Rising Star 81 | The Sound of Becoming

Every new chapter in music begins not with certainty, but with a leap. If Rising Star 80 sat at the threshold of doubt and persistence, then Rising Star 81 is where those choices ripple outward—where the echoes of past battles turn into the groundwork for something bolder, sharper, and undeniably real.

This session isn’t about chasing perfection. It’s about what happens when artists finally let go of the illusion that they need it. You’ll hear the songwriter who stopped sanding down her edges, choosing instead to write with the kind of raw specificity that can only come from lived experience. There’s the producer who once treated silence like wasted space, now leaving room for breath, for tension, for the listener’s imagination to slip inside the track. And then there’s the voice—fragile, fierce, unpolished—delivering a chorus that feels less like performance and more like confession.

One artist here walked away from music for nearly three years, convinced their story had already ended. Another entered the studio not to make a single, but to make peace with themselves, only to discover a sound that might just change everything. Together, these narratives weave a session that feels less like a playlist and more like a journal left open, pages marked by risk, revelation, and release.

Rising Star 81 isn’t a crescendo—it’s a pulse. It carries the electricity of artists stepping not into the spotlight, but into their own skin. The courage here doesn’t come from spectacle; it comes from choosing honesty, again and again, even when the cost is high and the audience is unsure.

At its core, this collection is a reminder: the music that lingers, that cuts through noise and distraction, isn’t the most polished or predictable. It’s the track that feels like it couldn’t not exist—the one that carries the weight of someone’s truth, no matter how messy or unfinished.

This is Rising Star 81: not a celebration of arrival, but of becoming. The sound of artists no longer waiting to be defined, but daring to define themselves—on their own terms, in their own time, with nothing held back.

"The Guest on Her Own Record: Tamara Jenna vs. the Big Names"

When you press play on Both My Wrists, the new collab between Birmingham’s Tamara Jenna and Wiz Khalifa, the first thing that hits isn’t just the beat. It’s the intent. There’s a confidence woven into the track, a kind of “I’ve been here, I’ve done the grind, now watch me level up” energy. The UK bite in her delivery sits right next to Wiz’s trademark laid-back drawl, and the contrast works better than it has any right to.

Tamara isn’t new to swinging heavy features. Lil Wayne jumped on her viral single Moves last year, Gucci Mane followed on Return On Investment, and now Wiz Khalifa is in the mix. That’s three names most indie rappers only dream about landing across a career, let alone back-to-back in less than two years. But here’s the thing: Tamara doesn’t carry herself like someone starstruck by the cosigns. She treats them like strategic chess moves in a bigger game.

What makes this track different is the way it bridges two hip-hop worlds without either side losing its identity. Wiz brings the U.S. prestige, Tamara brings the Midlands grit, and together it lands somewhere in the middle that feels global. She once said, “This track represents ownership.” Listening to it, you hear exactly what she means. It’s not just another collab flex. It’s a statement on what independent artistry can pull off when the hustle is smart and relentless.

I’ll be honest — I half expected the Wiz feature to overshadow her. Big-name collabs can do that. But Tamara holds her ground with a sharpness that doesn’t let up. There’s a moment halfway through the track where her verse cuts through so clean that Wiz almost feels like the guest on her record, not the other way around. That’s rare. And it makes you pay attention to her catalog, not just the headline features.

She’s been stacking those receipts quietly but consistently: praise from Abbey Road Studios, her debut album Pleasure from Pain stocked at HMV Vault, millions of views on Moves. Plus, she runs TJPL Media Network, a platform lifting up independent artists worldwide. It’s not often you find someone building an empire and still finding time to sharpen their bars, but somehow she’s managing both. There’s something very Birmingham about that — the DIY grit, the refusal to wait for permission.

There’s a contradiction at the heart of her story that I actually love: Tamara’s music feels polished and ambitious, but her tone when she talks about it is almost understated. She doesn’t scream “industry plant” or “major label push.” She sounds like someone who knows the numbers, knows the grind, and is comfortable letting the results speak. And yet, she’s clearly hungry. You don’t call Lil Wayne, Gucci Mane, and Wiz Khalifa if you’re content just floating in the indie scene.

