiction"

Blake Cake’s new track “Drunk Candy” doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. It drops you straight into a wobbling bassline that feels both playful and heavy, like it knows exactly what it’s doing. There’s a sweetness to it—hints of UK Garage bounce, sleek house percussion sliding in the background—but the edges are sharp. It’s the kind of track you hear at 2:30 a.m. in a packed basement club and immediately want to know who’s behind the decks.

That’s how Blake has been moving lately: showing up, cutting through the noise, leaving a mark. Her name first started bubbling after sets on MIXMIX TV, where her mixes had this rare quality of sounding alive—less like polished playlists and more like conversations with the crowd. You could tell she wasn’t just blending tracks; she was testing limits, nudging people out of their comfort zones. It worked. The underground in Seoul took notice fast.

What’s interesting is how quickly she moved beyond just being “the DJ to watch.” Producing came next, and not in the predictable way. Instead of only chasing club singles, she was tapped for K-Drama soundtracks, weaving her sound into cinematic spaces. That move says a lot about her ear: she’s not locked into one lane. She’s comfortable playing with texture, tension, silence—the things that make a song linger after it ends.

Her sound right now feels like it’s sitting at this sweet intersection of global influences. The bass-driven grit of Drum & Bass, the swagger of UK Garage, house grooves smoothed out just enough to carry everything forward. It’s not scattered though. Blake has that rare instinct where everything clicks together, even when she’s pulling from different corners of electronic music. There’s flavor in it—something you can’t fake.

The thing that stands out most when you watch her perform is her presence. Not in the dramatic “commanding the stage” way, but in the subtle stuff. The eye contact with someone in the crowd, the quick smile when a beat lands just right, the way she’ll hang on to a moment longer than expected before slamming into the next drop. It makes the set feel less like a performance and more like you’ve been let in on a secret.

And yeah, there’s a contradiction here. Offstage, Blake comes across almost understated, careful with her words, the kind of person you wouldn’t peg as someone who thrives in a sweaty, chaotic booth. But then she flips the switch, and suddenly she’s steering the whole room. That duality feels baked into her music too—bass-heavy and bold on the surface, but with an undercurrent of emotional precision that sneaks up on you.

With “Drunk Candy” and a growing list of collaborations and live dates, Blake Cake isn’t just another name floating in the algorithm. She’s carving out a lane that feels personal, rooted in the underground but ready for bigger stages. If you’ve been waiting for someone who can actually bring fresh energy into the electronic space without watering it down, she might be the one.

"RADARFIELD: Masters of the In-Between"

When RADARFIELD dropped their new single “Séance”, I didn’t hit play expecting to feel like I’d been pulled into a candlelit room with the curtains drawn. But that’s exactly where the track takes you. The song opens with this slow, lingering atmosphere—synths layered like fog, vocals just distant enough to feel like they’re coming from somewhere not entirely of this world. It’s not cheap horror-movie aesthetic either; it’s genuinely unsettling, in that way where you lean in instead of pulling back.

Tom’s voice is key to that effect. He doesn’t belt, he haunts. There’s a restraint in his delivery, like someone speaking carefully during a ritual, each word carrying more weight because of what isn’t said. Marcus, meanwhile, is doing wizardry with the synths—textures that swell and collapse, rhythms that never fully resolve. It’s less about hooks and more about atmosphere, but the kind of atmosphere that makes you forget time exists for a few minutes.

The title “Séance” isn’t just for show either. The lyrics nod directly to the imagery of spiritualist rituals—“Sitting here to call / the undead minds”—and the video doubles down on that aesthetic. Shadows, flickering candles, a sense that someone’s about to answer a question you didn’t mean to ask. There’s a moment in the video where the line “Who is talking in the attic?” lands, and honestly, it gave me goosebumps. It’s not just spooky for the sake of it—it captures that blurred line between fear and belief, hallucination and revelation.

What’s fascinating about RADARFIELD is how they’ve managed to make Darkwave feel alive again without sanding off its edges. A lot of acts in the scene either lean too far into nostalgia or overproduce their sound until it loses bite. These guys avoid both traps. You can hear the history—New Wave, Synthpop, even a little early Electronica—but it’s all filtered through their own lens. They’re not afraid of space, silence, or tension, and that makes the music breathe in ways that a lot of modern electronic projects just… don’t.

