Rising Star 85: Duality

Rising Star 85 crashes in like a fist through glass—no apologies, no half-measures. If Rising Star 84 was subtle momentum, this session is rebellion: artists who’ve been tested, burned, and ignored now spit fire through their instruments, letting riffs, distortion, and rhythm carry both fury and catharsis. Here, the pulse isn’t polite—it’s relentless, jagged, alive.

Guitars scream with a mix of menace and melody, bending feedback into something that feels almost alive. Drums hammer like defiance, unpredictable yet precise, a heartbeat you can’t ignore. Vocals teeter on rage and revelation, cutting through layers of sound with the weight of lived experience. One bassist transforms a groove into a weapon, while a synth sneaks in shadows, reminding you that chaos and beauty often occupy the same space.

Every journey in Rising Star 85 is forged in grit. One artist carved chords out of long nights in abandoned warehouses, letting the echo of empty walls shape their sound. Another bled lyrics from heartbreak and survival, proving that pain can be a detonator for creation. Every track carries scars, but those scars become strength, proof that rawness can be art.

This is not music to glance at—it demands immersion. Distortion isn’t decoration; it’s honesty. Breakdowns sting, solos soar, and silence hits like a pause before the punch. Rising Star 85 makes the listener lean in, grit teeth, and feel every note as if it’s striking skin and soul simultaneously.

Audacity here is visceral. Originality isn’t polite; it shoves forward, unafraid of noise, risk, or backlash. The artists of Rising Star 85 aren’t following trends—they’re tearing down walls, fusing fury with finesse, and leaving a sonic residue that’s impossible to shake off.

"WENDY: Tokyo Rock's Next Export"

When “Pull Me In” hits, you immediately notice the way it grabs you by the shoulders and refuses to let go. It’s punchy, raw, and unapologetically alive—the kind of track that makes you want to slam your fist on a table or crank the volume and pretend your living room is a festival stage. That’s Tokyo’s WENDY in a nutshell: a band formed in lockdown, still teenagers, who somehow managed to bottle the chaos of adolescence and turn it into rock ’n’ roll that feels both classic and urgent.

What’s striking about WENDY is how much they trust their own instincts. The debut album, Don’t waste my YOUTH, was recorded live in nine days with Grammy-winning producer Marc Whitmore, and you can hear every scraped chord, every shouted lyric, every imperfect but perfect moment. There’s a bravado in their performance, but also a sense of fun—you feel like they’re daring you to keep up. And in “Pull Me In,” that fun meets a swagger reminiscent of the rock giants they grew up idolizing: Stones, AC/DC, the kind of music that doesn’t just play—it challenges.

You notice little things in their music that make it stick. The drums snap like a whip in the intro, then the guitars cut in with a subtle grit that refuses to sit politely in the background. Lead vocals carry a mixture of teenage defiance and self-awareness, a duality that makes them feel both reckless and deliberate at once. I caught myself rewinding the chorus a couple of times—something about the way it hangs just a fraction too long before exploding makes it addictive.

Their story is impossible to ignore. WENDY formed during Japan’s strict COVID lockdowns, sneaking in recording sessions while the world outside paused. Those early demos led to a Sony Music Publishing deal, but the real magic came when Whitmore got involved. Imagine a Grammy-winning producer choosing to record live, no edits, capturing a young band’s unfiltered energy—and managing to make it sound cohesive. That’s what you hear in every track: tension, release, and a confidence that belies their age.

They’ve already built a reputation at home with festival appearances at SUMMER SONIC and METROCK, plus nods from Billboard US and NHK World-Japan. But now, they’re looking outward. The UK release of their debut vinyl, and their first London headline show at The Water Rats on 17 November, is more than a debut—it’s a statement. WENDY are here, and they’re serious about claiming space in a global rock scene that often forgets to leave room for new voices.

Visually, WENDY lean into a slightly disheveled, lived-in aesthetic—jeans with scuffs, t-shirts that look like they’ve been through a minor war, and hair that refuses to behave. It’s deliberate, though they’ll tell you it’s just them being themselves. There’s an honesty in that, a refusal to overproduce an image or craft a persona that doesn’t exist. It makes the connection with their audience feel intimate, like you’re in on something before it goes viral.