Where this all goes next is the part I’m most curious about. Both My Wrists feels like another milestone, but also a setup for something bigger — an album rollout maybe, or another heavyweight collab. Whatever it is, Tamara Jenna is moving like an artist who isn’t just chasing moments, but building longevity. And right now, from Birmingham to the U.S., people are starting to take notice.

"Behind the Mask: How Blak-Ram Turns Pain Into Revolution" 

Blak-Ram doesn’t ease you into his world—he pulls you straight into it. The first time I played Blood Gold, I expected another politically charged track. What I didn’t expect was how much the beat felt like a summer anthem—laid-back, bass-heavy, almost deceptively easy to vibe with—until you start actually listening to what he’s saying. That’s the trick. He’s rapping about gold smuggling, arms trafficking, and war crimes, but the flow slides across the beat so smooth you can’t help but nod along.

There’s a mask involved too. Not just a gimmick, but a black panther mask that he wears in visuals and promo. It’s symbolic—Pan-Africanism, identity, resilience—but also practical. It makes you lean in, makes you wonder who’s behind it. In an era where most rappers overshare their every move, Blak-Ram’s decision to partially hide feels strangely more revealing. You see the intention, the thought behind it, and that’s almost more personal than a bare face.

His story hits hard. Born in the UK but tied deeply to Sudan, his father was executed by Omar al-Bashir’s regime before he even came into the world. That kind of history doesn’t just sit quietly in the background—it shapes everything. You can hear it in the urgency of his rhymes, in the way his bars carry the weight of generations. This isn’t “conscious rap” for the sake of it; it’s lived experience turned into verse.

Blood Gold goes beyond borders. He calls out the UAE’s role in Sudan’s war—accusing them of smuggling gold and supplying arms to the RSF militia, which the ICC has linked to genocide. Heavy, yeah. But instead of delivering it like a lecture, he packages it in wordplay and rhythm that sticks in your head. The hook? Catchy as hell. It sneaks up on you. You might find yourself humming along before realizing you’re basically singing about international war crimes.

Musically, he leans into that sweet spot between gritty and soulful. Drum patterns that knock, samples that carry a kind of haunting warmth, atmospheric touches that build space around his voice. And then there’s his delivery—steady, sharp, but not hurried. It’s the type of rap that demands you run it back, not because you missed the beat, but because you missed a line, a reference, a whole story. He’s building a catalog that works like a history book written in 16 bars.

What I like most, though, is the contradiction. His tracks hit heavy, but he’s not afraid to make them listenable, almost deceptively so. You could throw Blood Gold on at a barbecue and it wouldn’t kill the vibe. Someone would be two-stepping while he’s spelling out the mechanics of war profiteering. That balance—serious content, accessible sound—might be his sharpest tool.

And this feels like just the start. Blak-Ram isn’t angling for trend-chasing clout; he’s carving his own lane. There’s a bigger mission here: using music not just as expression, but as documentation, as resistance. If Blood Gold is anything to go by, he’s got the rare ability to educate and entertain at the same time. The kind of artist you don’t just listen to—you follow, because you want to see where the story goes next.

"From Rome to Remix: How Discipline Became Gianluca Zanna's Creative Chaos"

Gianluca Zanna’s latest remix, You Are My Destiny – Future Remix, hits like a jolt you didn’t know you needed. The opening synths stretch across the stereo field, cinematic and precise, before Claudette Lyons’ vocals slice through with this warm, almost confessional quality. Listening to it, I kept thinking: this isn’t just a remix—it’s a peek into Zanna’s mind, a kind of musical diary where every beat is a footstep on a longer journey.

Zanna’s story is the kind that shapes music without ever having to explain it. Born in Rome, raised under the strict regimen of a military boarding school, and now navigating the U.S. music scene as CEO of Zanna Records, his life reads like a graphic novel—literally. The Adventures of Mr. Zanna, his autobiographical comic series, sketches a man who balances discipline with creative chaos, and you can hear that tension in the tracks he produces. There’s a controlled energy, a push-pull of restraint and release.

His sound is hard to pin down, and that’s kind of the point. Zanna blends pop, EDM, classical, and rock in ways that feel deliberate but effortless, like he’s never worried about whether it “fits” a genre. Listening to You Are My Destiny, you can catch hints of classical Italian poetry woven into the lyrics, then immediately be pulled into a driving electronic hook that could headline a festival stage. It’s cinematic, sure, but not in a pretentious way—it feels personal.

