Rising Star 86: No Whispers, Only Storms
- Fernando Triff
- 1 day ago
- 14 min read
Rising Star 86 doesn’t whisper—it storms. If Rising Star 85 shattered glass, this session ignites sparks in every corner, catching fire in places you didn’t know could burn. Alternative pop, rap, metal—genres aren’t boundaries here, they’re launchpads. Each track is a defiant manifesto, a sonic autobiography written in sweat, adrenaline, and grit.
Here, rhythm becomes rebellion. Percussion slams like footsteps on cracked concrete, unpredictable yet inevitable, pulling you forward even when you resist. Guitars bend under the weight of emotion, sometimes melodic, sometimes brutal, always human. Vocals aren’t polished—they’re confessions, confrontations, and cries stitched together, carrying the tremor of heartbreak, triumph, and rage. Synths hover like ghosts, layering tension and atmosphere, reminding us that beauty and chaos are never far apart.
The stories behind these sounds are as raw as the music itself. One artist built their debut from late-night freestyles in a cramped studio, turning isolation into innovation. Another channeled the fallout of betrayal into verses that sting with precision, proving trauma can be a catalyst rather than a cage. Every beat, every riff, every hook carries a narrative forged in struggle and discovery.
Rising Star 86 isn’t background noise—it demands presence. Each breakdown hits with purpose, each hook lingers like an echo you can’t shake. Silence punctuates the storm, a calculated pause before the next onslaught, making every surge of sound land harder, resonate deeper.
Originality here isn’t optional—it’s the air these artists breathe. They don’t tiptoe around expectation; they collide with it, fusing intensity with ingenuity. What emerges is music that scratches, tears, and heals simultaneously, leaving an imprint long after the speakers' quiet. Rising Star 86 is not a collection of songs—it’s a testament to the audacity of creation, proof that the next wave of music won’t just be heard, it will be felt.
Between Guzheng and Glitch: Adai Song's Bloom Project

If you stumbled on Adai Song’s “Carmen 2025” without any context, you might first think it’s some underground remix of Bizet with a global spin. Then the guzheng hits, the percussion slides in like a heartbeat, and suddenly you realize—this isn’t a remix. It’s a reclamation. Adai doesn’t just sample culture; she rewires it. Her sound lives somewhere between 1920s Shanghai jazz clubs and neon-lit New York warehouses, stitched together by the kind of precision only a classically trained violinist who also DJs could pull off.
Her new record, The Bloom Project, feels like the culmination of that lifelong balancing act. It’s up for Grammy® consideration in the “Best Global Music Album” category, which sounds huge—and it is—but you get the sense that Adai’s not chasing trophies. She’s chasing something harder to define: a sense of belonging across eras and identities. The record reimagines shidaiqu—a style that once fused Chinese folk with Western jazz in the early 20th century—through a feminist, electronic lens. Think synths and guzhengs sharing space with old Shanghai melodies. It’s equal parts nostalgia and rebellion.
Adai grew up between worlds—classical training on violin, pop songwriting, and a self-taught crash course in guitar and production. By twelve, she was already writing songs. After UCLA, she dove into China’s pop scene, where she racked up over 70 million streams, collabs with Sony/ATV and Warner Chappell, and placements in video games like Arknights. That kind of résumé could make anyone complacent. Instead, she pivoted again—toward an international hybrid sound that refuses to pick a lane.
Listening to “Carmen 2025,” you hear that defiance loud and clear. The drop hits like an uprising. Guzheng solos cut through electronic walls, embodying a woman breaking through centuries of cultural restraint. Adai adapts the opera’s original French lyrics into 1960s-style Mandarin phrasing, then filters it through the chaos of modern EDM. It shouldn’t work—but it does. And that’s kind of her thing.
When I asked around about her live shows, one friend told me, “She DJs like she’s conducting an orchestra that just learned to glitch.” It fits. There’s this tension between elegance and electricity in her performances—each beat feels like it’s teetering between tradition and transformation. She’s the rare artist who can play a conservatory recital and headline an electronic festival without changing her core language.