“Pull Me In” isn’t just a single; it’s a declaration. As Don’t waste my YOUTH lands in the UK, and WENDY prepares for their first overseas headline show, you can almost feel the anticipation crackling. They’ve got the energy, the songs, and the audacity to match their heroes—but more importantly, they’ve got a story that feels worth following. You leave the track looping in your head, and suddenly, you’re not just listening—you’re along for the ride.

"Tired Bones: The Parachute Testers and the Sound of Drifting"

I first stumbled across Tired Bones late one night, headphones jammed in, and the kind of quiet that makes you think you’re hearing something no one else is hearing. The track opens with piano notes that feel almost improvised, yet deliberate, like the band is scribbling their own private diary in sound. There’s an airy, distant quality to the vocals that immediately reminded me of Mazzy Star, but with this subtle Irish warmth that grounds it, like you could almost smell the sea breeze they’re singing about.

The Parachute Testers are a curious mix—a South East Ireland core, a Leeds guitarist, a Ukrainian bassist—yet they somehow sync into a sound that feels singular. You catch traces of Elbow’s cinematic layering, the intimacy of This Is The Kit, and the spacious melancholy of Zero 7. They’re not reinventing the wheel, but they’re polishing it until it hums, and that hum lingers long after the track ends. Listening to them, I kept thinking: they get nostalgia without making it saccharine.

Tired Bones was written on piano and recorded at Black Mountain studios in County Louth, overlooking the Irish Sea, which—let’s be honest—is a perfect mood for the track. There’s a literal sense of drifting out on the waves, and Colm Mac Con Iomaire’s strings push it just over the edge from beautiful to downright stirring. There’s a tension in the song too; it’s soothing, yes, but also restless, like someone who knows healing takes longer than a single trip to the sea.

What hits me most is the vocals—they soar but never dominate. The lead singer flirts with that fragile intimacy you hear in London Grammar, pulling you close just to let you drift away again. In live recordings and previews, that vocal clarity is paired with layered instrumentation that feels deliberate but not precious. The band seems obsessed with space: the spaces between chords, between breaths, even between cities they call home. It’s a sound that thrives on contrast.

Critics are catching on too. FATEA Magazine talks about Bluebirds and the album’s potential for escapism, while Uncle Ears frames their music as “aching with nostalgia” yet revitalizing. I can see both perspectives—there’s an old-soul quality here, but it’s coupled with a modern production sensibility that makes you want to put it on repeat. You can almost imagine the band smirking in the studio, aware that they’ve hit that rare balance.

Live, The Parachute Testers have a reputation for subtle but engrossing shows. Their February 2026 slot at Wexford Arts Centre and March at Hyde Park Book Club in Leeds promise to showcase that. I keep imagining those gigs—the strings, the harmonics, the audience swaying like a collective exhale. And somehow, knowing the international makeup of the band, you feel a little like you’re part of a broader, shared journey, one that spans Ireland, the UK, and beyond.

There’s a sense of anticipation around their debut album, Halfway to Everywhere, and it’s easy to see why. They’re not loud or brash, but they are deliberate in how they carry emotion, melody, and space. Tired Bones isn’t a single; it’s a statement: this band wants to take you somewhere, even if that somewhere is just a quiet bench by the sea. And honestly, after one listen, I was ready to follow.

"Winter's Light: Martin Lloyd Howard's Guitar Shimmer"

Martin Lloyd Howard’s fingers slide across the nylon strings, and for a moment, the room disappears. You’re not just hearing Winter’s Light—you’re feeling it: sunlight glancing off frosted glass, a trace of flamenco, a quiet patience in every note. It’s the kind of playing that makes you rewind, not because it’s flashy, but because there’s so much packed into what seems simple at first listen.