I’ll admit, there’s a contradiction here: the music feels calculated, almost architectural in how it’s put together, yet it never comes across as sterile. It’s emotional, but not in the obvious, heart-on-sleeve way. More like a conversation with someone who doesn’t raise their voice, but somehow makes you pay attention to every word. That’s a hard trick to pull off.

Listening to “Séance”, I couldn’t help but picture them performing it live. Not in a huge arena, but in a smaller, shadowy venue where the air feels charged and everyone’s just a little unsure if they’re supposed to clap or sit in silence after the final note fades. That tension—between audience and artist, between comfort and unease—feels like the exact space RADARFIELD wants to occupy. And they thrive there.

With this release, it feels like RADARFIELD are carving out their lane in a genre that doesn’t always welcome innovation. They’re not trying to be the loudest or the glossiest. They’re crafting experiences that linger long after the track ends. “Séance” might be their most daring cut yet, and if it’s a sign of what’s coming next, the ritual’s only just begun.

"Slow Walk's Quick Ascent"

Slow Walk’s new album The Mountain doesn’t ease you in—it throws you into its world right away. The opening track builds with a cinematic tension that feels bigger than the bedroom studio it was recorded in. It’s the kind of record that sounds like it had a team of producers behind it, but in reality, it was just one guy in London, chasing an idea that wouldn’t let him go. Two weeks later, he had a finished concept album.

What makes this project stand out is the way it embraces ambition without apology. Slow Walk cites War of the Worlds and Tommy as inspirations, and you can hear that love for oversized, theatrical storytelling in every layer. But unlike those sprawling productions, The Mountain came together quickly, almost instinctively. “I didn’t plot it out, it just came together,” he says, which might explain why the songs feel like they’re unfolding in real time—like we’re climbing alongside him, not just watching from below.

Thematically, The Mountain is about confronting fear and distraction, whether that’s self-doubt, outside criticism, or the endless noise of everyday life. On “High Chance,” he leans into the absurdity of daring to take on something bigger than yourself, joking that “maybe you have to be high to think of climbing a mountain.” Then he flips it, pointing out you have to aim even higher to actually get through it. That push-and-pull between humor and seriousness runs through the whole record, giving it a lived-in honesty.

One of the most striking songs, “Don’t Carry That Weight,” plays with the idea of baggage—not just metaphorical, but almost practical. He describes life’s mental burdens in terms of hiking gear, insisting that we should only take what’s actually useful: “skills and waterproofs,” as he puts it. It’s a small detail, but it grounds the whole album in a way that makes it less lofty and more relatable. I caught myself nodding at that line—it’s the sort of lyric you don’t forget because it feels like something your friend might actually say mid-conversation.

Visually, you can almost picture The Mountain as a film. That’s no accident—cinema has always been part of Slow Walk’s DNA. Each track feels like a scene, sequenced deliberately in the order it was recorded. There’s no neat polish, just a natural progression. That choice gives the record an arc, like a story being told as it’s discovered. At one point, he describes staring at the shadow of a mountain and thinking, “Why am I scared? It’s only a triangle.” That line is so simple, but it stays with you.

For all its cinematic leanings, there’s a rough-around-the-edges charm here too. You can hear the home-recording atmosphere bleeding through, which only adds to its personality. There’s something endearing about a project that shoots for grandeur but doesn’t hide its small-scale origins. It’s the contradiction that makes The Mountain resonate: it’s both big and intimate, carefully crafted but also a little impulsive.

With this release, Slow Walk isn’t just dropping an album—he’s extending an invitation. Not everyone will climb the whole thing, but for those who do, there’s a sense of shared arrival at the summit. And with its August 8 release now out in the world, the next step is watching how listeners connect with it. He’s built the path; the question is how many people will take the journey. Personally, I think more than a few will.

Raubtier Kollektiv Turns Germany’s Streets into a Wild Kingdom with Zoo Deutschland

There are albums you hear, and there are albums you survive. Zoo Deutschland, the debut concept record from Hamburg’s own Raubtier Kollektiv, falls firmly into the latter category. Across nine tracks, the rapper doesn’t just tell stories of survival in Germany’s concrete jungle — he drags listeners inside the cage, locking the door behind them.

From the opening roar of “Der Elefant”, a manifesto that frames wisdom as the truest weapon of dominance, to the closing systemic gut-punch “Zoo Wärter”, Raubtier Kollektiv weaves a world where every hustler, betrayer, and dreamer takes animal form. Crocodiles cry counterfeit tears, eagles soar only to discover the loneliness of altitude, and gorillas handle their business with brutal pragmatism. The metaphors aren’t gimmicks — they’re survival codes, stripped from lived experience and hardened into allegory.