Beyond the stage, Adai’s part of something bigger. As a faculty member at Berklee NYC and a member of the Recording Academy, she’s using her platform to mentor and collaborate across continents. The Bloom Project was mixed and mastered by a global team of Berklee alumni and Grammy-winning engineers, stretching from the U.S. to Asia to South America. You can hear that diversity baked into the record’s DNA—it’s not a concept album about cultural fusion; it is cultural fusion.
What stands out most about Adai Song isn’t her technical mastery (though that’s easy to admire), but her ability to turn historical complexity into something people actually want to dance to. She’s rewriting old stories with a subwoofer and a smile, reminding us that innovation often sounds like coming home to yourself. There’s a line in one of her songs that stuck with me: “Bloom, even when no one’s watching.” That’s Adai in a nutshell—quietly unstoppable, rooted in the past but facing the future head-on.
Inside the Cabin: Ezra Vancil's "Babylove"

Ezra Vancil’s new single “Babylove” doesn’t try to impress you—it just tells the truth. Recorded in an old cabin in East Texas, it sounds like a song that didn’t need permission to exist. You can almost hear the floorboards creak under his feet, or maybe the wind moving through the trees outside. It’s the first single from Morning & Midnight, a double album Ezra’s been quietly crafting that unfolds one track at a time, like a journal left open on the kitchen table. No gloss, no tricks—just a songwriter chasing the thing that made him fall in love with music in the first place.
“Babylove” hits differently because it wasn’t written for the radio—it was written to survive. After the end of his ten-year marriage, Ezra found himself face-to-face with heartbreak that didn’t resolve neatly. Instead of dressing it up, he leaned in. The song is messy in the best way—half confessional, half self-exorcism. There’s this crack in his voice when he hits the word “love,” and you get the sense he’s not just singing about loss, he’s still walking through it.
The band around him feels like a family that knows when to lean in and when to get out of the way. Lori Martin—his longtime friend—anchors the song with a bassline that feels more like a pulse than a groove. Chris Brush’s drumming gives the track air, not weight. And the husband-wife duo, Jonathan and Liz Estes, lace strings through the mix that lift the song without ever softening it. You can tell these people have played together for years; the chemistry feels lived-in, like old friends finishing each other’s sentences mid-song.
It’s interesting—Ezra’s music has always carried a kind of quiet confidence, but “Babylove” sounds like he finally stopped performing for anyone but himself. He ditched the studio perfectionism, swapped the Pro Tools for a Tascam hard-disk recorder, and recorded with open speakers instead of headphones. You can literally hear the room breathing. It’s the kind of analog imperfection that used to be called “mistakes,” but here, it’s the soul of the song.
The album Morning & Midnight takes that philosophy and stretches it across two emotional worlds. The Midnight side—where Babylove lives—dives deep into heartbreak and the kind of self-reckoning that only comes when everything falls apart. The Morning Side, written years later, finds forgiveness and even a fragile kind of peace. He’s releasing one song every thirty days, each paired with a book of poems and writings from the same season. It’s less an album rollout and more a slow unfolding of a life—unhurried, deliberate, and deeply human.
You can hear the ghost of Chris Whitley in the way Ezra approaches the microphone—no polish, no pretense. Ezra even met Whitley years ago at SXSW, and that influence still lingers, not in imitation, but in spirit. Both artists share that compulsion to chase emotion over perfection, to leave the edges frayed. Ezra likes to say Babylove marked the moment he stopped chasing the “right” take and started chasing the real one. That shift changed everything.
What makes Babylove resonate isn’t just the heartbreak—it’s the quiet courage in how it’s told. Ezra could’ve turned pain into drama, but instead, he turned it into conversation. The kind that happens late at night, when you’re too tired to lie to yourself. And maybe that’s what makes this record special: it doesn’t need to convince you of its honesty—you can hear it breathing through the cracks. If this is just the first chapter of Morning & Midnight, we’re in for a long, beautiful reckoning.