Martin trained classically, but calling him “classical” doesn’t quite capture it. There’s folk in his bends, blues in his phrasing, and occasionally this rock pulse that sneaks in when you least expect it. He moves between electric and acoustic with a confidence that suggests he’s been figuring it out his whole life, which he has, but it still feels casual, effortless even. Watching him play, you notice the little quirks—the tilt of his wrist, the way his fingers hesitate a microsecond before a chord hits—and it’s oddly human, almost conversational.

What struck me next was the breadth of his catalogue. Solo compositions, duets, ensemble pieces—Martin doesn’t just stick to one lane. Collaborations with folks like Mark Johnson from The Midnight River Crew add texture to his work without overwhelming it. You can hear someone else in the room, a shadow, a complementary voice, but Martin’s guitar is always the centerpiece. There’s a sense of dialogue in his music that’s rare for instrumentalists; it’s like he’s letting you eavesdrop on his creative conversations.

Winter’s Light itself is deceptively simple. On first listen, it relaxes you—melodies drift gently—but then you notice the small complexities: a glancing flamenco rhythm, unexpected chord shifts. I caught myself rewinding parts on YouTube, just to hear them again, to see how he threaded these little moments together. It’s not flashy, but it’s meticulous. And there’s a strange tension in it, too. Winter is cold, sunlight is warm, and somehow he captures both at once.

One thing I love is that Martin’s music feels like it’s growing as you listen. Tracks you might dismiss on first play reveal depth if you stick with them. That patience shows in his collaborations as well—he doesn’t crowd other musicians; he frames them, lets them breathe. For someone so steeped in classical training, his approach is surprisingly open, improvisational even, which makes listening to his albums feel like stumbling into someone else’s living room jam session.

He’s also a visual thinker. Watching the video of Winter’s Light on YouTube, there’s a subtle cinematography: light through windows, slow pans over his hands, strings gleaming. It’s not overproduced; it’s an extension of the music, a visual accent rather than a distraction. It makes sense that someone with his attention to nuance in sound would care about how it’s framed visually too.

Martin Howard’s story isn’t about overnight fame or viral hits. It’s quiet, steady, and endlessly curious. If you let yourself, you’ll notice it in the small moments: the flicker of a chord, the pause before a note, the hint of another genre lurking beneath the surface. And I think that’s the thing—once you hear him, it lingers. Not because it’s dramatic or flashy, but because someone put thought, skill, and heart into every pluck of the string.

"Brandon Frizzell Makes You Pause Mid-Scroll"

Brandon Frizzell doesn’t hit you over the head with grand gestures. On “Distracted,” the first thing you notice is how his voice snakes around the melody, casual but purposeful, like he’s letting you in on a thought before it even fully forms. Recorded in his home studio, the song has a deceptively simple quality—guitar chords strummed in natural rhythm, lyrics that almost feel like diary entries—but there’s a tension underneath, a pulse that keeps tugging you forward. Listening, you get the sense that this was one of those tracks that didn’t need forcing. It just… came out.

Frizzell’s songwriting is very much of its time, yet it doesn’t feel like he’s chasing trends. “Distracted” takes aim at the modern obsession with screens and feeds, drawing inspiration from the tragic assassination of Charlie Kirk. But it’s less political sermon than quiet observation. There’s a tension there: the story is heavy, but the music itself is melodic, inviting, almost comforting. It’s the kind of track that makes you pause mid-scroll, realizing you’ve been living the distraction it critiques.

He’s from Waukesha, United States, and it shows in the intimacy of his sound. There’s a grounded, Midwestern sensibility: storytelling first, flourish second. You can almost picture him strumming in the corner of a small Milwaukee apartment, sketching chords and ideas, letting the narrative of a distracted generation unfold naturally. And it does—Frizzell’s words land because they feel lived in, not labored over.

Performances have been low-key but telling. A block party in Milwaukee, a set at the historic Bootleggers Lodge where Al Capone once lingered—these aren’t your usual touring hotspots. There’s a subtle charm in that, a way for Frizzell to connect directly with listeners who are looking for something beyond the playlist. People lean in; they listen. There’s a kind of reciprocity there, and it’s evident he thrives in spaces where human connection isn’t just a lyric, it’s happening right in front of him.

