Uncharted Currents: Weekly Discover 55

This week’s selection isn’t built for the background—it’s crafted for those who lean in, who listen deeper.

Uncharted Currents dives into a wave of sound shaped by bold voices and restless creativity. These aren’t just tracks—they’re fragments of transformation, sonic experiments that blur genre lines and expose emotion without hesitation.

What makes this chapter different? It’s the rawness. The refusal to follow. The sense that each artist here is exploring something real—unfiltered and untamed. From stripped-back confessionals to future-facing beats, there’s a story behind every note, and a challenge in every rhythm.

This isn’t nostalgia. It’s not noise for the algorithm. It’s a moment—fresh, fearless, and undeniably now.

Curated with intent by 1111CR3W, Weekly Discover 55 reminds us that music isn’t standing still—and neither are we.

2 Divide: Reworking Power, Rewriting Self

In the quiet corners of Kidderminster, where music pulses behind closed doors and creativity thrives in the hush of solitude, 2 Divide was busy lighting a fire. That fire—emotional, relentless, and transformative—takes full shape in Don’t Stop the Love Reworked, a remix single that reaches beyond the walls of a home studio to tap into something universal. Slated for release on May 29, 2025, the track isn’t just a reimagined version of its predecessor—it’s a resurrection, a rallying cry, and a raw exploration of power, vulnerability, and the moments that fracture and forge us.

The track's heartbeat is unmistakable: a bold synth motif inspired by Kate Bush’s Running Up That Hill—an homage not just in sound, but in spirit. Like Bush, 2 Divide leans into emotional extremes, refusing to shy away from the dark corners of personal experience. This is a song born from lived moments: conflict, collapse, and a kind of emotional claustrophobia. But within that tension lies the seed of power. Each verse reveals a speaker grappling with identity and control, painted in vivid imagery—the black sky, the weight of resistance, the breathless urgency of “make it happen.” These aren’t just lyrics; they’re survival notes.

At the heart of this remix is a creative partnership that added new breath to the song’s lungs. Enter DJ Luca Fregonese, whose house club mix doesn’t dilute the original’s emotional depth but expands it, lifting the raw edges into something magnetic. His influence brings movement and momentum, making the track equally at home on dance floors as it is in headphones during late-night soul searches. The production remains rooted in 2 Divide’s DIY ethic—a home studio setup where emotion and experimentation coexist—proving once again that intimacy and innovation aren’t mutually exclusive.

This remix isn’t just about aesthetic choices; it’s about emotional alchemy. By the time the chorus arrives—“Your love it lifts me up… takes me higher… sets my world on fire”—there’s a clear shift. The song doesn’t soothe; it surges. Love here isn’t passive—it’s primal, propulsive. It’s the kind of love that burns through confusion and carves out clarity. And in that fire, the speaker reclaims their voice. What began in chaos ends in catharsis, a sonic rebirth shaped by resilience.

Part of what makes Don’t Stop the Love Reworked so compelling is how it fuses personal narrative with universal resonance. Even without a live performance schedule (for now), the song pulses with connection. It’s the type of track that sneaks into playlists, hearts, and journal entries. It speaks directly to anyone who’s felt overwhelmed and still dared to press forward. That kind of authenticity doesn’t require a stage—it demands a listening ear and an open heart.

2 Divide’s artistry doesn’t chase trends—it examines them, repurposes them, and turns them inward. The artist’s choice to include this release as part of a PhD case study further elevates the song beyond entertainment; it becomes a cultural artifact, dissecting the complex interplay between sound, story, and identity. It’s music as research, as healing, as protest. A reminder that creation is often born from confrontation—not just with the world, but with oneself.

"Don't change your sound. This is your vibe." It’s a quote passed to 2 Divide, but it reads like a manifesto. In Don’t Stop the Love Reworked, 2 Divide doesn’t just hold onto their sound—they amplify it. Through vulnerability and vision, they remind us that even in the darkest moments, there's a rhythm worth dancing to and a story still worth telling.

