Rising Star 82 : Fire from Ashes

Every wave in music is born from a fracture—an artist choosing to break with what was, to step into what might be. If Rising Star 81 pulsed with raw confessions and the courage to stay unvarnished, then Rising Star 82 arrives as the sound of reclamation. This is not a chapter about hesitation. It’s about artists who’ve chosen to build fire from the ashes, who see imperfection not as a flaw but as the heartbeat of something worth believing in.

Here, guitar strings don’t just hum—they snarl, splinter, and soothe. There’s a band that traded glossy polish for the grit of a basement session, their tracks carrying the chaos of youth and the clarity that only comes after losing it. A singer who once whispered their pain now turns it into a war cry, sharp and unrelenting. And a producer, once obsessed with symmetry, learns that the cracks in a rhythm often reveal the most human part of a song.

One story begins with a late-night walk through empty streets, where an artist nearly abandoned music altogether—only to hear a single line echo in their head that refused to leave. Another starts in a cramped flat, where an old four-track recorder and a cheap mic became tools of survival. These aren’t comeback tales; they’re reinventions, moments where music became less about career strategy and more about necessity, about holding onto something when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

Rising Star 82 doesn’t announce itself with grand spectacle. It creeps in like a melody you didn’t know you needed, then refuses to let go. It’s sweat-soaked, imperfect, honest—songs built not for the charts, but for the people who crave something that feels alive, untamed, and undeniably true.

This session reminds us that the essence of rock and indie has always lived in defiance: of the expected, of the market, of silence itself. What you’ll hear here is the sound of artists daring not just to exist in the noise, but to carve their own frequency—one that resonates long after the last note fades.

Rising Star 82 isn’t just another spotlight. It’s a declaration: that the most unforgettable music often begins where comfort ends.

"Sweet and Sinister: I SEE ORANGE's 'Doll Guts' Is a Fairytale Gone Wrong"

I SEE ORANGE’s new single “Doll Guts” doesn’t ease you in gently. It lulls you with a delicate music box melody—one that actually belonged to frontwoman Giselle Medina’s family in Mexico—before ripping straight into crunching, post-grunge riffs. The contrast is almost too perfect: childlike innocence colliding with something darker and menacing. It’s unsettling in the best way, like stumbling across a toy with a cracked porcelain face and realizing you can’t look away.

The London-based trio are carving out a space for themselves by leaning into that tension between sweet and grotesque. Giselle’s vocals carry the melodic pull, but there’s always an edge lurking underneath. Guitarist Cameron sharpens that edge with riffs that bite, and drummer Charlie doesn’t just keep time—on “Doll Guts” he adds an eerie glockenspiel line in the bridge that makes the whole track feel like a fairytale gone wrong. It’s a clever move, the kind of detail that sticks with you after the first listen.

What really makes this release pop, though, is how well the sound pairs with the visuals. The “Doll Guts” video doubles down on the creepy-cute aesthetic, like Tim Burton directing a grunge gig. It’s not just window dressing either—it feels like an extension of the song’s DNA. And in an age where visuals matter as much as riffs, I SEE ORANGE seem to get that instinctively.

Their story has its own kind of myth-making quality. Giselle arrived in the UK with a background in folk-pop songwriting, but a restless pull toward something heavier. Meeting Cameron and Charlie felt like the missing piece; together they took those 90s and early 2000s rock influences—think Nirvana, Joan Jett, The Warning—and warped them into something that feels nostalgic but also forward-looking. The chemistry comes through loudest in their live shows, where even the quieter moments feel dangerous, like they might explode at any second.

The industry is already paying attention. Festival slots at The Great Escape and Minety Music Festival put them in front of bigger crowds, and now they’ve landed a deal with JPU Records. That’s not just another indie label brag either—it’s the first time JPU has signed a non-Japanese band, which says a lot about how strongly I SEE ORANGE cut through. Founder Tom Smith described seeing them live as being “hit like a ton of bricks,” which honestly checks out.

What I love most about them is the contradiction. Their songs are big, loud, almost brash at times, but there’s also this strange intimacy in the way Giselle writes. She’ll talk about “the discomfort of being human” with a smirk, and then admit she was half creeped out by the family heirloom music box that wouldn’t stop playing during recording. It makes the band feel human, not just another nostalgia-fueled rock act.