“Every animal is someone I’ve known. Every metaphor is real life dressed in claws and teeth,” Raubtier Kollektiv explains.

The sonic landscape mirrors this primal theater. Beats land heavy, like gorilla fists against steel, while serpentine melodies slither through the mix with quiet menace. On “Adler Perspektive”, orchestral arrangements stretch the track into cinematic vastness, underscoring the cost of rising above the pack. Meanwhile, “Gorilla Geschäfte” thunders with trap’s relentless aggression, soundtracking the cold calculus of street economics. And then there’s “Nachts im Zoo” — a noirish, atmospheric cut that feels less like a song and more like wandering past cages after dark, unsure which set of eyes is watching you back.

But what makes Zoo Deutschland resonate beyond clever symbolism is its timing. German hip-hop sits at a crossroads, often caught between glossy commercial sheen and the raw urgency of the streets. Raubtier Kollektiv doesn’t just pick a side — he calls out the artifice directly. On “Krokodil Tränen”, he dismantles the performance of vulnerability that floods today’s rap, exposing how faked pain has become another hustle.

The album doesn’t just challenge; it disrupts. By casting society as a zoo — predators, prey, and wardens alike — Raubtier Kollektiv forces a confrontation with power, authenticity, and survival in modern Germany. It’s not an easy listen, but it’s not supposed to be.

Zoo Deutschland isn’t background music. It’s a battlefield soundtrack. It’s the sound of cages rattling.

"Eoin Shannon's Beautiful Contradictions"

There’s something about the way Eoin Shannon sings that makes you pause. Not in the polished, radio-ready sense, but in the way his voice carries the weight of someone who’s wrestled with shadows and still manages to find light. His new album Highs & Lows feels like a conversation between those two states—grit and grace—stitched together with blues, soul, and a spiritual undercurrent that refuses to be ignored.

What struck me first wasn’t even the lyrics, though they cut deep, but the arrangements. Tracks like Demon Lady and The Closer You’re To God don’t just lean on Shannon’s vocals—they’re built around them like scaffolding, with producers and musicians bending their own styles to let his presence sit at the center. Tom Savage, who produced ten tracks and even stepped in as a background vocalist, feels less like a collaborator and more like a co-conspirator in Shannon’s mission.

And then there’s the lineup—Gaby Duboisjoli bringing warmth to Happiness Has Come to Town, Makeda Rose haunting Demon Lady, Chanele McGuinness sliding into Pull the Plug / Pull the Curtain. It’s rare to hear an album where guest voices feel so seamlessly integrated, not as features for the sake of features, but as extensions of Shannon’s own storytelling. He recorded all his vocals at home, which almost doesn’t compute given how big the record sounds. It’s that contradiction—DIY grit with full-bodied production—that gives Highs & Lows its particular charge.

You can hear his influences—Bobby Blue Bland in the phrasing, Sinatra and Dean Martin in the swing of his delivery, Leonard Cohen in the low-end gravity. But Shannon doesn’t fall into the trap of mimicry. If anything, he uses those legends as a compass, then deliberately veers off-course. The Closer You’re To God is a good example: it’s built like a sermon, but the punchline isn’t comfort, it’s tension. “The closer you’re to God, the more the Devil sees you,” Shannon explains. That line alone tells you where his head is at—faith not as sanctuary, but as a battlefield.

I’ll be honest: this record isn’t easy listening. It doesn’t want to be. Even the lighter cuts carry a weight, like they were written with one hand holding a pen and the other gripping the edge of the table. One Crazy Day plays like a blues standard, yet there’s a weird modern sharpness to the mix that makes it feel uneasy. Then there’s the dance remix of Pull the Plug / Pull the Curtain, which shouldn’t work at all—and yet somehow does, like a late-night curveball that reframes the whole record.

What makes Shannon compelling is that he’s not chasing trend. He’s not angling for playlists or algorithm slots. He’s making music that reflects his own contradictions—spiritual but suspicious, soulful yet unvarnished, classic in influence but restless in execution. Even the fact that he designed the album artwork himself adds another layer: this isn’t just music, it’s an entire aesthetic world he’s building from scratch.

