Rising Star 87: The Hush Before the Fire

Rising Star 87 doesn’t roar—it breathes deep and pulls you under, like the hush before a storm you’ve been craving all your life. Rising Star 86 lit the match; this one fans the flame into something quieter, more treacherous, more alive. Alternative pop, rap, indie pop, country, rock, electronic—genres don’t fence these artists in; they braid them into something that feels like memory and prophecy at once.

Listen close and you’ll hear the pulse of a life half-lived. Drums don’t just keep time; they stumble, hesitate, then surge—like someone running from a ghost they half-want to catch. Guitars sigh and snarl in the same breath, bending notes until they break open and spill moonlight. Vocals crack on purpose, not from weakness but from carrying too much truth; every lyric is a Polaroid pulled from a pocket, edges curled, colors bleeding into the dark. Synths drift in like fog off a backroad river, wrapping the whole thing in a haze that makes you lean closer just to stay warm.

These songs are built from the scraps most people throw away. One writer pieced together a chorus from voicemail fragments left by an ex who never came back—each glitch in the playback became a hook. Another turned a family farm foreclosure into a country-rap hybrid that aches like dust in your throat and still makes you move. A third sampled the static between radio stations at 3 a.m., threading it through electronic pulses until loneliness sounded like a club you could dance in. Their stories aren’t tragedies for pity; they’re maps drawn in the dark, proof that getting lost can lead somewhere louder than home.

The architecture here follows no rulebook but its own. Verses unfold like diary pages you weren’t meant to read; choruses hit like the moment you realize the fight was worth it. Bridges aren’t transitions—they’re confessions shouted across rooftops. Silence isn’t empty; it’s the held breath before the drop, the pause where you remember your own heartbeat. Every element serves the feeling, not the formula.

What ties it all together is nerve. These artists don’t chase trends; they outrun them, barefoot and laughing, stitching genres together with whatever thread they find—guitar strings, 808s, whispered field recordings of thunderstorms. The result isn’t fusion for fusion’s sake; it’s survival turned into art. Rising Star 87 doesn’t ask for your attention—it earns it, then spends it lavishly on the parts of you that still believe music can change the shape of a day.

This isn’t a playlist. It’s a dare. Play it loud enough and you might hear your own story hiding in the margins, waiting for its turn to burn.

Pandemonium – “Dalí”: The Art of Losing Your Mind Beautifully

The first time I heard “Dalí,” I was alone in a dim Bangkok café, rain streaking the windows like melted clocks. The beat dropped—slow, syrupy trip-hop under a boom-bap heartbeat—and Claire Ray’s voice slipped in, half-whisper, half-lullaby, pulling me straight into the river. Not the Chao Phraya outside, but the one inside the song, where Maffmatix and Charlton Banks trade bars like pirates swapping maps to buried worlds. I forgot my coffee. I forgot the hour. I just followed.

That’s the spell Pandemonium casts. They don’t chase the algorithm; they lure the listener. Watch the video once and you’ll swear the melting elephants are winking at you. Watch it twice and you’ll catch Maffmatix leaning against a giraffe-necked piano, Claire Ray painting the sky with her fingertips, Charlton Banks conducting thunder with a grin. It’s homage, yes—to Salvador Dalí’s fever dreams—but it’s also autobiography. These three met on the banks of that same restless river, trading late-night rhymes in riverside bars, daring each other to bend reality a little further.

Call it the Hero’s Journey if you like; every great record is one. The ordinary world? Three restless souls tired of safe beats. The call to adventure? A shared obsession with the unorthodox—soul horns that curl like smoke, funk bass that slithers, R&B melodies that ache like bruised fruit. The trials? Countless nights in a cramped studio, arguing over a snare that had to sound like a closing portal. The treasure? Back of the Mind, their debut album due early 2026, twelve tracks that refuse to sit still in one genre’s lap.

“Dalí” is the first breadcrumb. It’s not a flex; it’s an invitation. Maffmatix layers labyrinthine verses that twist like Möbius strips. Claire Ray sings the hooks you didn’t know you needed until they’re stuck in your head. Charlton Banks anchors it all with drums that hit like memories you can’t shake. Together, they build a world where light and dark slow-dance, where the listener isn’t a spectator but a co-conspirator.

If you asked Maffmatix once what the album means to them. He laughed, low and easy. “It’s the back of our minds talking back to us. Everything we couldn’t say in daylight.” Claire would say, “We’re not trying to be the loudest. Just the truest.” Charlton just nodded, already hearing the next beat in his head.