Collaboration is clearly where Zanna thrives. His work with Claudette Lyons under the duo Love In Sedona shows a chemistry that’s rare: he’s the architect of sound, she’s the voice that humanizes it. On the remix, their interplay is almost conversational, sometimes overlapping, sometimes deliberately leaving space, which gives the track this dynamic tension I couldn’t stop replaying. And the fact that Brian Reeves handled the mixing—yes, the same engineer who’s worked with Donna Summer—cements the production as something polished yet still breathing.

What’s fascinating is how Zanna’s business acumen bleeds into his art. As CEO of Zanna Records, he’s released over 120 singles and multiple albums. But unlike some label heads, he isn’t stuck in spreadsheets and strategy—his entrepreneurial side feels like it’s feeding the music, not overshadowing it. Every release is almost like a manifesto: freedom, resilience, reinvention. His recent reunion with Claes Cornelius from Mega Records hints at future projects that might bridge decades of pop and EDM in unexpected ways.

There’s a subtle contradiction in Zanna’s persona that makes him intriguing. He’s trained in security and self-defense, a past that suggests discipline and caution, yet his music is unafraid of risk, emotion, and vulnerability. You can hear it in the remix: moments where the beat shifts unexpectedly, where Lyon’s voice stretches over an unusual chord progression. It’s that tension between control and letting go that makes the track compelling—and very human.

By the end of You Are My Destiny – Future Remix, I felt like I’d caught a glimpse of the next chapter in Zanna’s career, without him needing to spell it out. There’s forward momentum here, in the music, in the collaborations, in the narrative he’s building with his fans. Zanna isn’t just remixing a song—he’s curating experiences, documenting life, and quietly asserting himself as someone who can navigate both the boardroom and the studio with equal confidence. And if you’re paying attention, you might just want to follow along.

"Snow N Stuff's Galaxy: The Hypnotic Groove That's Rewriting Electronic Music"

Snow N Stuff has a way of sneaking up on you. You press play on Galaxy, expecting a melodic techno track, and suddenly you’re caught in this expansive, almost cinematic space — synths spiraling, grooves locking in, a breakdown that somehow makes your chest tighten. It’s the kind of track that works both on a crowded club floor and in your headphones at 2 a.m., alone with your thoughts. I found myself hitting repeat more than I’d like to admit.

What stands out immediately is the production. The layering is meticulous but never sterile. There’s a trance-inspired build-up in the breakdown that nods to the genre’s roots without feeling stuck in the past. And yet, there’s a modernity in the sound design — clean, punchy kicks, airy textures, those soaring pads that linger just long enough to make you forget the world outside your room. Snow N Stuff has clearly spent years refining this touch, blending melodic techno’s emotional heft with progressive house’s forward motion.

This isn’t the first time N Stuff has made waves. Tracks like Speak To Me, White Lotus, and EST 1860.now have already put the artist on Beatport’s Hype Chart for Melodic House & Techno. Support from heavyweights like David Guetta hints at the respect they’ve earned among peers, but listening to Galaxy, it feels like Snow N Stuff isn’t just chasing validation — they’re carving their own lane. There’s a confidence here, subtle but undeniable.

The numbers back it up. Galaxy hit #57 on Beatport’s Melodic Techno chart, #7 on Swedish iTunes Dance, and even #37 on Swedish iTunes All Genres. It’s been picked up by 52 radio stations and racked up over 240 plays in just two weeks. Those are impressive stats, sure, but they don’t fully capture how the track lands. There’s an energy that makes you want to move, but also moments where you just want to close your eyes and drift along with the sound.

What’s interesting is how Snow N Stuff balances nostalgia and innovation. There’s a trance-inspired nostalgia in the breakdown, yet the track never feels like a rehash. Instead, it’s forward-thinking, teasing the edges of what melodic techno and progressive house can do when merged thoughtfully. For listeners who follow the scene, it’s a reminder that N Stuff isn’t just riding trends — they’re subtly shaping them.

I also love that despite all the polish, there’s an imperfection that keeps it human. Maybe it’s a slight wobble in the bassline, a synth note that bends a little too long, or the way the track shifts unpredictably just before the breakdown hits. These small details make you feel like you’re witnessing someone’s process, not just a finished product polished for streaming.