By the time the record ends, you don’t feel like you’ve “finished” something—you feel like you’ve been dropped off at the edge of a story that’s still unfolding. And that’s the hook. Eoin Shannon isn’t packaging a neat narrative; he’s letting you witness his process in real time, bruises and blessings alike. Highs & Lows is just the latest chapter, but you get the sense it won’t be the last.

"Billy Howler's Wild Familiar" -

Billy Howler doesn’t sound like he’s trying to fit into anyone else’s lane. The first thing that hit me when I pressed play on Keep My Fire Lit was how the song feels both familiar and strangely new, like it’s pulling threads from folk and country but weaving them into something a bit wilder. The drums don’t sit quietly in the background—they push forward, almost tribal in their pulse, while the guitar lines hold steady like a guiding hand. It’s the kind of track you’d expect to soundtrack a road trip, but also one you’d play in headphones alone at night when you need to feel anchored.

Billy comes out of the Sunshine Coast, and there’s a kind of wide-open-air quality to his sound that makes sense with that backdrop. You can hear the landscape in the music—the waves, the stillness, and maybe even the isolation that forces you to find your own rhythm. He calls the song “a blending of all the healing elements of music that have aided me on my journey,” and honestly, you can hear that intention in the way it’s built. This isn’t just a studio exercise; it feels lived in.

What caught me off guard is how personal it feels without being preachy. The lyrics talk about leading with your heart and choosing love, which could easily tip into cliché territory, but somehow Billy sidesteps that. Maybe it’s the conviction in his voice—it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to sell an idea, it sounds like he’s reminding himself to hold onto it. That little contradiction—writing for himself while reaching out to others—makes the track more gripping.

There’s also a riskiness in releasing a debut single that doesn’t fit neatly into genre boxes. Alt-country-folk might be the closest label, but that doesn’t really cover the primal drumming or the almost meditative layering of sound. It reminds me of the way early indie acts used to carve out their own micro-genres before anyone knew how to categorize them. Billy seems comfortable with that ambiguity.

When I talked with a few friends in music PR about this track, one of them said, “It sounds like something you’d stumble onto at 2 a.m. and then text your whole contact list about.” That resonated. There’s a scrappy, campfire energy to it, but also the polish of someone who clearly knows his way around production. Billy isn’t just a songwriter—he’s producing his own work, shaping the sound from the ground up, which gives him the freedom to let the imperfections stay in where they matter.

For me, the moment that sealed it was the final drumbeat. It doesn’t just fade; it lands with weight, like a door closing softly. You feel the song’s end in your body more than in your ears. I don’t get that often with debut singles. Usually, they’re too polished, too eager to impress. This one lets the silence after it breathe, which takes guts.

Billy Howler’s only just stepping onto the international stage, but Keep My Fire Lit doesn’t sound like a tentative introduction. It feels more like a statement of intent—this is who I am, and this is how I’ll sound, whether or not it fits into your playlists. If this is the first fire he’s lighting, I’m curious to see how big it burns when the next tracks start rolling out.

"Jagger Viox's Reset Button"

Jagger Viox didn’t need a studio with flashing lights or a team of engineers to shape his new single. “5 Senses” was born in his bedroom in Holbrook, New York—a space he’s been holed up in for three years, teaching himself production through YouTube tutorials and trial-and-error. It’s almost cliché at this point, the bedroom producer story, but with Jagger there’s something more deliberate going on. He isn’t just tinkering with beats for the fun of it—he’s building the foundation for his debut album, and “5 Senses” is the opening track.

The song itself doesn’t waste time. The drop arrives sharp, but not in a predictable EDM way. He leans into the emotional weight of his chorus, making sure the lyrics feel just as important as the build. That’s something he’s been vocal about: this isn’t supposed to be “just another house track.” His reference points—Dom Dolla, John Summit, Chris Lake—are there, sure, but Jagger bends their style into his own lane. Where others chase the festival moment, he’s chasing connection.

And yet, there’s still plenty of dancefloor muscle here. The bassline moves with purpose, the vocals are tightly woven, and when the chorus finally locks in, it feels like the kind of hook that could loop in your head for days. I caught myself humming it in line at the grocery store, which I guess is a sign he’s on to something.

What strikes me most about Jagger is how unfiltered he is about the grind. He admits openly that he pieced this whole thing together himself, bouncing between Ableton, BandLab, and Logic Pro until the sound clicked. No co-producers, no ghostwriters, no glossy polish. Just stubborn focus. There’s a minor contradiction in that: he’s obsessed with making something that can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the heavyweights of house, yet he’s also at peace with the idea that some people won’t get it. “Even if no one likes the song I don’t care because I do,” he says. It’s almost punk in spirit, hidden inside a dance track.