“One of Dem”: Crown Vega & Archangel’s Heroic Return to the Raw Core of Rap

From the heart of Memphis, a city carved deep into the DNA of hip-hop, comes a collaboration that doesn’t just command attention — it earns it. One of Dem, the joint EP by Crown Vega and Archangel, isn’t just another project in the streaming shuffle. It’s a narrative. A confrontation. A reclamation of rap’s roots in storytelling, skill, and soul. Across seven electrifying tracks, these two artists don’t just spit bars — they build worlds, rich with struggle, confidence, humor, and purpose.

For Crown Vega, whose production style has always walked the tightrope between cinematic and street, One of Dem feels like a statement long in the making. And with Archangel beside him — a rapper known for his relentless wit and tactical flow — the duo doesn’t miss a beat. Together, they move like old comrades in battle, trading verses with the kind of chemistry that can’t be manufactured. It’s the sound of trust, of shared vision, of knowing exactly why they’re here.

The project opens with F U, a no-frills, vintage-feeling anthem that drips with intent. It’s not just brash — it’s strategic. The bars cut sharp, the beat swings with old-school swagger, and the message is clear: these two aren’t chasing trends. They’re building legacies. What follows is a sonic journey that plays like chapters in a modern epic — from the bass-heavy flex of We da Ones, to the motivational fire of In the Way, each track reflects a different mask the duo wears — warrior, poet, underdog, king.

But this isn’t a cold or distant show of lyrical flexing. Vega and Archangel thread something deeper beneath the bravado — vulnerability masked in resilience. Everything but Basic is a prime example. Beneath its confident surface lies a celebration of self-worth, of choosing authenticity over assimilation. It’s a track that connects especially with listeners walking their own tightrope of identity in a culture that often demands compromise.

What makes One of Dem so compelling is its refusal to conform to a single sonic box. Crown Vega’s beats are bold yet unpretentious — distorted where needed, soulful where it counts. The production doesn't just support the bars; it elevates them. The hooks aren’t tossed in for commercial flair, but serve as narrative anchors — moments that listeners can grip onto like mantras. Tracks like We da Ones dare you to chant along, while In the Way dares you to reflect.

And then there’s the dynamic between the two artists themselves. Vega, the architect, paints broad strokes with his beats and vocals. Archangel, the technician, slices through the canvas with razor-sharp verses. Yet neither overshadows the other. They’re not competing — they’re completing. The effect is magnetic: two seasoned voices, both shaped by their own battles, merging into one powerful, unified front.

One of Dem doesn’t ask for respect. It demands it, through precision, creativity, and heart. It’s a project born of Memphis grit and elevated by experience — not just in the game of rap, but in life. Crown Vega and Archangel aren’t just “one of them” — they’re two of the rare ones still carrying the torch for rap as an art form, as a language of survival, and as a force of cultural truth.

Sunset Soundscapes: Alex Star’s Sonic Journey to “IAM GOING TO THE BEACH”

In a world that often races forward, Alex Star’s latest release, IAM GOING TO THE BEACH, invites us to pause, breathe, and feel. Not just through lyrics or melody, but through a lived experience translated into sound. Born from the golden haze of a Greek summer, the track isn’t just a song—it’s a mood, a place, a memory crystallized in rhythm. It began with something small: post-it notes scribbled under the Mediterranean sun, half-melted by cocktails and salt air. But behind those casual scribbles lies a masterful blend of spontaneity and sonic craftsmanship.

Alex, the project’s sole composer and creative helm, doesn’t cite any major artist influences. Instead, the spark came from within—a soundtrack imagined in real time as he strolled sun-drenched streets on his way to Kalamata’s beaches. That unfiltered joy became his muse. Back home in the studio in Nice, France, the idea bloomed. With a range of iterations, from synth-laced chill to pulsing Latin-inspired dance beats, Alex shaped the track like a sculptor playing with sunbeams—preserving that summer euphoria across versions.

What makes IAM GOING TO THE BEACH so effective isn’t its complexity, but its honesty. You can hear it in the subtle production choices: the natural instruments layered over four tracks, the warm presence of Jake’s vocals (a close friend and collaborator), and the sense of ease baked into every bar. It’s a song that feels like sunscreen on your shoulders and the slow motion of waves—easygoing yet intentional. No overproduction, no glossed-over emotions—just clarity.

