Rising Star 83: An Invitation

Rising Star 83 arrives like a spark in the night, a subtle flare that insists you pay attention. If Rising Star 82 was about reclaiming voice from the fragments of the past, this session is about expansion—artists discovering that the fractures themselves can become bridges. It’s not just survival or reinvention anymore; it’s about daring to imagine what music can become when boundaries are not just tested, but shattered.

Here, sounds are alive in their contradictions. A beat might wobble just enough to feel human, a synth might shimmer over a raw, ragged guitar riff. One singer’s vulnerability is met with another’s audacity, and suddenly, their worlds collide in a harmony that feels accidental yet inevitable. There’s a producer who abandoned predictability for texture, layering sounds so tactile you almost feel them under your fingertips. There’s a lyricist who writes not for applause, but for the echo of recognition in someone else’s mind.

Stories in Rising Star 83 are intimate yet expansive. One began in the silence of a midnight train, headphones in, watching a city breathe around them, and realizing that music wasn’t just something to perform—it was a lens to see the world differently. Another was forged in a sunlit kitchen, with nothing but a laptop, a secondhand mic, and an insatiable curiosity about what “genre” could even mean. These are journeys without linear paths, where hesitation gives way to experimentation, and failure becomes the palette for creating something startlingly original.

This session doesn’t demand attention through spectacle. It insists you listen closely, notice the subtleties, the emotional bruises wrapped in melody, the joy tucked into discord. Rising Star 83 is a living conversation between creators and listeners—a reminder that music is not just heard, but felt, negotiated, and remembered.

Here, rebellion isn’t loud—it’s precise. Innovation isn’t flashy—it’s inevitable. And the artists you’ll meet in this session aren’t chasing trends; they are building frequencies that linger, that provoke thought, that dare to transform. Rising Star 83 is more than a showcase. It’s an invitation: to step into the cracks, to embrace the unknown, and to witness music in its most human, unrestrained, and unforgettable form.

Marianne Nowottny's Impossible Conversations

If you’ve ever caught Marianne Nowottny live in a tucked-away New York gallery, you know there’s an immediacy to her performance—like she’s on the edge of telling a secret she’s not sure she should. Her latest project, Marzanna, takes that same intensity and stretches it across some of the most familiar songs in pop and avant-garde canon: Kate Bush, David Bowie, Joni Mitchell, Siouxsie and the Banshees. But the thing is, even in these recognizable melodies, she makes you forget you’ve heard them before.

The album is less about imitation and more about translation. Take I’m Deranged and You’re My Thrill, produced by Gordon Raphael, whose touch you might know from The Strokes and Regina Spektor. There’s a tension in Marianne’s phrasing that pulls the listener forward, almost like you’re hearing a conversation rather than a cover. And then there’s Winter Moon, where the collaboration with Sonisk Blodbad and Rhea Thompson’s guitar turns a quiet moment into something almost cinematic. It’s subtle, but it lingers. I found myself playing it twice in a row without meaning to.

One of the more unexpected turns is Stella Maris, sung in German with Christian Corea. The language shift could have felt like a barrier, but instead it opens up an entirely different space for emotion. Marianne’s voice is at once precise and playful; it’s the kind of delivery that makes you lean in and sometimes forget to breathe. She balances that with Both Sides Now, accompanied by classical harpist Katie Lo, where you hear a tenderness that could have been lost in translation but isn’t. There’s real care in the orchestration, with Kathleen Arndt, Gita Asri, and Paul Cecchetti’s arrangements threading through the songs without ever being showy.

What’s striking about Marzanna is the story behind it. This wasn’t a project that rolled out smoothly. Marianne’s own account is almost cinematic: five years of starts and stops, hard drives failing, tracks disappearing into digital voids. Most artists would have thrown in the towel, but she reached out globally—friends, collaborators, musicians she trusts—and slowly pieced it together. It’s a testament not just to persistence but to a kind of quiet obsession with making each song matter.

Listening to Marianne is also to track a history of NYC’s underground scene. She’s been performing since she was fifteen, initially catching the attention of playwright Lauri Bortz with homemade tapes and high school notebooks. That early scrappiness—recording at home, performing in avant-garde spaces—feels alive in Marzanna. You can trace the lineage from her 1999 debut Afraid of Me to now: Joe S. Harrington called her “one of the most important artists of her generation,” and it’s easy to hear why when she’s manipulating tone and texture so effortlessly.