The personal layer comes through when you learn why “5 Senses” matters so much. It’s not only the first single—it’s the reset button for his whole project. He’s described it as “starting again from something new but feeling every ounce of emotion while dealing with it.” That kind of language tells you he’s working through things in real time. The music is both a distraction and a diary.

Of course, there’s still the question of where it all leads. He’s hinted at performances in New York City this fall, but nothing’s locked in yet. In a way, it’s fitting. The music comes first, the rest will catch up later. You can sense he’s not rushing into being the next name on a festival flyer. He’s more concerned with making sure the debut album lands with the right energy.

So yeah, “5 Senses” might be just one track, but it feels like a marker—an early signal of an artist testing his limits while refusing to bend to outside expectations. Jagger Viox is still in the bedroom, still tweaking, still figuring it out. But the sound he’s chasing is already out in the world, and it’s worth paying attention to before it grows into something bigger.

MrZnote Finds His Voice on Boathouse Row

The first thing you notice about “Boathouse Row” isn’t just the beat, though Petrofsky Beats definitely laced him with something sturdy. It’s the way MrZnote leans into every line like he’s got something to prove—not to the world, but to himself. There’s a grit in the delivery, but also this quiet determination, like someone finally deciding to stop apologizing for existing.

He’s from Philadelphia, which makes sense when you hear him rap. Philly artists tend to wear their hearts on their sleeves, even when they’re spitting about survival. You can hear the echoes of his influences—Eminem’s razor-sharp vulnerability, DMX’s emotional fire, Nas’s storytelling, Jay-Z’s cool-headed ambition—but MrZnote doesn’t sound like he’s copying any of them. Instead, it’s more like he picked up lessons from each and then carved his own lane.

“Boathouse Row” is his first single recorded entirely in the home studio he built himself. That detail stuck with me. There’s something symbolic about recording in a space you fought to create—four walls that hold every late-night experiment, every moment of doubt, every small victory. He tracked some parts in the dead of night, when emotions were high and no one else was listening. You can hear that intimacy in the record; it feels like you’re eavesdropping on a private confession that somehow turned into an anthem.

The song itself is about rejection, or more specifically, the feeling of never being fully accepted. MrZnote admits he spent years trying to fit in, losing pieces of himself in the process. Hip-hop became his anchor—the one place he didn’t have to fake it. “Boathouse Row” is him calling time on that old cycle of chasing approval. It’s not bitter, though. More like a declaration: I’m done shrinking to make you comfortable.

And here’s where the contradiction comes in—this is his most personal track, but also the one that feels the most universal. That’s always the trick with great hip-hop, right? You tell your own story so specifically that it stops being just yours. Listening, I thought about times I twisted myself just to belong. I think a lot of people will.

The collaboration behind the track deserves mention, too. Petrofsky Beats laid the foundation, and Madrug’s engineering gave the final product its punch. But at the core, it’s MrZnote who carries it with conviction. He even said something that feels like the perfect thesis statement for his career: “I built this track the same way I built myself, piece by piece, in silence, with no one watching until it was ready to be heard.” That’s not PR spin. That’s a guy telling you exactly how it happened.

With “Boathouse Row” out now, the momentum feels different for him. It’s not just another single—it’s the start of a chapter where he’s fully in control, betting on himself with no plan B. And honestly? That’s when an artist gets dangerous—in the best possible way.

"Kojo Rigault's Gentle Revolution"

Kojo Rigault didn’t just cover Smokey Robinson’s Cruisin’. He reimagined it. The UK-Trinidadian artist takes a song everyone thinks they know and slides it into a different lane—smooth, reggae-tinged lovers rock with just enough modern polish to feel fresh. The first time I heard his version, I had that odd déjà vu feeling. Like stepping into a room you’ve been in before but the lighting’s different. Everything’s familiar, but the mood has shifted.

Part of that comes down to who’s in the room with him. Reggae veteran John Kpiaye shaped the arrangement, bringing decades of wisdom into the mix. DJ Smokey Joe—who’s been at this longer than some of today’s listeners have been alive—co-produced. Their fingerprints are all over the track, but Kojo’s voice is what makes it land. There’s a warmth to it, the kind that doesn’t push for attention but keeps you leaning in anyway.