What’s interesting is how effortless the recording process felt for him. He describes it like the song fell out of him as he played the chords. It’s the kind of spontaneity that can’t be faked, that shows when the listener is paying attention. The production isn’t glossy for its own sake—it supports the story, not the other way around. That might be why “Distracted” hits so hard: it feels personal but also universal, a mirror to a moment most of us can’t escape.

There’s a complexity in Frizzell too, a minor contradiction. He writes about disconnection in a hyper-connected world, yet he’s building momentum through those very channels—social media, small venue performances, word-of-mouth buzz. It’s a balancing act, one that he seems acutely aware of. He calls it “the greatest act of strength is rebellion,” and listening to the track, you get it. It’s a quiet rebellion, not loud or theatrical, but it lingers.

Looking ahead, Frizzell isn’t slowing down. He’s clearly an artist thinking about the bigger picture, about how music intersects with lived experience, about how one song can cut through the noise. “Distracted” isn’t just a single; it’s a statement, a nudge to pay attention, to look up from the screen. And honestly, after hearing it, that’s exactly what you want to do—lean in, listen, and maybe, just for a moment, be present.

"Sean MacLeod: The Architect of Smart Pop"

Sean MacLeod doesn’t just write songs — he architects them. There’s a certain precision in how he layers melody and meaning, like a craftsman who’s equally obsessed with the grain of the wood and the story behind it. His songs feel instantly familiar yet curiously unpredictable, pulling threads from The Beatles, The Beach Boys, and The Smiths, and weaving them into something that doesn’t sit neatly in any decade. Listening to him is a bit like tuning into an alternate timeline of pop — one where the charts still care about chords that make you feel something.

What stands out most is how Sean’s songs never settle for surface-level. Sure, they’ve got hooks — bright, polished ones that could sit comfortably beside the best of 60s pop — but under the shine, there’s an unmistakable depth. He slips in questions about human nature and perception like they’re just another rhyme scheme. The kind of writing that makes you hum along the first time, then stop mid-chorus the second, thinking, wait, what did he just say? It’s pop music that dares to philosophize, but with a wink rather than a lecture.

If you dig into his story, you find the roots of that balance between the accessible and the introspective. MacLeod first came onto the Dublin scene with Cisco, a band that recorded with U2’s former producer Paul Barrett and drew serious critical buzz back home. Their album No 1 put them on the map, but when the band eventually split, Sean didn’t chase trends or nostalgia — he just kept writing. And that’s the thing about him: he’s clearly someone who has to write. You can hear it in the way he talks about his process — more like someone describing a conversation with themselves than an act of creation.

Over the years, he’s built a quietly solid solo catalogue — three full albums and a string of singles that move confidently between pop, folk, and the avant-garde. It’s a mix that shouldn’t work on paper, but somehow does. One track might sound like a lost Lennon demo; another like a strange dream scored by a chamber orchestra. He’s not trying to reinvent the wheel — more like repainting it every few spins to see what color it takes next.

His upcoming projects — New Start (arriving spring 2025) and We Don’t See What That We Don’t See — sound like two sides of his creative brain in open dialogue. The first promises melodic, hook-filled pop with that classic MacLeod edge. The second, an experimental record that dives into perception and sound itself, feels like a deliberate step into uncharted territory. It’s a smart move — keeping one foot in the familiar while the other dances on the line between concept and chaos.

There’s something almost endearingly contradictory about Sean. He talks about “catchy melodies” but then slips in harmonic shifts that would make most pop producers sweat. He cites The Beach Boys but also admits a fascination with the avant-garde. It’s that tension that makes his work interesting — music that invites you in, then quietly rearranges the furniture in your head.

And maybe that’s the real appeal here. In an era where algorithms reward the instantly digestible, Sean MacLeod is writing songs that ask you to linger. To listen again. To think about what you missed the first time. He’s proof that pop can still have a heartbeat — and a brain. And if New Start lives up to its title, it might just be the album that gets people talking about smart pop again, not as a throwback, but as a way forward.