While the track exists as a standalone single, it carries the kind of weight albums often chase: a transportive experience. For Alex, it’s not just music—it’s memory preservation. The ability to embed personal moments in melodies, and gift them to others as emotional time capsules, is something he holds sacred. That vision will soon extend to the stage in Marseille this August, where Alex is set to perform live—bringing the beach to the city in his own luminous way.

But beneath the lighthearted vibe lies a deeper narrative—one that follows a classic Hero’s Journey. From theater student playing for small audiences to standing in front of 4,200 people for the first time, Alex has battled doubt, navigated transition, and ultimately chosen joy as his compass. His music reflects that evolution, marrying the depth of his performance roots with a newfound freedom in sound.

More than just a summer anthem, IAM GOING TO THE BEACH is a reminder of how we carry our memories, our escapes, and our longing for balance in the everyday. As curators, DJs, and listeners dig into this release, what they’ll find is more than a catchy hook—it’s a transportive postcard from a life well-lived, wrapped in rhythm.

Because for Alex Star, music isn’t about spectacle. It’s about resonance. “I love to bring memories or special senses alive,” he says. And with IAM GOING TO THE BEACH, he’s done just that—distilling a perfect summer into three radiant minutes.

The Thousand-Layered Pulse of Summer: 1000 Handz and the Sonic Escape of Electric Island

There’s a moment in every artist’s life when the music stops being just sound—and becomes a way home. For 1000 Handz, that moment arrived during long Toronto nights, headphones on, city lights reflecting off frozen sidewalks. House music wasn’t just background noise; it was a lifeline. Years later, that deep connection takes center stage in Electric Island, a warm, analog-drenched sonic journey that feels like dancing on sun-warmed sand at golden hour—even if you're standing alone in a concrete jungle.

The album, due out June 20, 2025, is more than a playlist of tracks—it's a lived-in experience. 1000 Handz, a longtime craftsman of sound and energy, opens a new chapter by blending his roots in analog warmth with sleek digital production. Collaborators like Aemka, dat guy LX, ADG, RJC Productions, Ketsa, Rocktee, and 808plugbeats don’t just appear as features—they help build the world. Together, they sculpt a tropical house landscape that nods to giants like Deadmau5, Kaskade, and Daft Punk, yet remains undeniably personal in voice and vision.

But Electric Island doesn’t aim for chart-topping simplicity. Instead, it leans into layered melodies and subtle storytelling. The title track pulses with nostalgia and hope, while “Voyager” spins a narrative of freedom—pushing forward, letting go. These aren’t just club bangers; they’re emotional blueprints for summer nights that turn into mornings. In this, 1000 Handz proves himself less a DJ and more a cartographer of feeling—mapping the spaces where sound meets soul.

Behind the boards and beats lies a deeper narrative: the journey of an artist who never quite fit the mold. While mainstream house often leans on repetition and predictability, 1000 Handz has always chased detail, complexity, and emotional depth. His work whispers of late-night walks, quiet resilience, and the search for something real in a genre that can sometimes feel synthetic. It’s no surprise his audience often describes the music as “cinematic” or “transportive”—because every track seems to come with its own internal film reel.

Visually, Electric Island mirrors the music’s duality—bold color palettes, retro-futuristic artwork, and natural elements layered over digital motifs. 1000 Handz has an eye for aesthetics, creating a visual language that complements his sonic world. This connection extends to his audience, where he’s cultivated not just listeners, but a growing community of dreamers, dancers, and creators who feel seen in his immersive, no-rules approach.

As the release date approaches, the buzz grows—not just because of the music, but because of what it represents. Electric Island isn’t selling escapism—it’s offering return. A return to feeling, to motion, to music that doesn’t rush or pander, but builds trust with every beat. It’s a bold move in an algorithm-fed world, but one that feels necessary, even overdue.

With Electric Island, 1000 Handz doesn’t just ask you to listen—he invites you to arrive. Wherever you are, however you feel, there’s space for you on the island. And once you're there, the music does what it was always meant to do: connect, uplift, and remind you that you're not alone in the rhythm.