She has fans you wouldn’t necessarily expect: Jim O’Rourke, Matmos, Bats for Lashes, Paul Banks. And you can hear the appeal. Marianne occupies a space where indie, avant-garde, and experimental sensibilities overlap with something human and approachable. She’s performed alongside Elliott Sharp, Cul de Sac, Genesis P. Orridge, and Daevid Allen of Gong, yet there’s never a sense that she’s performing for an audience; it feels like she’s performing with them, and that makes all the difference.

Marzanna doesn’t feel like a covers album in the conventional sense—it’s a reclamation. Marianne Nowottny takes these songs, filters them through her voice, her sensibilities, her collaborators, and somehow lands in a place that feels singular. It’s deliberate yet unpolished, controlled but loose, like a conversation that can’t be rushed. If you’ve been following her career, it’s a satisfying continuation; if you haven’t, it’s the perfect place to start. Either way, it’s impossible to ignore.

The House Flies Bridge Past and Future

There’s a certain thrill that hits when a band like The House Flies drops something new, and with “Sweet Foxhound,” it’s immediate. The track opens with these shadowy guitar lines that feel both cinematic and intimate, like someone’s playing just for you in a dimly lit room. Then the bass kicks in—steady, pulsing—and suddenly you’re not just listening; you’re moving with it. I caught myself hitting repeat the moment the hypnotic vocals drifted over the mix. It’s the kind of song that’s got a dark edge but refuses to sit still.

What’s interesting here is how “Sweet Foxhound” bridges eras for the band. Written during the Mannequin Deposit sessions but only now fully realized, it feels like a missing piece of their puzzle. Burnie Eckardt’s addition as a second guitarist isn’t just a footnote; his layers subtly push the sound into new territory without overshadowing Alex Riggen’s vocal personality. There’s tension there, a kind of duality between old and new, and it gives the track this restless energy that’s impossible to ignore.

The House Flies have always been adept at creating atmosphere. From the Glimmer EP to Mannequin Deposit, they’ve layered gothic textures over post-punk rhythms in a way that feels effortless, even if it clearly isn’t. What sets them apart now is how deliberate the mood feels. “Sweet Foxhound” isn’t just brooding—it’s magnetic. There’s a cinematic quality to it that pulls you in without feeling self-conscious. You get the sense they’re carving out their own lane rather than chasing trends, which in 2025 is basically a superpower.

Listening to this track, you can almost hear the live energy translating. The band has always thrived on that tension between the studio polish and what they bring to a stage, and you can feel the history of their tours, late-night gigs, and Midwest grit in every note. Nick Pompou’s drumming, in particular, carries that push-and-pull vibe—steady but unpredictable, almost like it’s teasing the listener. And Ozzie Woods’ bass? It anchors the whole thing in a way that’s easy to overlook until you notice it, and then you realize it’s everything holding the song together.

There’s a complexity here that makes The House Flies interesting beyond the music itself. They’re not afraid of contradictions—haunting yet melodic, brooding yet propulsive, grounded in the Midwest yet reaching out to a broader audience. That tension is exactly what makes “Sweet Foxhound” hit differently than anything on Mannequin Deposit. It’s an evolution, but one that feels like it’s always been coming.

The song also gestures toward what’s next. While it stands alone, it’s clearly a bridge to the band’s upcoming album, which they describe as darker, longer, and heavier. You can hear the hints in the arrangement—the stretches of space between riffs, the way the vocal phrasing hangs over the instrumentation. It’s teasing a bigger picture without giving it all away, which is frustrating in the best way. You want more, and the anticipation becomes part of the experience.

If you’ve followed The House Flies from Glimmer to now, “Sweet Foxhound” is proof they’re moving forward without losing the essence that first grabbed you. And if you’re new to them, this track is a perfect introduction: it’s moody, urgent, and fully alive, like a secret you weren’t supposed to hear but now can’t stop thinking about. They’ve carved out a space that’s all their own, and honestly, I’m excited to see where they take it next.

Caroline in the Garden's Urgent Wink

There’s something immediately disarming about Caroline in the Garden’s new single, Push Through. The piano bounces along like it’s got somewhere urgent to be, but with a wink, a little off-kilter charm that keeps it from ever feeling safe or predictable. You can hear the echoes of Carole King or early Kate Bush, but Caroline Milby isn’t interested in homage for homage’s sake—she’s carving a lane that’s entirely hers. I caught myself grinning mid-listen, thinking, who writes a song this smart and playful and makes it feel effortless?