With Galaxy, Snow N Stuff proves they’re not just an artist to watch — they’re one to follow closely. Every release has hinted at evolution, but this one feels like a leap forward. The question now isn’t whether fans will notice, but how high N Stuff will fly next. For anyone who’s been keeping an eye on melodic techno or progressive house, Galaxy is a reminder that the future is being written right now, one hypnotic groove at a time.

"From Joe Zawinul Winner to Piano-Pop Perfectionist"

Phil Woloch’s new single, Mind at Ease, hits like a shot of sunshine through a slightly cracked window. There’s a driving piano at the center of it, the kind that makes you want to tap your fingers and hum along, layered with guitars that feel alive in the room with you. It’s unmistakably 70s at heart—Billy Joel and Elton John vibes—but the way Phil folds in modern indie textures keeps it from feeling like a museum piece. Honestly, I found myself hitting replay before the track even finished the first time.

Growing up in Vienna, Phil was already turning heads at 14 when he won the Joe Zawinul Award. That early recognition landed him in Los Angeles studios, a teenage kid suddenly grappling with real-world music-making far from home. You can hear some of that tension in his work: the thrill of ambition versus the softness of vulnerability. Even now, years later, he balances technical skill with a songwriter’s instinct for melody, and it comes through in every chord and lyric on Mind at Ease.

The track itself feels like a coming-of-age story wrapped in three minutes of pop-rock bliss. The groove is uplifting, yes, but there’s a subtle tension beneath it—the kind of push-and-pull that mirrors stepping into adulthood. Phil sings with clarity and a warmth that feels human, not produced. You get the sense that he’s not trying to impress anyone with flashy vocal acrobatics; he’s inviting you to live the moment alongside him.

Watching him perform live—or even in a rehearsal clip—is a reminder that Phil’s piano playing isn’t just accompaniment. It’s the engine of the song. There’s a physicality to it, the kind that makes you lean in as a listener, noticing how his fingers articulate each chord with purpose. Add in the band’s tight guitar lines, and you’ve got something that’s both nostalgic and new at the same time. There’s a rare chemistry there, like everyone’s in on the same inside joke about what pop-rock should feel like.

Phil studied vocals and piano at the University of Music and Performing Arts Vienna, and it shows—not in a clinical way, but in the way he knows exactly when to let a note linger or when to push it forward. He’s building a catalogue under his own label now, with an eye toward sync opportunities and live shows, but the heart of it is always the song itself. It’s deliberate without feeling calculated, which is hard to pull off these days.

One thing that stands out is how approachable Phil feels, despite all the accolades and technical polish. You can imagine meeting him in a café after a gig, talking about old vinyl records and the small annoyances of city life. That duality—serious musician, relatable human—is part of what makes Mind at Ease resonate. It’s not just a nod to 70s piano rock; it’s a reflection of someone figuring themselves out, inviting you along for the ride.

If this single is any indication, Phil’s next steps are going to be worth watching. The song sets a tone—melodic, sincere, and endlessly replayable—that hints at bigger releases on the horizon. Whether you’re discovering him through a playlist or catching a live show in Vienna, Phil Woloch makes it feel like you’re part of the moment, and that’s a rare thing in today’s music landscape.

"In This Moment: The Rainy Season's Five-Year Love Story" 

There’s something about the opening guitar in In This Moment that grabs you immediately. It’s not flashy—it doesn’t have to be—but it lands in that sweet spot where you feel both nostalgic and a little unsettled. Nick Lowry’s guitar has this warmth that somehow carries the weight of the story Jeremiah Hagan is telling, like he’s leaning across the table to confess something he shouldn’t, and you’re the only one listening.

The Rainy Season isn’t your average Tampa band. There’s a depth to their setup—Jeremiah on vocals, Nick on guitar, and a rotating cast of collaborators like Jon Gant, Kyle Hoffer, Sean Dolich, T.A. Wills, and Matthew Augur—that makes their sound feel layered without ever being crowded. You can tell they care about the details: the song was tracked, mixed, and mastered by Hoffer at Greenwood Recording in Orlando, the same studio where Chance The Rapper laid down tracks. That kind of pedigree sneaks in subtly; you don’t hear it, you just feel it.

What makes In This Moment stick isn’t just the production—it’s the story. The song chronicles a love that never quite lands, cycling through hope and inevitable distance. There’s something almost frustratingly relatable about it: five years of resets each spring, only to have it fizzle out by fall. Listening, you can feel both the yearning and the acceptance, a tension that keeps the track alive long after it ends.