What I like about his take is that it’s not a karaoke moment. Kojo could have just played it straight, but he let some of his Trinidad soul and London edges seep in. You catch little hints of Caribbean phrasing in the vocals, a subtle bounce in the groove that wasn’t there in Smokey’s version. He’s not hiding his influences, but he’s not shackled by them either.

Kojo’s career has been a journey of reinvention. Back in Trinidad, he was part of the pop outfit New Creation, which had that clean, mass-appeal sound. These days, his solo work blends soul, reggae, R&B, even a little pop sheen. Tracks like Fahrenheit and Ghetto Girl show his ability to cross genres without losing that center of gravity in his voice. It’s not easy to straddle audiences from Port of Spain to London and beyond, but he does it with ease.

And there’s something quietly defiant about his choice of material. Covering Cruisin’ in 2025 isn’t obvious. The song belongs to a very specific time—late ’70s radio, soft soul, slow dances. But Kojo pulls it into now, without irony or nostalgia overload. He treats it like a living, breathing love song instead of a museum piece. That’s harder than it sounds.

I’ll admit, I played his Cruisin’ twice in a row. Once through my laptop speakers—nice, smooth, background kind of vibe. But then again on headphones, late at night. That’s when it really clicked. The subtle guitar lines, the layered harmonies, the restraint in his delivery. It’s a song that doesn’t shout, but it stays with you. I found myself humming it the next morning while making coffee. That’s the mark of a track that sticks.

Kojo Rigault feels like he’s building momentum. Not the kind that explodes overnight, but the steady kind that lasts. A cover like this could easily just be a placeholder, but in his hands, it sounds like a statement of intent. If Cruisin’ is the invitation, I’m curious where he’s steering next.

"Proxevita's Gentle Pull" 

Proxevita’s latest single, Shine Like a Star, hits you before you even realize it—those first swells of synth feel like a gentle pull, a cosmic tug you can’t ignore. It’s dream pop, but with an edge, like someone dropped in future grunge into a shoegaze haze. I found myself hitting replay just to catch the little textures tucked behind the vocals—the airy hums that seem almost accidental but somehow make the whole track feel alive.

The song wasn’t just made in a studio; it came out of a season of change. Proxevita talks about it as a time of reflection and re-emergence, and you can feel that in the way the song breathes. There’s hope in every note without it ever sounding preachy. That’s tricky to pull off, and yet it lands. You can picture listeners who’ve felt sidelined by life, hearing this and feeling like someone finally handed them a flashlight in a dark room.

What’s striking is the layers. Ethereal vocals drift over lush synths, but then there’s this undercurrent—a driving rhythm that keeps you grounded. It’s cinematic without trying too hard, cinematic in the way a memory sticks with you. Proxevita’s sound has this push-and-pull of dreamy and urgent, which somehow mirrors the world they’re singing about: fragile but fierce, like hope itself is rebelling.

Proxevita’s career isn’t just about music for music’s sake. They’ve been on stages from SXSW London to Earth Fest, even performing for UN COP28 in Dubai. Yet there’s a quiet personal edge that makes the music feel intimate. Seeing someone who’s navigating the pressures of activism and artistry create something so tender is… refreshing. It’s like, yes, they’re on these massive platforms, but they still want the track to feel like it lands directly in your headphones, in your hands.

There’s a little contradiction that makes the artist interesting: Proxevita is both visionary and grounded. They’re performing climate operas at UN events, yet the music retains a human pulse that isn’t polished to oblivion. You hear the humanity in the slight hesitation of a vocal note, the gentle imperfections in synth swells. Those imperfections? They’re what make it real.

“Shine Like a Star” isn’t just a standalone single—it’s a teaser for Corazón de la Selva, a climate opera set for UN COP30. And while it’s clearly part of a larger narrative, it doesn’t need context to hit. You can enjoy it cold, on repeat, letting the rhythms carry you through something like an internal night sky. It’s rare to find music that’s mission-driven but doesn’t sacrifice listening pleasure, and Proxevita does both here.

I keep going back to that initial pull—the way the track sneaks up on you. You’re reminded of the tiny lights in life, the ones that refuse to be extinguished. Proxevita’s voice, the synths, the textures—they all insist on it. And honestly, if music can make you feel that resolute hope in under four minutes, then it’s doing exactly what it should. Shine Like a Star isn’t just a song—it’s a small, luminous rebellion against letting the world dim you.