Lexytron – “Disco Jenny”

There’s always a track that sneaks its way into summer, sun-drenched and glitter-laced, and this year, it just might be “Disco Jenny.” The second single from Lexytron’s upcoming album Something New is a sonic cocktail of funk, brass, and sharp-tongued frustration that’s too infectious to ignore.

From the first brassy blast, Disco Jenny makes it clear this isn’t a passive-aggressive ballad—it’s a dancefloor showdown. “Why can’t you just tell me how you feel?” Lexytron demands, her voice cutting through the groove with a mix of anger and sarcasm that feels both theatrical and deeply relatable. Think Donna Summer after a few gin and tonics and a text left on read.

Lexytron—half of the Auckland-based English duo Lexy & Mike—has carved out a niche for herself with her blend of sardonic storytelling and alt-pop drama. Where her debut album Something Blue flirted with genre lines, Something New is a sharper pivot toward bold, electronic textures, without losing the live-wire energy that made her debut stand out. Self-produced in their Tāmaki Makaurau studio and polished by London’s Marco Meloni, the track glows with polish but thrums with tension.

Musically, Disco Jenny pulls no punches. The rhythm section is tight and relentless, anchored by Stephen Lake’s nimble bass lines, while Gwyn Owen’s trumpet injects bursts of chaos and charm. Background vocals from Londoners EVA and Elen Cowlishaw add a layer of call-and-response sass, like a Greek chorus in heels and glitter eyeshadow.

Lyrically, Lexytron straddles that narrow line between vulnerability and venom. She doesn’t just ask the question—she demands answers. But rather than wallow, Disco Jenny twirls and struts its way through romantic disillusionment. It’s heartbreak dressed up for a night out, and the result is cathartic, clever, and utterly danceable.

This isn’t just a breakup song—it’s a make-you-move manifesto. And as far as songs of the summer go, Disco Jenny has the hooks, the heat, and the horn section to claim its crown. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself yelling, “Why can’t you just tell me how you feel?” at someone across a crowded dancefloor sometime soon.

The Observer’s Voice: Bill Barlow and the Sonic Roadmap of Emotion Journey

Before the streaming era flattened the musical landscape, an artist like Bill Barlow might’ve been sidelined—too thoughtful for the mainstream, too polished for the indie underground. But today, his sincerity is an asset, and Emotion Journey proves it. The Tampa-based artist has poured a lifetime of stories, scars, and smiles into his new album, delivering a work that’s both unassuming and unforgettable. It’s not a record that screams for attention—it earns it quietly, like a familiar friend who always knows what to say.

Barlow’s path hasn’t followed the typical arc of an aspiring musician. With a successful advertising and marketing career already under his belt, he wasn’t looking for stardom—he was seeking expression. Songwriting was never a calculated career move, but a long-burning fire lit in adolescence. And now, decades later, it’s that same emotional honesty that sets Emotion Journey apart. Each track feels lived-in, drawn from real places, where heartbreak meets humor and every line carries a weight that’s hard to fake.

He calls himself an “observational writer,” but Barlow’s gift lies in empathy, not detachment. He doesn’t just see people—he channels them. His lyrics don’t ask you to admire his life; they ask you to reflect on your own. You’re never quite sure if he’s telling his story or yours—and that’s the magic.

Emotion Journey doesn’t chase trends. Its production, though digitally built, doesn’t wear the synthetic gloss that defines much of modern pop. Instead, there’s a warm, lived-in texture—acoustic flourishes, subtle synth layers, and a vocal tone that’s as much conversation as melody. The result is a listening experience that’s both cinematic and intimate. It’s music for late-night drives, rainy afternoons, or any moment you find yourself needing a quiet companion.

What makes Barlow stand out is his willingness to lean into contradiction. Vulnerability and humor sit side by side. He can write a line that cuts deep, then follow it with one that makes you smirk. That emotional range—rare and refreshing—is what invites listeners to come back, not just to the songs, but to the artist behind them. You get the sense that Barlow’s not trying to impress; he’s trying to connect.

Fans have already begun to gravitate toward the record’s dual spirit—part confessional, part observational. It’s the kind of album that doesn’t spike on your first listen but grows with you, echoing your own emotional rhythms. Whether it’s love, loss, or laughter, there’s a thread for everyone to grab onto. And in an age of hyper-curated personas and algorithm-driven soundbites, Barlow’s unfiltered approach feels like a quiet revolution.