That’s the trust they earn—not with hype, but with honesty. No viral stunts. No hollow flexing. Just three pan-dimensional travellers handing you the compass and saying, Come find us. Step through the single, wander the album when it arrives, and you’ll surface somewhere new, carrying a piece of their river in your pocket. The rain outside my café window stopped hours ago. I’m still listening.

When Three Strangers Hit Pause: The True Story Behind New Nobility’s “Stop the Earth”

Krga Zoran still remembers the exact second the idea hit him. He was pacing his tiny Berlin apartment, coffee gone cold, scrolling through another headline about missiles and blame. The walls felt too close. Outside, the city kept moving—bikes whizzing, neon flickering—but inside, everything stalled. He grabbed his guitar, strummed a single, stubborn chord, and whispered, “Stop the Earth.” Not a title yet. Just a plea.

Half a world away, Lone Wolf was staring at the same kind of screen in a dusty shed outside Melbourne. He’d been up all night tweaking a beat that sounded like wind scraping across red dirt. When Krga’s rough voice note landed in his inbox—raw, urgent, almost angry—Lone Wolf didn’t hesitate. “Send me everything,” he typed back. No contracts. No labels. Just two guys who’d never met in person, suddenly locked in.

Then came Sead Trnka, calling in from a Sarajevo café where the espresso tastes like memory. He’d grown up dodging shells; now he wrote lyrics that felt like dodging silence. When he read Admiral Mahić’s poem about a world too busy to notice its own bleeding, something cracked open. He sang the first verse into his phone, voice cracking on the high notes, and fired it off. Three files. Three countries. One heartbeat.

They built the song like contraband. Krga laid down guitars in Germany—thick, warm tones that hug you like an old coat. Lone Wolf flew the tracks to Australia, wrapped them in synths that shimmer like heat haze, added percussion that thumps like a slowing pulse. Sead flew in last, layering vocals that climb from whisper to wail, then drop you back into quiet. No fancy studio. No guest features. Just bedrooms, kitchens, and a shared Google Drive that became sacred ground.

Listen close and you’ll hear it: the moment the music actually stops. Not a fade-out—a hard cut. Four beats of silence. That’s the gut punch. That’s the whole point. In a feed that never sleeps, they dared you to sit in the nothing and feel something.

New Nobility isn’t a band in the usual sense. They’re a relay team passing hope like a baton. Every stream, every show, funnels straight into causes—kids in refugee camps, elders fighting for land rights. Fans send photos: a Berlin teen holding a candle at a vigil, an Aussie dad teaching his daughter the chorus. The song travels farther than any tour bus ever could.

Krga laughs when people ask if it’s political. “It’s personal,” he says, rolling a cigarette he’ll never light. “I just got tired of pretending the noise wasn’t mine to answer.”

So here’s the invitation, plain as day: Hit play. Let the first chord grab you by the collar. When the silence drops, don’t fill it. Stay there. That’s where the world changes—one stubborn heartbeat at a time.

Trueclaw’s “One Road”: The Home-Brewed Anthem That Turns Every Run (and Every Goal) Into a Victory Lap

The first time Trueclaw laced up and hit the frost-kissed trails outside Uppsala, the world felt too big and the lungs too small. That was years ago, back when the only soundtrack was wind and the crunch of gravel. Fast-forward to a quiet October evening in 2025, and those same footsteps echo inside a bedroom studio, transformed into a pulse-pounding electronic anthem called One Road. On the 14th, the track droped—raw, relentless, and ready to push anyone with a goal a little further down their path.

Picture this: a lone runner under sodium streetlights, breath clouding like a promise. That image isn’t just the cover art; it’s the heartbeat of the song. Trueclaw—Uppsala’s one-person sonic architect—built One Road from the ground up in a home setup that looks more like a gamer’s nook than a traditional studio. No label, no co-producers, just a laptop, a pair of headphones, and a fierce belief that momentum can be bottled. “I wanted to bottle the feeling you get on mile three,” Trueclaw says, voice low with the kind of conviction that doesn’t need volume. “When the doubt creeps in, but your legs keep answering.”

The influence is unmistakable if you know where to listen. Mako’s Piercing Light—that League of Legends earworm—taught Trueclaw how a track can swell, dip, and explode without ever losing the thread. One Road borrows that architecture: a gentle synth intro that mimics the warm-up stretch, a drop that hits like the first downhill sprint, and layers of percussion that build like a runner finding second wind. But where Mako scores a cinematic boss fight, Trueclaw scores the quieter heroism of showing up for yourself at 6 a.m. when nobody’s watching.