Influences are clear but never overbearing. You hear shades of City and Colour’s melancholy, Taking Back Sunday’s punch, even a little of Mayday Parade’s dramatic edge, but The Rainy Season makes it their own. And they do it with a restraint that’s rare—no theatrics for the sake of drama, just music that mirrors real life, messy and complicated.

Jeremiah’s vocals deserve a shout on their own. They’re intimate but never shy, carrying the narrative of a love constrained by circumstance with a sincerity that’s hard to fake. Combined with Lowry’s guitar, there’s this push and pull—emotionally and sonically—that makes the track feel like it’s breathing, like it could shift slightly every time you listen.

The band’s willingness to blend their personal stories with broader emotions is what makes them stand out. You can tell they’re not chasing trends—they’re chasing moments. They’ve crafted a sound that’s reflective, narrative-driven, and emotionally compelling, which is exactly what makes In This Moment resonate beyond just the first listen. There’s a cyclical honesty here, just like the story behind the song itself.

It’s exciting to think about what’s next for The Rainy Season. If this single is any indication, they’re building a catalog that rewards patience. Fans of heartfelt alternative rock, those who care about melody as much as story, will want to keep an eye—and an ear—on them. In This Moment isn’t just a single; it’s an invitation to step into the middle of something ongoing, something imperfect, and strangely comforting.

"Whispers That Cut Deep: CAVN's Fearless Musical Curiosity"

CAVN’s latest track, Salt, hits like a whisper you didn’t expect to cut so deep. From the very first notes, there’s this tension—fragile yet jagged—that lingers in your chest. Carina Marie, only 17, carries the vocals with a mix of vulnerability and quiet defiance, giving the song a strange sweetness even as it digs into heartbreak. It’s the kind of track that makes you pause mid-scroll, catch your breath, and think: this one’s going to stick.

What’s immediately striking about CAVN is her compositional maturity. She’s not just layering beats or looping melodies; every element feels intentional, like a story being carefully unfolded. Her roots in classical music are obvious in the subtle orchestral flourishes that weave in and out, but there’s a fearless modernity to her work—electronic pulses, cinematic swells, unexpected shifts—that keeps you guessing. Listening feels less like consuming a song and more like being invited into a private conversation she’s having with herself.

I spent a few loops on Salt, and what hit me was how it balances contradiction. The lyrics are jagged and intimate, exposing the raw edges of heartbreak, but the melody softens the blow. There’s a tension between pain and beauty, memory as both solace and torment, and it’s the kind of duality that’s hard to pull off without feeling calculated. CAVN somehow does it effortlessly.

Her journey into music started young, almost instinctively. You can sense it in the precision of her arrangements—the way acoustic sensibilities meet electronic experimentation. She’s curious, deliberate, and surprisingly fearless with her palette. Cinematic scores, opera, classical training, electronic production—they all collide in her work, but never feel overstuffed. Instead, they create a texture that’s personal, immediate, and fully her own.

And then there’s the collaboration with Carina Marie. At 17, Carina could easily have been overwhelmed by the song’s emotional depth, but she isn’t. There’s confidence in her fragility, and you can hear CAVN’s guidance in the subtle phrasing and dynamic choices. It’s not just a producer spotlighting a young singer—it’s a dialogue, a mentorship wrapped in music that lands naturally without feeling staged.

CAVN doesn’t make music to fit neatly into playlists or algorithmic boxes. She’s meticulous, yes, but there’s also a raw curiosity driving her decisions. You can hear her wrestling with the song, playing with textures, bending conventions, and somehow ending up in this place where heartbreak feels both piercing and oddly consoling. I found myself rewinding sections not because they were flashy, but because they made me feel something I didn’t expect to feel today.

Salt isn’t the kind of debut you forget. It’s a snapshot of an artist who’s still figuring herself out but already understands the power of musical storytelling. CAVN is setting the stage for something bigger—there’s a confidence in experimentation here, an honesty that makes you lean in. If this is where she’s starting, I’m honestly excited to see where she goes next.