With Emotion Journey, Bill Barlow doesn’t just share music—he offers a mirror. In doing so, he’s not just another name in the rising wave of independent creators redefining what success looks like. He’s proof that sometimes, the most powerful stories are told not from the stage, but from the heart of someone who’s been listening all along. The Observer’s Voice: Bill Barlow and the Sonic Roadmap of Emotion Journey.

Rising Again: Mr B & The Wolf Take Flight with “Black Crow”

In the heart of Colchester, where quiet streets echo with the distant thump of rehearsal rooms, Mr B & The Wolf have been quietly reinventing themselves. Formed in 2019 and forged through the ups and downs of lineup changes, the band recently welcomed guitarist Ricardo Machado into the fold—igniting a new chapter in their story. Their latest single, “Black Crow,” is more than a song; it’s the sound of four musicians rediscovering their shared voice. It began, as many great tracks do, with a riff—simple, raw, and unexpected. What followed was a slow build of trust, experimentation, and intuition that turned a jam session into something deeply resonant.

Led by the steady hand and lyrical grit of Mr B (Dean Baker), the band’s journey mirrors the arc of a classic hero’s tale—one marked by challenge, reinvention, and return. In early 2024, the band faced the loss of both their rhythm and lead guitarists. Instead of retreating, the trio—Mr B, drummer Jason Chown, and bassist/vocalist Jason Bird—pressed forward, reshaping their sound until Ricardo’s arrival brought a spark that lit up the whole room. It was in that new alchemy that “Black Crow” took flight.

The track is a sonic blend of bluesy rock with just enough edge to feel dangerous, yet comforting. Recorded at their trusted creative home, Wavebreak Studios in Essex, under the meticulous engineering of Paul Hepworth, the band embraced a new approach—laying down parts individually. This studio freedom gave them the chance to explore textures, layer effects, and capture the spirit of spontaneity. It’s not often a crow caw makes it into a final mix, but in this case, it’s the kind of left-field magic that gives the track its signature wink.

There’s an emotional undertow to “Black Crow” that grounds the song beyond its swagger. As Mr B explains, the idea behind it is deceptively simple: “No matter where you are in the world, there’s always someone looking out for you.” That universal message, wrapped in growling guitars and soul-scorched vocals, creates a connection with listeners who might be chasing their own sense of direction. It’s this undercurrent of watchfulness, of care, that makes the single stand out as both a musical milestone and a spiritual marker for the band.

Live, Mr B & The Wolf are gearing up to reintroduce themselves. Their debut performance of “Black Crow” on May 23rd at The Three Wise Monkeys is set to mark a turning point. Sharing the stage with top Colchester acts, and then headlining The Moonraker’s Bank Holiday Festival two days later, the band isn’t just testing new waters—they’re diving in headfirst. And if rehearsals are anything to go by, audiences are in for a performance that walks the line between gritty confidence and wide-eyed renewal.

What’s clear is that “Black Crow” isn’t just a product of musicianship—it’s a byproduct of real chemistry. “We always write as a group,” Mr B says. “And for it to mean anything, we all have to really be in the song.” It’s that shared investment that transforms a studio experiment into something fans can feel in their bones. When drummer Jason Chown heard the final mix and said, “We sound like Mr B & The Wolf again,” it wasn’t nostalgia—it was confirmation that they’d come home.

With “Black Crow,” Mr B & The Wolf aren’t just flying again—they’re soaring with purpose. Reunited in spirit and sharper than ever in sound, the band’s newest single stands as proof that even after seasons of change, authenticity always finds its way back.

Piers Baron: Under the Spell of “Beneath Our Regal Moon”

In the quiet hours of Los Angeles, long after the city’s usual rhythm fades into a hush, Piers Baron often finds himself at his piano—not chasing inspiration, but listening for it. His latest release, Beneath Our Regal Moon, is the fourth in a series of cinematic soundscapes this year and perhaps his most intimate yet. Carved from the emotional terrain of classical romanticism and lifted by modern production finesse, the piece captures the stillness and grandeur of a moonlit revelation—a moment of clarity suspended in strings.