With “Doll Guts” out in the world and a debut album on the horizon, momentum is clearly building. They’ll also be the first band announced for Japan Underground’s 15th anniversary show in London later this year. If their trajectory so far is any clue, this is just the beginning. And honestly, I’m already impatient to hear how weird and wonderful they’ll let things get next.

"Garage Band Dreams Meet ICU Realities: The Jared Bond Story"

Jared Bond has one of those stories you don’t really expect in music anymore. His new single “Sugar Rush” dropped August 1st, and yeah, it’s catchy, layered, and full of that tight studio polish you’d hope for. But the thing that hooked me wasn’t just the groove—it was finding out this guy also pulls 12-hour shifts as a full-time ICU nurse in Kansas City. He’s literally splitting his time between saving lives and recording songs that take on billionaires profiteering off the healthcare system. That duality? You can hear it in the way he writes. Urgency mixed with playfulness. Heavy themes balanced by a melody that sticks in your head for days.

What stands out about Jared is how much of his musical DNA is still anchored in those garage-band days back in the late ’90s. He started drumming in 1998 when he was just a teenager, eventually landing behind the kit for Josephine Collective—a Warner Bros. signing that looked set to launch him into the stratosphere. They had fans, momentum, a major label deal. And then, like so many promising bands of that era, industry politics and timing clipped their wings. Instead of clinging to a sinking ship, Jared pivoted. He stepped back, got married, and found stability in nursing—an industry where stability feels like a moving target, but one where he could serve people directly.

Still, music never left. Even when ambition drained out of him, he kept a few of those core connections alive. And those connections eventually led him back into the studio. On “Sugar Rush” he pulled in bassist Jim Embry from Root and Stem and engineer Joel Nanos at Element Studios. These aren’t just names in the liner notes; you can hear the history between them in the way the song breathes. It’s not some bedroom track tossed into the algorithm. It’s the product of musicians who’ve been in rooms together, arguing about tones and riffs, sharing late-night diner food after sessions.

What I love is how Jared doesn’t shy away from calling things what they are. His earlier track “Gross” straight up targeted the billionaire class, with a special jab at those profiting off healthcare. Coming from an ICU nurse who’s seen the worst-case scenarios of inequality firsthand, those lyrics land harder. They’re not abstract protest slogans—they’re observations from a guy who’s had to explain to families why life-saving care isn’t covered. It’s personal, which makes it sting in the best way.

There’s also a looseness to his sound now that feels earned. Back in his Josephine Collective days, things were bright, polished, and power-pop explosive. Now, you hear grit in his voice, space in the arrangements, like he’s learned to let the air do some of the work. “Sugar Rush” still moves with energy, but it’s not afraid to leave scars in the mix. It’s a song you can bounce to, but the subtext makes you double-take. That balance is tricky, and Jared’s walking it without overthinking.

Maybe the most interesting contradiction here is that he’s become more ambitious musically after choosing what looked like the “safe” path. That detour through nursing didn’t kill the dream; it made it sharper. There’s a maturity in his perspective now, but also this teenage spark that clearly never left. It’s like the garage-band kid and the ICU veteran are finally working in tandem. And honestly, that combination is way more compelling than the straight-to-stardom path.

Where this goes next is anyone’s guess, but the foundation feels solid. Jared isn’t chasing a trend or trying to out-algorithm the TikTok crowd. He’s building a catalog that reflects where he’s been and where he’s standing now. If you care about songs that mean something—and also slap hard enough to make you replay them at 2 a.m.—keep an eye on him. Because it feels like Jared Bond is just getting started, again.

"Breathing Room: How Joshua's 'Neon Nights' Makes the Personal Universal"

Joshua doesn’t ease you into his music—he drops you right into it. His single “Neon Nights” starts with this pulse that feels equal parts intimate and electric, and then there’s this strange but brilliant detail: his own breath layered into the production. It’s not a gimmick. It’s not some studio trick for the sake of it. It actually gives the track a kind of tension, like the song itself is alive and leaning closer. It’s the kind of thing you only notice after a few plays, but once you do, it sticks.