Caroline’s voice sits in that sweet, liminal space between intimacy and theatricality. She’s not just singing; she’s negotiating, insisting, laughing at herself in real time. Her lyrics in Push Through are like a pep talk you didn’t know you needed, all about staking your claim, taking up the space that others wouldn’t dare touch. And the irony is delicious: someone writing about breaking free from societal expectation after decades in a corporate grind, but doing it in a way that’s both tender and unapologetically bold. It’s easy to imagine her fingers darting across the piano keys in some Athens, Georgia studio, coaxing life out of every minor chord.

Which brings me to Tweed Studios, where Push Through was recorded. Caroline teamed with Grammy-winning producer John Snyder and enlisted Improvement Movement’s Klark Sound to fill out the arrangement. The result? A texture that’s lush without being cluttered, like a living, breathing room you could sit in. The guitars and drums don’t just accompany—they converse with the piano, responding, pushing, pulling. There’s a sense of collaboration that feels playful, even a little mischievous, as if the band knew they were witnessing the start of something bigger.

It’s easy to hear the 90s Lilith Fair influence in Caroline’s craft, but she’s not rehashing nostalgia. Instead, she fuses those hints of past icons with a perspective sharpened by years in the Philadelphia art rock scene—opening for Electric Six, Here Come the Mummies, Low Cut Connie. You get a sense of someone who’s done the touring, the opening-act hustle, and returned to the piano with a purpose. That grind is palpable in her songwriting, but never heavy-handed; it’s more like a secret ingredient that sneaks its way into the hook.

What’s compelling about Caroline in the Garden is the tension between sophistication and approachability. Her orchestrations are elaborate but never intimidating. There’s room to breathe, to catch a lyric, to get swept up in a piano flourish that surprises you just when you’re settling in. I found myself rewinding a couple of times, noticing tiny details in the synth lines, subtle harmonic twists, the way her voice bends slightly on the bridge. It’s the kind of music that rewards attention but doesn’t demand it.

Looking ahead to Act Two, her debut album dropping early 2026, you can already sense the architecture of the record: a journey through uncharted emotional terrain, a willingness to examine society’s rules without preaching. If Push Through is any indication, Caroline’s creating a world that’s idiosyncratic but relatable, adventurous yet comforting. It feels like she’s inviting listeners into her garden, but not in a staged, Instagram-ready way—more like pulling the curtain aside on a space that’s distinctly, peculiarly alive.

By the end of Push Through, I’m not just listening—I’m rooting for her. Caroline Milby isn’t just releasing a single; she’s staking a claim in the imaginative pop world with warmth, wit, and a knack for making complicated ideas feel playable. The piano may lead the way, but it’s her perspective, her humor, and her vision that stick with you. And honestly? I can’t wait to see what she does next.

Owae's Fourth Iteration

Owae’s new single Time lands like a gentle nudge at the tail end of summer, the kind of track that makes you pause mid-ride and realize the season is already slipping through your fingers. It’s his most introspective release yet, balancing sun-soaked energy with a melancholic undertone that feels surprisingly familiar, like watching the last rays hit a city skyline you’ve called home. The guitar shimmers, the beat drifts lazily, and Owae’s voice—part rap, part song, part storytelling—pulls you into the tension of wanting a moment to last forever.

Hailing from the DMV, the same neighborhood that produced Logic, Owae carries that duality of street-smarts and ambition, sharpened further by the chaos of New York City. You can hear it in the structure of his music: punchy hooks that could live in playlists, but underneath, there’s always a narrative twisting unexpectedly, like a short film condensed into a three-minute track. It’s the hallmark of someone who’s lived multiple creative lives and refuses to settle for predictability.

Influences are obvious but never heavy-handed. You catch traces of Tyler, the Creator’s playful irony, Childish Gambino’s narrative fluidity, and the melodic vulnerability of Kid Cudi and Mac Miller—but filtered through Owae’s lens. He’s got a knack for irony, flipping everyday feelings into something slightly off-kilter yet deeply relatable. In Time, champagne-soaked memories bleed into quiet Sunday morning reflections, a contrast that hits harder because it’s real. You can’t fake that feeling.

Owae’s journey hasn’t been linear. He’s reinvented himself multiple times since his high school days when he first built buzz as “Owae,” each version sharpening his artistic edge. Now, in his fourth iteration, he’s channeling all that history into songs that feel both polished and immediate. There’s ambition in the way he layers vocals and melodies, but also a restless energy—like he’s always a step ahead, chasing the next idea before the last one has fully landed.

What stands out most is how personal his writing is without being self-indulgent. He tackles love, ambition, doubt, identity—universal themes—but always adds a twist: a line you didn’t see coming, a moment of irony, a reflection that lands just when you think you know the story. Time exemplifies this perfectly. The lyrics move seamlessly from the carefree highs of summer nights to the sobering awareness that, yes, even the best days are fleeting. It’s joyful and sad in the same breath, and it’s impossible not to feel it.

