Weekly Discover 57 — “Disruption Mode”

There’s a point where music stops being background and starts becoming a force. Disruption Mode lives in that space—where every beat interrupts your scroll, every lyric shakes loose something you forgot you buried. This isn’t chill. This isn’t clean. It’s combustible.

This week, the artists aren’t following scripts—they’re tearing them apart. What you’ll hear is less about perfection and more about presence: cracked vocals that bleed truth, rhythms that refuse symmetry, and sound design that embraces chaos instead of smoothing it over.

Each track feels like a line crossed. Not for shock value, but because boundaries mean nothing when the message matters more. There’s tension here—creative, emotional, even political—and it makes the playlist hum with urgency.

You’ll feel it in the basslines that don’t resolve, in hooks that land sideways, and in the unapologetic refusal to be background noise. These aren’t crowd-pleasers—they’re soul-jolters.

Curated, as always, with intent by 1111CR3W, this session reminds us that discovering new music isn’t about chasing what’s trending—it’s about finding what won’t let go. And this week, nothing stays quiet.

a_shes Isn’t Just Nostalgic—He’s Honest, Unfiltered, and Weirdly Addictive

The first time you press play on young adult fiction, you don’t just listen—you remember. You remember being 17 and pretending to feel older. You remember the version of adulthood you thought was waiting on the other side of your high school graduation. And then you realize: a_shes remembers too. That’s the magic here. Not just slick production or catchy melodies (though it has plenty of both), but the way this Malaysian-Bornean artist translates millennial/Gen Z growing pains into synth-soaked confessions that sound like voice notes to a friend you haven’t seen since pre-pandemic.

The album kicks off with autumn city, a shimmering curtain-rise that immediately makes it clear this isn’t your typical coming-of-age record. It’s more like a coming-to-terms one. There’s a breathless optimism tangled with the anxiety of newness—he’s "touring on the cusp of starting a new life," but it’s not the montage you imagined. There’s no epic kiss in the rain. Just bus stops, neon dance floors, and the slow realization that the real world doesn’t give you a soundtrack unless you make your own. Which is exactly what he did.

The standout track movies & music hit me harder than I expected. It's not just the stripped-down production or that devastating line—“I’m eighteen until I’m twenty-nine”—it's the eerie accuracy of it. He wrote it in the haze of lockdown, where growing up felt paused, pixelated, and painfully quiet. It’s the kind of song that feels like it knew you before you knew it. And with production help from Imad Salhi, there's a strange, aching beauty in how minimal it sounds—like a journal entry he almost didn’t share.

What I love most about a_shes is that he doesn’t try to sound cooler than he is. There’s no faux edginess, no over-polished persona. He’s self-aware, slightly sarcastic, and emotionally available in a way that feels uncomfortably familiar. Tracks like party politics and jet streams hit from two different directions—one’s a blurry night out, the other’s a lonely morning after. He never tries to tie it all up with a bow. In fact, half the songs end more like a question than a statement.

And here’s the wild part: young adult fiction started in GarageBand on an old Macbook. That lo-fi origin story isn’t just a fun fact—it bleeds into the music. Even with its professional finish, there’s a tactile rawness (not Raw™, but actually human-raw) in how it was built. a_shes isn’t hiding behind production. He’s using it like a diary, layering thoughts, doubts, memories, and the occasional hook that makes you go, “Damn, wait—who is this?”

This isn’t bedroom pop for the algorithm. It’s Tumblr-era indie-pop retooled for people who now have full-time jobs and existential dread. And yet somehow, it’s hopeful. Especially on glory days, which closes the record like a quiet fist raised to the sky. A breakup song, yes—but not with a person. It’s him letting go of the kid who believed every movie ending was permanent. There’s something almost... comforting about that.

If you're late to discovering a_shes, good. That means you get to be part of the slow build. The underground ripple before the indie blogs catch on again. He’s not pushing for viral moments—he’s carving out space for those of us still figuring it out. And with whispers of a second album already circling, it’s clear he’s just getting started. You might want to get in now.

The Nachos Approach: Elena C. Lockleis and the Art of Not Trying Too Hard

Elena C. Lockleis isn’t trying to be your next pop obsession. She’s just trying to tell the truth—hers, mostly—and if that truth hits you in the chest on a late-night drive or mid-scroll meltdown, well, mission accomplished. Her latest single (crafted with a team assembled entirely online) is one of those deceptively simple tracks that feels like reading someone’s diary with the page still warm. The production’s clean, soft-edged. Her vocals? Conversational but quietly loaded. Like a friend trying to keep it together during brunch.

There’s something wonderfully unpretentious about how this project came together. No high-rise studios. No in-the-room co-writes. Elena sourced her collaborators through Fiverr and AirGigs—a vocalist and a producer who, according to her, just got it. That kind of remote intimacy bleeds into the music: there’s distance, sure, but also cohesion. You can tell everyone involved was tuned into the same emotional wavelength. It’s like a long-distance relationship that, against all odds, actually works.