Baron’s creative path has always been unorthodox. Beginning in electronic music and drum & bass before shifting into cinematic composition, he has moved fluidly between genres without ever losing his core artistic identity: emotion first. Beneath Our Regal Moon doesn’t beg for attention—it invites the listener in slowly, like a whispered conversation at the edge of sleep. It’s this restraint and emotional intelligence that marks Baron not just as a composer, but as a storyteller who speaks through orchestras instead of words.

Recorded live with a 20-piece orchestra in Stockholm, the piece carries both the raw vulnerability of real-time musicianship and the precision of a visionary at the helm. Composed entirely in his LA studio, Baron approached the track not as a stand-alone work, but as a stepping stone into Stringdaze, his forthcoming album. If Beneath Our Regal Moon is any indication, Stringdaze will be less a record and more an emotional atlas—each track guiding listeners through moods and memories they may not have known they held.

This isn’t mood music in the background sense—it’s music that creates mood. Meditative yet dynamic, gentle yet commanding, Baron’s orchestration has the rare quality of mirroring the listener’s internal world. Whether soundtracking a reflective drive, a still morning, or the pages of a journal yet to be written, Beneath Our Regal Moon finds its place without imposing.

Baron’s recent collaborations speak volumes about his reach beyond music alone. His work with iconic photographer Annie Leibovitz underscores his ability to soundtrack visual artistry in ways that transcend genre and era. There’s a timelessness to what Baron creates—he’s not just scoring for the now, but for moments that might live on in films, exhibitions, and the personal archives of those moved by his sound.

The story here isn’t just about a song or an album—it’s about a composer finding his truest voice not by pushing louder, but by becoming more still. Baron’s evolution from high-tempo club bangers to emotionally rich orchestral pieces reflects a larger artistic journey: one of maturity, depth, and trust in subtlety. He’s not chasing trends; he’s composing truths.

Beneath Our Regal Moon reminds us that in a world of constant noise, silence—especially when shaped into melody—can be the most powerful form of expression. With Stringdaze on the horizon, Piers Baron is charting a path that feels both ancient and immediate, regal and human. The moon above may be the same one we’ve always known, but under Baron’s direction, it feels brand new.

Fixed Fate’s Fight Song: Jon Bessette and the Redemption Behind “Won’t Wait Here”

In the quiet hours of rehab, when time stretches long and thoughts grow loud, Jon Bessette found something worth saving: his voice. Not just the one that belts lyrics over guitar riffs, but the voice that had gone silent under the weight of addiction, shame, and collapse. Out of that silence rose Pink Cloud Syndrome, a concept album born from a 28-day stint that would become both a personal reckoning and a resurrection. “Won’t Wait Here,” the record’s lead single, isn’t just a song—it’s a declaration. A line drawn. A breath held and finally released.

Bessette, the driving force behind Cohoes, NY-based project Fixed Fate, handles nearly every note himself. From guitar to bass to vocals and everything in between—except the drums, which beat from half a world away in South Africa thanks to Warren Van Wyk—Won’t Wait Here is Bessette’s purest expression of defiance. The track doesn’t beg for attention. It stands its ground, raw and unfiltered. Produced by Kyle James at KL Studios in Rensselaer, the song stacks its sonic layers one by one, mirroring the way Bessette rebuilt his own life: piece by piece, mistake by mistake, melody by melody.

Musically, “Won’t Wait Here” threads the timeless energy of Tesla and Jani Lane with the gritty vulnerability of Alice in Chains. There’s a deliberate throwback charm in the chord progressions, yet nothing about it feels derivative. Instead, it’s like flicking through a dusty photo album only to discover that some of those snapshots are of yourself—older, bruised, but wiser. The track doesn’t hide behind nostalgia. It uses it as armor. It carries the DNA of 80s and 90s rock, but breathes with a modern urgency that resonates with listeners who know what it means to hit bottom and claw their way back.