Visually, Owae’s world is equally compelling. The cinematic video for Time, produced in-house, mirrors the song’s sunset melancholy. He’s clearly intentional about how his music meets the eye, not just the ear. Couple that with a smart rollout—Charlotte-based release events, targeted social campaigns, and strategic playlist pushes—and you see an artist who knows both the art and the business. That’s part of his duality: creative maniac, calculated operator.

Time isn’t just a single—it’s a statement. Owae has carved a lane that feels personal yet accessible, a place where humor and depth coexist, where a fleeting summer moment can carry the weight of memory. If his previous tracks hinted at what he could do, this one confirms it: Owae is building something bigger than himself, one clever, heartfelt song at a time. And honestly, after listening, you can’t wait to see what comes next.

Mia Delamar: Someone You Start Following

Mia Delamar doesn’t waste time easing you in. The very first track on her new album Love Me…Not, “Into You,” bursts out like a door swinging open—playful, bright, a little flirty. It’s the kind of opener that feels like the start of a summer night when everything still seems possible. And then, before you know it, she’s pivoting into songs that dig into heartbreak, doubt, and that stubborn resilience you only really earn by going through it all.

She’s from Atlanta, which makes sense when you hear the way her sound blends soulful R&B roots with crisp pop polish. That balance isn’t easy to nail, but Mia has the kind of voice that makes transitions feel effortless. One minute she’s playful and light, the next she’s pouring conviction into a gospel-tinged ballad like “Alright.” There’s range, but more importantly, there’s intent. She doesn’t sound like someone trying on styles; she sounds like someone stitching them into her own.

If you’ve been following Mia since her H.O.M.B. EP, you can hear how much she’s leveled up here. That project hinted at her talent, sure, but Love Me…Not feels like the moment she stops proving herself and just takes up space as an artist. Tracks like “Whatever” and “Personal” showcase her pop instincts—clean hooks, bright textures—but then she swings into cuts like “Say That” or “The Drain,” which slow everything down and pull you into her head. It’s messy in the way real relationships are messy.

What strikes me most about Mia is how she wears the “quintessential threat” tag her fans have given her. Singer, songwriter, dancer, actress—she really is that Swiss Army Knife of music people talk about, but it never feels like she’s overextending. There’s a fluidity to her career that makes sense. You can tell she’s trained, studied (Belmont University music degree, minor in dance), but she hasn’t lost the spark that makes her performances hit differently.

The Missy Elliott, Aaliyah, and Beyoncé influences are obvious, but they don’t box her in. Instead, they act like guideposts. On “Cool,” for example, Mia channels that late-‘90s R&B confidence, flipping it into a song about knowing your worth and “adding tax” to it. It’s cheeky but self-assured, and honestly, it feels like the kind of track her younger fans will latch onto the way a previous generation clung to Destiny’s Child anthems.

I keep coming back to “The Drain.” It’s not the flashiest song on the album, but there’s something about it—her delivery sounds worn, like she recorded it at the exact moment she realized she had nothing left to give. And then, just when you think she’s going to leave you in that space, the album closes with a note of hope. That decision feels very Mia: vulnerable, but also unwilling to leave anyone stranded.

What Love Me…Not makes clear is that Mia Delamar isn’t playing the long game by accident. She’s deliberately building an arc—musically and personally—that her listeners can grow with. The album dropped September 5, and it already feels like a turning point. I don’t know if she’ll lean harder into pop or double down on her R&B core next, but either way, she’s positioned herself as someone you don’t just stream once and move on from. She’s someone you start following, waiting to see what’s next.

Electron Fields: When Friction Becomes Magic

The first thing that hits you about Electron Fields is how it doesn’t try to be clever—it just grows, quietly at first, then all at once, into something that feels too big for the room you’re in. That’s The Ocean Beneath in a nutshell. Leeds-based producer Matt Burnside has been carving out this little corner of progressive house since 2019, blending traces of ‘80s synth nostalgia with the pulsing lifeblood of ‘90s trance. His latest collaboration with singer-songwriter Keeper of Bees feels like both a continuation and a turning point.

The two have worked together before, but this one’s different. You can hear it in the way the track keeps ratcheting forward, like it refuses to stay still. Keeper of Bees—Vicky Richardson if you catch her offstage—described the writing process almost like a game of speed chess. Early versions were slower, but every time Burnside sent it back, the tempo had nudged higher. The final version shimmers with that urgency. It’s not frantic though—it’s more like a rising tide you didn’t notice until your feet are underwater.