Inside the Divine Flavors: Divineisll's Monthly Ritual

There’s something instantly magnetic about Divineisll. Maybe it’s the voice — that quiet command that sneaks up on you, equal parts peace and defiance. Or maybe it’s the sense that every track is a piece of something bigger — not just a song, but a fragment of a message. Divineisll, straight out of Buctown, has been carving out their own lane in the kind of way that doesn’t shout for attention but earns it. Their upcoming release, “Eyes Wake Up” (dropping August 15, 2025), feels like another page in that ongoing story — a reminder that music can still be about elevation, not just entertainment.
Divineisll calls their craft Divine Flavors, and honestly, the name fits. Each release feels like a taste of something purpose-built to stir the spirit — not preachy, just intentional. They drop new music every month, which is wild when you realize how layered each song feels. You can tell there’s lived experience behind it. Not in the "I’ve been through it" cliché kind of way, but in that sense of someone who’s been paying attention.
Their sound floats somewhere between meditative and confrontational — one minute guiding you through healing frequencies, the next calling out the spiritual stagnation in the world. When Divineisll sings, “we sing the despair to the clouds and oceans alike,” it doesn’t sound like a metaphor. It sounds like a ritual. There’s a tension in that — the artist as both healer and human, channeling something higher while still stuck on the same planet as the rest of us.
And that contradiction is what makes the music stick. It’s not all cosmic energy and serenity; there’s frustration there too. You hear it in the phrasing, in the production — those little moments where the beat doesn’t resolve quite how you expect, or where a vocal harmony sounds slightly haunted. It’s the sound of someone who’s been searching for meaning but refuses to stop just because the world feels too loud.
There’s also a DIY grit to Divineisll’s process. They write, produce, and mix their own work — no glossy industry polish, no algorithm chasing. It’s independent music in the truest sense: vision-driven, slightly unfiltered, and powered by conviction. That approach gives their catalog a sense of intimacy — like you’re being let in on a conversation that wasn’t meant for everyone, but you just happened to tune in at the right time.
Talking to fans, you hear the same theme over and over: “This music helps me realign.” It’s a phrase that could sound lofty, but not here. Divineisll isn’t trying to “fix” anyone. They’re just sharing the same lessons they’ve been learning — about energy, spirit, and staying human when the world tries to dehumanize you. It’s heavy stuff, but they wrap it in a sound that’s surprisingly easy to live with — the kind of music that finds its way into your daily rituals without you realizing it.
With “Eyes Wake Up,” Divineisll seems to be leveling up again — not in the flashy sense, but in how clear their purpose feels. It’s a call to awareness, to presence, to whatever that next stage of spiritual evolution looks like in a world that keeps testing your patience. Divineisll isn’t just building a discography; they’re building an archive of healing. And if the past few releases are any sign, they’re nowhere near done feeding souls that are still hungry for something real.
Ronaldo Fuentes Recorded "Prize" on a Gaming Headset—And That's the Point

Ronaldo Fuentes isn’t the type of artist who hides behind gloss or production tricks. He’s the kind who’ll tell you he recorded his vocals on a gaming headset, chasing a reverb that “just felt right.” That tiny detail—equal parts unconventional and endearing—says a lot about what makes his new single “Prize” hit differently. Released on October 12th, 2025, the track feels like a time capsule from the ‘80s, fused with a heartfelt tribute to real human loss. It’s a song that doesn’t try to be perfect—it just tries to mean something. And that’s exactly why it lands.
At its core, “Prize” is a memorial. The song honors the figure skaters who lost their lives in the January 2025 tragedy—a devastating collision that cut short the dreams of 67 people, many of them on the verge of Olympic greatness. “Never take your eyes off the prize,” Ronaldo sings, his voice carrying both warmth and ache. It’s not hard to feel the weight behind that line. He’s not just urging listeners to chase their ambitions—he’s acknowledging how fragile time really is. That combination of hope and heartbreak gives the track its spine.