Lyrically, Bessette cuts close to the bone. There’s no posturing here. No romanticization of pain. Just hard truths delivered with a melodic hook that dares you to sing along anyway. The chorus of “Won’t Wait Here” isn’t just catchy—it’s cathartic. This is songwriting as self-confrontation. A reminder that sometimes the bravest thing an artist can do is stop hiding behind metaphor and say exactly what they mean. For Bessette, that meant owning his chaos, reclaiming his narrative, and refusing to stay quiet any longer.

But what makes Fixed Fate’s story resonate isn’t just the comeback arc—it’s the community he’s building in its wake. Whether it’s local shows in upstate New York or the growing wave of listeners finding echoes of their own struggles in his lyrics, Bessette’s journey is becoming a mirror for others. He’s not positioning himself as a savior, but as proof: that brokenness doesn’t have to be the final word. That art can emerge from darkness not as a cry for help, but as a rallying cry.

As summer rolls on, Fixed Fate will take to the stage again, culminating in a September 4th performance at the Shirt Factory in Glens Falls. It won’t be a spectacle—it’ll be a homecoming. A chance for Bessette to stand in front of an audience not as a man burdened by his past, but as someone who’s made peace with it, and found power in the process. “Every time you count this guy out,” he says, “he lands on his feet and comes roaring back.” That’s not ego. That’s earned.

With Pink Cloud Syndrome on the horizon and “Won’t Wait Here” carving its place in the rock revival of now, Jon Bessette isn’t chasing trends or nostalgia. He’s chasing legacy. Not the kind etched in platinum records, but the kind passed quietly from one soul to another. The kind that says: you’re not alone. You can start over. And most importantly—you don’t have to wait anymore.

Sharine — “January Eleven”: A Quiet Requiem for Resilience

In the early morning hours of January 11, 2025, as wildfire smoke cloaked the skies near Los Angeles, composer Marcos Sainz sat at his piano, moved by more than the danger outside. A displaced family had just arrived at his home—tired, hopeful, and carrying nothing but each other. Their calm in the face of loss struck a chord within him, and as they settled in, his fingers found the keys. What followed was “January Eleven,” a neoclassical piano piece that speaks volumes through its silences, weaving heartbreak and healing into each delicate note.

This is Sharine—not just a musical project, but a deeply personal tribute wrapped in sound. Named after his mother, Charina “Sharine” Zaragoza, a Columbia Records singer-songwriter and former Miss Philippines, Marcos draws from a legacy steeped in grace and resilience. His mother’s stage presence lives on in his music, not as showmanship, but as a quiet invitation to feel, to grieve, and to find peace in reflection.

Marcos was born in the Philippines and raised in Madrid, where melody and migration shaped his worldview. His father, Lucas Sainz, once opened for The Beatles with Spanish rock pioneers Los Pekenikes. Yet it’s not fame that fuels Marcos’s artistry—it’s the echo of homes left behind, the subtle ache of distance, and a longing for belonging. Leaving home at 17 to study in the U.S., he began stitching together identity through music, his compositions acting as compass points for an ever-evolving sense of self.

Under the Sharine moniker, Marcos crafts minimalist piano works that serve as emotional sanctuaries. In a world that rarely pauses, his pieces are spaces to breathe. “January Eleven” doesn’t dramatize the fires—it honors the people who quietly withstood them. Its chords swell with empathy, its tempo mirrors the heartbeat of a moment where fear and faith met under one roof.

Visually, the Sharine project feels like a warm photograph gently fading at the edges—intimate, nostalgic, and reverent. The cover art often reflects the simplicity of the music itself: blurred landscapes, soft tones, and empty rooms filled with light. These visuals, like the compositions, create a container for emotion—deliberately understated, yet rich with meaning for those willing to lean in.

What connects Sharine to audiences isn’t volume, but vulnerability. Marcos doesn’t perform to impress; he composes to comfort. His audience isn’t a crowd—it’s the individual listener, the night owl at the piano, the parent rocking a child back to sleep, the person who just needs to feel understood. This is music for real life, in all its fragile glory.

With “January Eleven,” Sharine gives us more than a song. He gives us a mirror, a moment, a message: that even as the world burns, hope can find shelter in a single home. In seven minutes of piano, Marcos reminds us that comfort isn’t the absence of hardship—it’s the grace we show each other when the flames close in.