What makes the track feel alive is the human-AI pas de deux. Suno AI handled the heavy lifting on instrumentation, but Trueclaw was the conductor—choosing every moody pad, every lyric that lands like a coach’s whisper: “One road, one breath, one choice at a time.” ChatGPT helped map the song’s arc, yet the emotional through-line is pure flesh-and-blood. “Suno wouldn’t write a banger without me,” Trueclaw laughs, “and I’d still be wrestling with Ableton presets without Suno. We’re a team, not a shortcut.”

Visually, the single arrives with a lyric video that feels ripped from a fever-dream training montage: neon streaks across midnight forests, footprints glowing like embers, a lone silhouette cresting a hill as the beat climaxes. It’s the kind of imagery that makes you want to close the laptop, grab your sneakers, and chase whatever hill life’s thrown in front of you. Fans who’ve caught early previews on Trueclaw’s sparse but devoted Discord are already posting their sunrise runs synced to the track—proof that the motivation loop is closing.

This isn’t just another EDM drop; it’s a manifesto for anyone who’s ever needed a push. Trueclaw could’ve kept the pride and passion private, but sharing felt criminal. “If it lights even one person up the way it lights me up,” they say, “then the late nights and the trial-and-error were worth it.”

Stream One Road. Let it carry you past the wall, whatever your wall looks like. Because in the end, there’s only one road—and Trueclaw just handed you the perfect pace setter.

Seema Farswani Colors Her Past in “Sketches on the Walls”

Man, every artist hits that moment when it stops being a hobby and turns into a straight-up calling. For Seema Farswani, it didn’t happen in a studio or on a stage—it hit her right there in her room, staring at those old pencil sketches she’d taped up on the walls back in design school. Those scrappy drawings? They didn’t stay quiet. They grew into hooks, into beats, and now they’re her new single, “Sketches on the Walls.”

She’s Indian-American, grew up hopping around the Middle East, and these days she’s planted in Singapore. That “between worlds” life? It’s all over the track—indie pop with a glossy synth pulse that sneaks up and grabs you. Hindi slips in smooth with the English, the beat’s crisp and bouncy, like a late-night drive with the windows down. No gritty rock, no blues wail—just clean, shimmering layers that feel like a diary page set to a loop you can’t quit.

Her debut EP “Got My Mojo” in 2024? That was the raw declaration—soulful, experimental, full of fire. Then 2025 brought the Dem-C feature and “Under a Blazing Sun,” carving her spot in the global indie lane. Talking identity, nostalgia, breaking loose. But “Sketches on the Walls” levels it up—turns reflection into a full glow-up.

She built it with Rish (Berklee grad, Level Music Mumbai) and a sharp BTS production crew. The thing moves like a canvas coming alive: synths breathing color, organic textures tucked under the electronic thump, emotional swells that hit like fresh paint. Every sound’s got purpose—rhythm pops, harmonies lift, and it all locks in tight.

Peel back the shine, though—the heart’s in the message. This ain’t a soft flashback. It’s a comeback flex. About knowing your worth, flipping yourself inside out, and having the nerve to keep evolving. “It’s not about childhood or those old sketches,” Seema said flat-out. “It’s about reclaiming the artist I’ve become—being proud of how I’ve evolved.”

It nails that universal click: the second you stop asking for a green light and just own your spot—as an artist, as a human always shifting gears. Perfect for anyone who’s ever felt the itch to start over, who’s bold enough to scribble their wildest shit right onto life’s walls.

Already racking 10+ scores from outlets worldwide, “Sketches on the Walls” plants Seema as more than a rising name—she’s a border-hopping storyteller, design roots feeding straight into the synth glow.

Her story’s got that hero arc: kid with dreams on the wall, now woman owning the whole damn frame, fusing worlds into her own flavor. And through this track, Seema’s tossing the invite—grab your brushes, your beats, your voice—and go hard: paint your story loud, fearless, in full color.

Leo XIV’s “Feel” – The Bass Line That Broke a Decade of Silence

Dylan Leo Azadi still gets goosebumps thinking about that Tuesday night in his Pilsen walk-up. The radiator was banging out its usual off-beat rhythm, the El train rattling past every seven minutes like clockwork. He hadn’t touched a guitar or opened Logic in forever—ten years of silence, give or take. The depression had been brutal, anxiety a constant hum, and the drinking… well, let’s just say the bottles stacked up faster than the apologies. Then, out of the blue, this bass line crawled into his skull. Low, rubbery, impossible to ignore. He fumbled for his phone, recorded a shaky voice memo, and something inside him shifted. Not fixed—shifted.

That memo turned into “Feel,” Leo XIV’s second single, out Friday, October 17. If you heard “Midas” this summer, you caught the vibe: stripped-down loops that hypnotize, vocals that crack just enough to let the light in, visuals that feel like tarot cards come to life. But “Feel” is the gut punch. It’s the moment you stop scrolling and actually listen.