There’s something wonderfully DIY about the way this project came together. Fuentes recorded “Prize” in his rebuilt childhood home in Sydney—same plot of land, brand new foundation. He admits he sometimes misses the old version, which somehow mirrors the entire emotional arc of the song: nostalgia colliding with rebirth. That physical connection to his past adds an intimacy to the track that a sterile studio could never replicate. You can hear it—the closeness, the honesty, even the slight imperfections that make the vocals feel lived-in.
Musically, “Prize” draws from the neon glow of 1980s synth-pop, but with a quieter emotional pulse. Ronaldo’s longtime friend and collaborator Vey Antonio—an artist who’s been chasing his own dream of making it to MTV before its shutdown—served as both inspiration and catalyst. The song was originally written for Vey Antonio, who encouraged Ronaldo to release a darker, more introspective version under his own name. That gesture speaks volumes about their creative relationship: mutual respect, no ego, just two artists chasing the same light from different angles.
What’s especially interesting about Fuentes is his process. He talks about pulling lyrics “out of thin air,” but don’t mistake that for carelessness. Every line feels intentional, even when it’s simple. “Some say tomorrow, but will tomorrow come—they don’t know.” It’s not poetry in the academic sense—it’s more like the kind of lyric that sticks in your head because it’s something you’ve actually thought before but never said out loud. And maybe that’s why “Prize” resonates—it sounds like someone thinking through grief and ambition in real time.
Six months of vocal training went into getting this song right. Fuentes admits he struggled with his voice early on, unsure of how he wanted to sound. That kind of self-awareness is rare, especially in a space where many artists try to emulate trends. His improvement is audible—there’s a confidence in his tone now, a kind of grounded presence that makes even the smallest lyric feel deliberate. And while “Prize” marks a powerful statement, he’s already teasing a pivot toward more gothic-sounding material in the near future. A smart move—he’s building an identity, not just a catalog.
Ronaldo Fuentes might not be a household name yet, but there’s something undeniably compelling about his approach: heart over hype, message over metrics. “Prize” isn’t just a tribute—it’s a checkpoint. A reminder to everyone still chasing their version of success that the pursuit itself is fragile, fleeting, and absolutely worth it. And if you catch him at a future Laneway Festival slot—whether it’s next year or 2028—don’t be surprised if that gaming headset makes another cameo. That’s just how Ronaldo does it: no pretense, no perfection, just purpose.
The Quiet at the Center of Junifer's "Thoughts For The Night"

The first thing that hits you about Junifer’s “Thoughts For The Night” isn’t the synths or the soft folk edges—it’s the quiet. The song opens like someone tiptoeing through their own memories. You can almost hear the floorboards creak. It’s a track that feels less like a performance and more like being invited into someone’s home at midnight, when everyone else is asleep and the world finally exhales.
Junifer, based out of Chico, CA, has been on a slow, deliberate rise since their debut album A Little Late dropped back in March. That record already hinted at their signature balance—organic and digital, folk roots tangled with glitchy, emotional electronics. But this new single? It’s their most personal work yet. “Thoughts For The Night” sounds like the moment you realize love isn’t fireworks or chaos—it’s dishes in the sink and a soft voice saying, goodnight.
You can tell Junifer’s been listening to a lot of Imogen Heap and Sufjan Stevens, but it’s not imitation—it’s translation. They take that lineage of confessional songwriting and run it through their own circuitry. The synth pads hum like a heartbeat, their voice—gentle but certain—moves with that same kind of storytelling patience you only find in artists who know how to listen before they sing. It’s alternative folktronica in its purest, least pretentious form.
What’s wild is how grounded it all feels. In an era of algorithmic pop and overproduced “bedroom” aesthetics, Junifer’s music still sounds handmade. You can sense the imperfections they’ve kept on purpose—the human breath before a line, the quiet scratch of a finger sliding down a guitar string. It’s production that remembers people living inside it.