"Mínimo Aporte, Maximum Impact: The Studio-Only Duo Redefining Alternative Rock"

There’s something quietly unsettling about Café Velorio’s new EP, Mínimo Aporte a la Cultura. From the first notes, you realize you’re not just listening to songs — you’re stepping into a fragmented world where every sound and lyric carries echoes of what came before, and what will come after. It’s the kind of music that doesn’t hand you a story neatly tied with a bow, but invites you to lean in, to puzzle out the connections.

The duo behind it — Nicolás Weiss and Lucía Schellemberg — operate entirely in the studio. No live shows, no stage persona. Just the two of them, crafting these layered, sometimes jarring sonic environments. You can hear the alternative rock foundation, but it’s heavily tinted with classical textures and unmistakable Latin American flourishes. It’s a little disorienting at first, in a good way. One moment a song is intimate, the next it’s sprawling, cinematic, almost like it’s aware of itself.

The EP itself is five songs that behave like shards of a mirror. “Todo Mal en Nombre del Bien” jumps out immediately with its A Clockwork Orange–inspired dialogue, confronting punishment and institutional violence, but its closing lines eerily forecast the maritime disaster in “Bertram 37.” Listening to it, I found myself rewinding, catching references I’d missed the first time — the way Café Velorio folds fragments of one track into another is subtle, obsessive, fascinating.

Then there’s “No Hype,” which takes the wreckage of Bertram 37 and turns it into a meditation on disorientation, memory, and detachment. It’s strange to hear a literal shipwreck turned into something that feels so internal, so personal. Lucía’s voice floats over Nicolás’ synths, sometimes tender, sometimes cold, like she’s narrating a drift through thought and loss rather than a straightforward story. It’s music that requires patience but rewards curiosity.

“Plancha de Metal” might be the track that sticks with you longest. It’s visceral in the way it stitches together punishment, desire, and homage to rock history — Tony Iommi’s finger accident sits cheek by jowl with intimate confrontations and questions about judgment. Somehow it works. There’s a tension in the EP between detachment and engagement, like the music is inviting you in while simultaneously letting you go, surrendering to the currents of sound.

What’s fascinating is how Café Velorio balances the core duo with a rotating cast of collaborators. On this EP, Diego Morales plays drums while Pablo Viggiano contributes to composition. It adds texture without ever diluting the identity of the project. You can feel the chemistry, even in the studio-only setting; there’s space for expansion without losing the intimacy that defines the duo.

By the end, Mínimo Aporte a la Cultura doesn’t resolve neatly — it doesn’t have to. The EP leaves you adrift, but in that drift, there’s clarity. Café Velorio isn’t interested in easy consumption or instant hooks. They’re crafting music for the listeners willing to follow, rewind, get lost, and find something new in every listen. It’s demanding, yes, but it’s also quietly addictive, and if this is the “minimal contribution” they’re making to culture, it feels significant enough to linger long after the music stops.

"The Messenger from Somewhere Else: Herman Martinez's UltraTerrestrial Vision"

Herman Martinez doesn’t make music that sits quietly in the background. His upcoming album UltraTerrestrial is the kind of record that creeps into your subconscious, asks strange questions, and refuses to let go. The first time I heard “Changeling,” the lead single, I caught myself replaying it not because I fully understood it, but because I didn’t. That’s part of Martinez’s magic—he writes songs that feel like they were handed down from some other place, and he’s just the messenger.

The album drops tomorrow, and Martinez has been calling it a “beacon of chaotic good and love.” Normally, I’d roll my eyes at phrasing like that, but in his case it works. There’s a looseness, a sense of barely-contained madness, in the way these tracks are built. Recorded on the outskirts of Atlanta with producer Ahmed Mahmoud and engineer Chase Cassara, the sessions weren’t polished studio marathons. They were messy, unpredictable, and sometimes even overwhelming. He admits as much—“chaotic fits and madness and creativity.” That’s not marketing copy. That’s just him telling it how it went down.

Martinez is one of those rare solo auteurs who insists on doing everything himself—writing, performing, shaping the vision until it’s entirely his. That comes with its contradictions. On one hand, the songs sound meticulously crafted, the kind of detail you only get when someone won’t let a single note slide. On the other, they have this wild, improvised energy, like he just plugged into something bigger than him and let it flow. He even jokes about not knowing whether he wrote the songs or if the songs found him.