The track starts with that same acid bass, looping like a prayer you didn’t know you needed. Synths swell in the background, soft as breath, while Dylan’s voice—doubled, tripled, raw—rides a kick drum that sneaks up and makes your hips move before your brain signs off. The lyrics? Straight from the wreckage: burning your hand just to prove you’re alive, chasing ghosts in the mirror, learning to want the morning again. It’s not polished recovery anthems; it’s the messy middle.

The video’s a fever dream shot in an abandoned factory on the South Side. Dylan’s a shadow at first, moving through strobes and projected fractals—sacred geometry spinning like memories he can’t shake. Then the beat drops, the lights hit his face, and you see it: the guy who wrote this lived it. No green screen, no filters, just sweat and truth.

This is the second chapter of a story Dylan never planned to tell. “Midas” was the call to adventure—the golden touch that turned silence into sound. “Feel” is the abyss, the part where the hero realizes the treasure isn’t gold, it’s the scar tissue. The full album, Cold Open, lands early next year, and if these singles are any hint, it’s going to wreck you in the best way.

Scroll through his Instagram comments and you’ll see it already happening. Someone wrote, “Played this on repeat while walking off a three-day bender—haven’t touched a drink since.” Another: “The ‘Midas’ video made me text my brother after two years of nothing.” That’s not marketing. That’s connection. Real people, real stories, real healing in 808s and minor chords.

If you asked Dylan what he wants people to take from “Feel.” He laughed, the kind that starts in the chest. “I just want them to remember they’re not alone in the dark. And maybe dance a little while they’re down there.” He’s not chasing charts or clout—he’s building something quieter, deeper. A space where the weird kids, the late-night criers, the ones who see shapes in the static, can finally exhale.

So yeah, stream it, whatever. Find a corner, hit play, and let that bass line do its work. Leo XIV isn’t here to fix you. He’s just the guy who finally turned the light back on—and he’s holding the door open.

The Cockney Cowboy: How a Walthamstow Lad Found His Voice in Country Twang

Justin was seven when his family swapped the buzz of Walthamstow for the quieter streets of Romford. London’s East End still clung to him like the scent of fried onions from the market stalls, but Essex gave him room to breathe—and, eventually, to sing.

Fast-forward to fifteen, a school night, a mate belting out Garth Brooks at karaoke. One spin of The Dance and the room tilted. Justin felt the hook sink straight into his chest. From that moment, every spare hour went into learning the words, the bends, the stories Garth wrapped in steel guitar. He’d stand in his bedroom mirror, Stetson perched on a teenager’s mop of hair, pretending the hairbrush was a mic and the wardrobe door was a sold-out arena.

Years rolled by in a blur of pub gigs and open-mic nerves. Karaoke turned into proper sets across Essex, Kent, London, even up to Buckinghamshire. Crowds started asking for the Cockney fella in the hat. By 2023, the nickname stuck: The Cockney Cowboy was born.

October 8, 2025, he dropped his first original, City Boy Singing Country Songs. The title says it all—urban kid, country heart. Dave Wright at Musictek AV caught the spark in one take. Infectious kick drum meets bright banjo twang, the kind of groove that makes boots stomp before brains catch up. Justin’s voice rides it like he’s lived every line: the thrill of stepping onstage in a city that never heard a fiddle, the grin when a stranger sings the chorus back at him.

Watch the video and you’ll spot the visuals that match the vibe—neon signs bleeding into dusty sunsets, Justin leaning against a brick wall in cowboy boots, tipping his hat to passing double-deckers. It’s London meeting Nashville without forcing the handshake.

The song is pure Hero’s Journey compressed into three minutes. Call to adventure: that karaoke night. Trials: years of side hustles and sore throats. Mentor: Garth’s ghost in the headphones. Boon: a debut that feels like a promise kept to his fifteen-year-old self.

Live, the connection is instant. Justin locks eyes, tells a quick story about his nan humming along in the front row, then launches into the hook. Phones stay in pockets; people sway instead of scroll. That’s the magic he’s chasing—turning strangers into a temporary family, one chorus at a time.

He’s already back in the studio, second single taking shape. “Good people got my back,” he says, voice cracking with gratitude. “Producers, mates, punters who travel miles for a ten-minute set. I owe them the next chapter.”

Head to thecockneycowboy.com for the tour dates—Essex pubs, Kent beer gardens, a couple of sneaky London rooftops. Wherever he lands, bring your dancing shoes and an open ear. The city boy’s still singing country songs, and the story’s just getting good.