And maybe that’s the real hook: this isn’t escapism, it’s intimacy. Junifer isn’t trying to transport you somewhere else—they’re offering you a place to stay. A place where the lights are dim, the synths shimmer like moonlight off a kitchen counter, and every lyric feels like a small confession said just loud enough for you to catch.
When I first heard Thoughts For The Night, I had to replay the final minute twice. Not because it’s technically impressive (though it is), but because of how complete it feels. Like the song knew exactly where to end—just as the emotion peaks, it retreats, leaving a silence that’s somehow louder than the chorus. That’s a rare instinct. Not many artists trust the quiet. Junifer does.
With over 18,000 monthly listeners and a growing body of deeply human tracks, Junifer’s clearly building something sustainable—a community, not just an audience. There’s a sense that they’re not chasing the next trend; they’re documenting small, honest moments until they add up to something timeless. “Thoughts For The Night” feels like one of those moments—fragile, luminous, and true. And if their trajectory so far is any clue, this is just the start of something quietly brilliant.
Shadows and Constellations: Inside Black Diamond's Still Life

Black Diamond’s new album, Still Life, kicks off with a tension that grabs you almost immediately. There’s a deliberate heaviness in “Arcane,” Fabio’s drums punctuating Valentina’s vocals like heartbeat skips, and Emanuele’s guitar weaving shadows across the melody. It doesn’t announce itself with fanfare—it just sits there, confident, pulling you in. You can tell these are musicians who aren’t chasing trends; they’re excavating their own terrain.
What struck me most is how personal the album feels. Black Diamond isn’t just a band—they’re a small constellation of people from Firenze who have lived and breathed this sound together. Recording at their hometown studio, they’ve managed to bottle moments that feel lived-in. “Locked Inside” hits like a journal entry that got set to fire: intimate, slightly raw, but undeniably precise. There’s a tension between polish and imperfection that makes you lean in, curious.
Valentina’s voice carries this duality beautifully. At times, she’s commanding, almost operatic; in others, she’s confessional, whispering as if revealing a secret just to you. Paired with Emanuele’s guitar lines and Francesco’s bass grounding the tracks, it’s a layering that keeps you guessing. You can hear the influence of Lacuna Coil, Evanescence, and Within Temptation—but it’s never derivative. Black Diamond has a way of bending those familiar Gothic metal cues into something distinctly theirs.
The album’s title, Still Life, isn’t just poetic. It feels like a manifesto: a snapshot of their lives, but also a reflection on the world. They’re grappling with everyday frustrations, fleeting joys, and bigger existential questions all at once. “Clockwork Slaves” particularly embodies this tension—there’s a mechanical rigidity to the rhythm that mirrors routine, but the melodies push against it, refusing to stay confined. You can almost hear the band laughing at themselves in the pauses, enjoying the chaos of creation.
One of the things that comes across in conversation with the band is their sense of groundedness. Fabio, the drummer and keyboardist, talks about the recording sessions as fun but frustrating, which feels refreshingly honest. It’s easy to imagine the four of them in the studio, chasing a single note for hours, joking, arguing, then suddenly locking into that perfect moment. That humanity—small contradictions, little victories—shines through in the music.
For listeners, the album is less about spectacle and more about connection. There’s an intimacy to the way the tracks unfold, a sense that Black Diamond is inviting you into their circle without ceremony. You don’t have to understand every reference or technical flourish; you just feel the effort, the passion, the depth. The band says it plainly: “Life is not about length, but depth.” Listen closely, and you realize that’s exactly what Still Life embodies.
it’s clear Black Diamond isn’t trying to rush or oversell themselves. This album is a statement of presence, a measured yet potent assertion of identity. And honestly? After sitting with it, you’re left wanting more. More stories, more textures, more nights spent replaying “Arcane” until the details start to bleed into your own life. It’s the kind of record that quietly insists you pay attention—and you want to.
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