What I love about Electron Fields is how human it sounds in the middle of all the electronic layers. Vicky’s voice doesn’t just float above the beat, it steers it. When she sings about molecules and stardust, it’s not abstract—it’s grounded in this weird mix of wonder and warmth. Then there’s the middle 8 with its analogue piano chords. You don’t expect that moment of softness in a track built for dancefloors, but it lands perfectly. It’s a reminder that good house music isn’t about noise or drops—it’s about contrast.

There’s also some muscle behind the polish. The single was mastered by Cass Irvine, the same guy who’s put finishing touches on tracks from Camelphat and David Guetta. That doesn’t mean this is some overproduced radio bid though. Burnside has always kept one foot in the underground. His sound may borrow from big-room house, but it’s too textured, too patient, to sit neatly in a Spotify playlist alongside generic club fodder.

And then there’s Keeper of Bees. She’s got her own following across the UK, known for live sets that layer piano and synths until the whole thing feels weightless. Pairing her ethereal style with Burnside’s meticulous production could’ve easily been a clash, but it’s not. If anything, the friction is the magic. She’ll sketch something at home on piano, he’ll twist it into something that feels like sunrise at 4am. That push and pull is what makes the track stick.

It’s not perfect—nothing that tries to bottle “positivity” in dance music ever is. There are moments where the shine almost feels too clean, like it’s aiming for serotonin spikes instead of subtlety. But that’s also why it works. In a scene where producers sometimes hide behind shadows and moody aesthetics, Burnside and Richardson lean into light. They’re not afraid of euphoria.

With Electron Fields out now, The Ocean Beneath feels like it’s stepping into a new phase. This isn’t just another collab, it’s a proof point that Burnside’s hybrid of throwback sounds and forward-thinking production has legs. If you’ve been watching him build since 2019, this track feels like the payoff. If you’re new to him, it’s as good a place to start as any. Either way, it’s clear he’s not just chasing trends—he’s building his own orbit.

Oaken Lee's Productive Tension

“Reach Out (Cut Wires Remix)” doesn’t sit still. One moment you’re caught in the warmth of an acoustic guitar, the next you’re under heavy basslines that feel like they belong to the city at night. That push and pull makes sense when you know Oaken Lee’s story—Jake, raised in the fields of rural Shropshire, now based in Tottenham. His music holds both landscapes at once, and that contradiction is exactly what gives it weight.

The original “Reach Out,” from his folk-rock mixtape Home, was quieter. More kitchen table than night bus. It leaned into folk storytelling, with themes of masculinity, hope, desperation—big words, sure, but the delivery felt small-scale, lived-in. Then Cut Wires (Tim, also Tottenham-based) stepped in and reframed it. His remix doesn’t erase the folk heart, it just drags it through neon light and late-night temptation.

There’s this line of storytelling in Oaken Lee’s work that reminds me of traditional folk—narratives about people trying to make sense of themselves—but instead of fiddles and pub sessions, you get drum machines, field recordings, and distortion. He’s painting old themes with a progressive palette. The remix makes that especially clear: you hear Jake’s voice almost as an anchor, while the production pulls everything around it into restless motion.

Listening closely, I couldn’t shake this image of Tottenham at 1am. The kebab shop glow, the maybe-I’ll-text-them feeling, the way loneliness turns sharp when the night is too long. That’s what the remix nails—it’s still a folk song, just relocated. From Shropshire hedgerows to London pavements. Same story, different setting.

I’ll admit, I’ve got a soft spot for artists who still release cassettes. Home came out on tape earlier this year, and it wasn’t just a gimmick. There’s something about committing your music to a format that demands attention. No skipping, no playlists—just side A, side B, and whoever cares enough to listen. It makes sense with Jake’s approach: half tradition, half experiment.

What struck me most about “Reach Out” is how masculinity sits at its center but never feels heavy-handed. It’s not chest-thumping or detached coolness. It’s uncertain, a little bruised, still searching. That’s unusual, especially in spaces where vulnerability often gets dressed up as irony. Jake doesn’t dodge it. He lets the cracks show, and that honesty gives the song its staying power.

And this is only the beginning. Oaken Lee and Cut Wires aren’t stopping at a remix—they’re already building original material together. If this track is the first step, we’re in for something that blurs even more boundaries between folk storytelling and electronic experimentation. Keep your ears open. This feels like one of those partnerships that doesn’t just create songs—it creates worlds.