What pulls me in most is how UltraTerrestrial doesn’t feel stuck in one lane. “Changeling” is about self-identity—about looking in the mirror and not recognizing who’s staring back. The next single, “Sol,” shifts gears entirely, diving into the idea of creation, of giving life to something new. It’s ambitious without being pretentious, and the sequencing feels like a journey you’re supposed to take in order, not just a playlist of random tracks.

Listening through the album feels a bit like flipping through someone else’s dream journal—half-remembered images, nostalgia for places you’ve never been, and messages from strange, in-between worlds. That’s not just me getting flowery with words; that’s literally how Martinez describes it. “A collection of forgotten dreams and memories you didn’t know you had,” he says. And when you hear it, you get it.

There’s a particular Atlanta grit here too, even if the record sounds more interstellar than southern. Maybe it’s in the edges, the imperfections, the way the mix leaves space for tension instead of ironing everything smooth. In an era when so many indie releases feel like they’ve been run through the same presets, Martinez is swinging hard in the opposite direction—embracing unpredictability as the core aesthetic.

With UltraTerrestrial out tomorrow, Herman Martinez isn’t just dropping another album into the streaming void. He’s carving out a universe of his own, daring listeners to tune in to frequencies most of us didn’t even know existed. I can’t tell you exactly what this record is. That’s the point. But I can tell you it’s worth leaning in, maybe even getting lost in it for a while. That’s where Martinez seems most comfortable—and where he wants to take you too.

"From Bandlab to Basement Shows: Indigo11x's Grassroots Thunder"

Indigo11x didn’t wait around for perfect conditions to drop Angelwingz M.I.A.. They recorded the whole thing on Bandlab using just Apple headphones—yes, the same kind you’d use to doomscroll TikTok on the subway. And yet, the track bangs with this precision and weight that feels way bigger than its DIY setup should allow. That’s the first thing that caught me: it sounds too clean, too deliberate, for the conditions it was born in.

The song itself leans into that sweet spot where trap meets meme rap culture. Think hard basslines, distorted edges, and bars that punch so suddenly they almost trip you up. Indigo11x tapped Andraco and Neptvliss for production, and you can hear their fingerprints in the beat’s sharpness. But it’s Indigo11x’s phrasing that sticks—the way they cut through the beat like they’re in on some private joke you weren’t supposed to hear. There’s this one line, the infamous “Mister Incredible Bar,” that’s already being called “the drop of the century” by people in their circle. Honestly, it’s not hyperbole.

What’s wild is the backstory. Angelwingz M.I.A. isn’t just flexes over bass—it’s Indigo11x writing about their relationship, about someone who looks like a saint but isn’t really there when it counts. It’s personal without being preachy, more of a snapshot than a diary entry. That contradiction—turning something messy into something fun, almost playful—is what makes the track stick. You can laugh at the memes and still catch the sting underneath if you’re listening close.

Live, that duality only gets louder. Indigo11x has been running a string of small shows leading up to this release, and the word is those sets are electric. Picture a sweaty basement packed with kids who already know the hook, shouting it back at full volume, while Indigo11x rides the beat like they’ve been doing this for years. It’s the kind of grassroots grind that doesn’t just build fans, it builds loyalty. People leave those rooms telling their friends, “You need to hear this.”

There’s also something refreshingly unpolished about Indigo11x’s come-up. No label polish, no glossy studio sessions—just someone figuring out how to push their sound as far as it’ll go with the tools they’ve got. The thunder roars, the car zooms, even the weirdly timed pauses in the beat—those aren’t accidents, they’re choices Indigo11x layered in as both rapper and DJ. You get the sense they’re engineering chaos on purpose, which is a flex in itself.

Influence-wise, you can hear the DNA of artists like Ken Carson and Osamason running through the track, but Indigo11x isn’t just copying. They’re bending those references into their own language. There’s a certain LA bravado too—less about sun-drenched vibes, more about standing out in a city where every other kid has a SoundCloud link and a dream. That’s the quiet tension here: Indigo11x knows the competition, but instead of chasing perfection, they’re doubling down on personality.

So yeah, Angelwingz M.I.A. feels like more than just a single drop. It’s a marker. A proof of concept. The energy is infectious, and you can already see the cult fanbase starting to form around it. Indigo11x may still be figuring out the polish, but the vision? That’s already there. The question now isn’t whether people will care—it’s how fast this thing spreads once the right ears catch it.