He grew up in Essex, but you can hear the tug of London in his work, especially the way the city’s queer club culture reshaped him. Joshua’s not shy about it—he’s said outright that the song came from falling in love under strobe lights, navigating the rush of freedom and the sting of pressure, sometimes all in the same night. That duality—euphoria and weight—sits right at the center of his writing. It’s why “Neon Nights” doesn’t just sound like a party song. It sounds like a memory you don’t want to shake.

What’s striking is that Joshua doesn’t package his story with too much gloss. He admits this was only his second single, and at that stage, he was still figuring out his sound. That honesty makes it more compelling. Listening back now, you can hear the DNA of where he’s headed. He was experimenting with textures, pushing his voice against the beat, and carving out a kind of theatrical pop lane that doesn’t feel borrowed from anyone else, even though you can hear flashes of his influences—Troye Sivan’s emotional clarity, Michael Jackson’s boldness, Kesha’s unapologetic hedonism.

One of the most interesting parts of the recording is how low-tech it actually was. This wasn’t tracked in some pristine LA studio with a team of engineers. It was made in Essex, with his friend and producer Taka. That makes sense—there’s a closeness in the sound, a kind of DIY polish that gives it personality. And then there’s that line Joshua points out himself: “I just want your hands on my skin. How can it feel this good and be a sin.” It’s blunt, almost too direct for pop radio, but that’s the point. It’s the lyric of someone cutting through layers of shame with a single sentence.

There’s something refreshing about how he talks about his work, too. No “I’m reinventing the genre” posturing. Instead, he frames it simply: he wants to give people escapism, but not the kind that ignores reality. More like a soundtrack to move through it. You can hear that intent in “Neon Nights.” It celebrates self-acceptance, but it doesn’t erase the struggle it took to get there. That balance—joy and weight in the same breath—makes the track linger longer than you’d expect.

As a listener, I’ll admit the breath detail caught me off guard at first. It almost felt too personal, like overhearing something you weren’t meant to. But the more I sat with it, the more it worked. It’s sensual, sure, but it also feels like Joshua leaving a fingerprint on the production, proof that the song belongs to him in a way no remix could strip away.

Joshua’s still early in his catalog, but “Neon Nights” feels like one of those songs that will keep resurfacing in his story. The kind artists look back on and say, that’s where I started to figure it out. He’s not pretending it’s perfect. But in that imperfection, you can hear him shaping the artist he’s becoming—one that’s less about following formulas and more about building connection. If this is the groundwork, then the future is worth keeping an ear on.

"Old Soul, Young Fire: How Johnny B's 'My Darkest Times' Bridges Past and Present"

Johnny B doesn’t sound like an 18-year-old who just picked up a guitar a few years ago. His debut single, “My Darkest Times”—recorded at Noisebox Studio in his hometown of Patras, Greece—has the grit and weight of someone who’s lived through a few more battles than he has years. The track feels like a late-night confessional but dressed in the armor of heavy riffs, the kind of sound you’d expect from a disciple of Zakk Wylde or Ozzy Osbourne. And that’s not an accident—those names are part of his DNA.

What grabbed me first wasn’t just the technical playing (though his guitar tone is massive, almost like he’s trying to shake the walls of his bedroom and anyone within range). It was the intent behind it. You can tell Johnny’s not chasing trends or algorithms here. He’s 18, but he’s building a bridge back to the giants of the ‘80s and ‘90s, the bands that made rock feel larger than life. That might seem out of step with today’s streaming-driven landscape, but honestly? It makes him more interesting.

There’s also something refreshing about how this track came together. No major-label machine, no endless songwriting camps. Just Johnny, a few friends, and a producer who clearly believed in his vision. He wrote the lyrics himself, played the guitar himself, and let his circle fill in the rest. That DIY spirit gives “My Darkest Times” a scrappy, unpolished charm, but it also makes the song hit harder. You hear the imperfections, but they feel like fingerprints, not flaws.

And the subject matter? It’s personal. He describes it as a song about his fight for freedom and for love—big themes, sure, but he doesn’t overcomplicate them. The honesty in his delivery carries the weight. I’ll admit, there’s a line in his vocal where you can almost hear the nerves of a first-time recording. Instead of taking me out of the moment, it pulled me in. It’s like catching a glimpse of the kid behind the guitar god image he’s aiming for.

What I like most about Johnny B is that he’s not trying to present himself as a finished product. He’s openly admitting this is just the start, that he’s still shaping his sound, still figuring out how far he can push it. Right now, he’s working on his first album, recording new tracks, building on what he started with “My Darkest Times.” That kind of transparency—no “mystique” play, no carefully curated narrative—feels rare.

Of course, he’s got some contradictions. He talks about wanting to be free, yet you can sense he’s tethered tightly to the legends that inspire him. He’s looking ahead to a career of his own, but his first real statement is firmly rooted in the past. That tension makes him fascinating. Is he a throwback artist? Or is he using those foundations to carve out something new? I don’t think even he knows yet, and that’s part of the fun.

If you’re into guitar-driven rock that still believes in solos, big choruses, and the emotional punch of a young artist wrestling with his own demons, keep an eye on Johnny B. “My Darkest Times” is a first step, sure, but it doesn’t sound tentative. It sounds like someone kicking down the door to let you know he’s here. And from the way he’s already talking about the album in progress, this is just the beginning of a much bigger story.

"Small Wonder: Danny Hammons' 'Shooting Stars' Finds the Universe in a Car Crash"

Danny Hammons doesn’t waste time with glossy introductions or overcomplicated arrangements. His latest single, “Shooting Stars,” lands like a quiet revelation—one of those songs that feels less like it was written and more like it was discovered after sitting in silence long enough. The track carries weight not because it tries to, but because Hammons lived through the kind of moment that makes you question everything. A near-death car crash in Oklahoma became the spark, and out of that came a meditation on the universe and our tiny place in it.

Listening to “Shooting Stars” for the first time, I was struck by how unhurried it feels. There’s no urgency to prove anything—just a steady unfolding, a patient unraveling of thoughts we’ve all had in passing but rarely sit with. It makes sense when you learn it took two years to record, pieced together in the home studio of Ramblin’ Ricky Tate in Birmingham, Alabama. That kind of time leaves fingerprints on a track. You can hear the careful layering, the pauses, the lived-in quality that a rushed studio session could never replicate.

The Steel City Jug Slammers, Birmingham’s jug band darlings, lend their fingerprints too. Their collaboration adds this earthy backbone—clinking, stomping, breathing—that grounds Hammons’ sky-gazing lyrics. It’s that blend of cosmic wonder and Southern grit that makes the song stand out. A little lofty, a little dirty, very human. Hammons could have gone for polish, but he leaned into character instead, and it works.

He’s not shy about his influences either. Names like Townes Van Zandt, Blaze Foley, John Prine, and Woody Guthrie are stitched into his DNA, and you can hear it in the way he writes. There’s storytelling, sure, but also that bittersweet shrug of acceptance those troubadours mastered—acknowledging the strangeness of life without trying to fix it. Hammons doesn’t sing like he has all the answers. He sings like he’s still asking the questions, which somehow makes the music more trustworthy.

What’s interesting is that Hammons is still early in his career. “Shooting Stars” is just the first taste of his new project, Take The Long Road Home, and yet it already feels like he’s onto something bigger than himself. You don’t put out a track this personal unless you’re willing to stake a lot on it. The fact that it sets up a full record—and a 2026 tour with Ricky Tate—suggests Hammons isn’t just dabbling. He’s digging in.

One detail I can’t shake: Hammons described writing the song as “me sitting back and realizing how small we really are.” It sounds simple, but when you’ve been in a car crash that could’ve ended everything, that kind of clarity doesn’t fade quickly. You can hear it in his delivery—not dramatic, not mournful, just plainspoken awe. There’s even a contradiction there. The song is about smallness, but the sound of it feels expansive, wide open, like it could play under a night sky with no end.

If this is where Danny Hammons is starting, I’m curious where he’ll go when the road gets longer and stranger. The 2026 tour will no doubt sharpen his edges, and maybe the next record will stretch further outward or dive further inward. For now, though, “Shooting Stars” is enough of a reason to keep him on your radar—a reminder that sometimes the quietest songs end up carrying the farthest.