You hear the Julia Michaels influence right away, but Elena doesn’t mimic—she refracts. The storytelling is tight, almost casual, but you start to notice how each line threads into the next, building a mood that feels half-dream, half-anxiety spiral. “I think a lot about what love might look like in the future,” she says. “What love might look like with Depression mixed in.” And there it is—the kicker. That sharp but soft lens she uses to filter every line, every melody. Like she’s writing love songs from the waiting room of a therapist’s office.

She isn’t trying to make a grand statement about mental health or the modern condition or whatever. She’s just trying to be honest in the moment. “Honor the song,” she says—a mantra that’s been echoing in her head for years now. And it shows. There’s a kind of restraint in the writing, an intentional lack of over-explaining. The track trusts you to pick up on what it’s really about. Or not. That’s part of the charm too.

Elena’s music has this weird little contradiction I love: it’s incredibly self-aware, but never self-important. Even her own metaphor for it—"My songs are me on a platter. But I want to share the nachos, you know?"—manages to be both hilarious and weirdly perfect. She’s not delivering some profound artist statement wrapped in a bow. She’s handing you a paper plate and saying, dig in.

And honestly? That’s refreshing as hell. In an industry full of image-first packaging and self-mythologizing, Elena is writing music that doesn’t beg for your attention—it just deserves it. You find yourself coming back, not because it’s loud, but because it lingers. The kind of track you forget the title of, but not the feeling it left behind.

She’s still early in the game, but there’s something real here. A voice that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. A process that embraces imperfection. And a vision that, even when it’s clouded by depression or doubt, knows how to find the hook anyway. Keep your eyes on her. Or don’t. She’ll be making this music either way.

Spaghetti Western Synths: How CATSINGTON Found Magic in Digital-Age Heartbreak

It’s not every day you hear a song that feels like it walked out of a ‘70s spaghetti western, got drunk on LCD Soundsystem, and then told you—gently but firmly—that you’re enough just the way you are. But ENOUGH IS ENOUGH, the latest drop from CATSINGTON, pulls that off with swagger and sincerity. It’s all dusty snare hits, gliding basslines, and a vocal delivery that makes self-acceptance feel like a standoff at high noon—except instead of guns, they’ve got synths and soft defiance.

CATSINGTON isn’t some high-budget, label-fabricated indie darling. This whole project started as a personal rebellion. Jeff Katz—known in certain circles for his sharp eye as a filmmaker and photographer—basically said screw it after a creatively stifling film project. He holed up in his LA apartment, surrounded by old gear and unprocessed feelings, and started building something real. What came out wasn’t just a solo project—it became a band, a story, and a strangely romantic time capsule.

Here’s the wild part: the voice that brings CATSINGTON to life? It belongs to Swiss vocalist Bhuvan Singh, whom Katz found on Instagram. (Yes, really.) It’s one of those improbable digital-age connections that shouldn’t work, but totally does. There’s chemistry there—not just sonically, but emotionally. You can hear it in the way their voices weave in and out, in the tension between analog grit and digital polish. It’s like listening to a breakup in slow motion, but somehow still wanting to dance.

And CATSINGTON does make you want to dance. Not in a bottle-service-club kind of way—more like in your living room, 2AM, still wearing the clothes from earlier, staring into space while the lights flicker. Tracks often start in a place of improvisation, anchored by bassist Paul Bucholz and drummer Justin Heaverin, then build into layered, oddly cinematic vignettes. The production is clever without being showy. It feels unfiltered, but there’s serious craftsmanship under the hood.

What sets ENOUGH IS ENOUGH apart isn’t just its message—it’s the delivery. This isn’t some preachy anthem. It’s more like your cool older sibling reminding you not to let the world shrink you. The song nods to retro influences without becoming parody. Think Nancy Sinatra meets indie-electro fever dream. And the weird part? It works. Like, really works. It sticks with you longer than it should.

There’s a sweet contradiction at the heart of CATSINGTON: a project born out of creative frustration that somehow ended up being this vulnerable, collaborative expression. You can feel the emotional residue of something—maybe love, maybe longing, maybe both—haunting these tracks. It’s rare for a band to sound this new and this nostalgic at once. Almost like you’re remembering something you never lived through.

With four singles out and momentum building, CATSINGTON feels less like a side project and more like a mission. They’re not trying to reinvent the wheel—they’re repainting it in sepia tones, looping it through a VHS machine, and scoring it with heartbreak. And if this is what they’re doing now, I can’t wait to hear what happens when they stop holding back entirely.

Billy Vega’s “Hot Lava” Isn’t Just a Song—It’s a Spark

It’s wild to think “Hot Lava” started in a GarageBand session after a night out. One of those evenings where your heart’s racing, your brain’s buzzing, and you feel like you could either write a pop banger or drunk-text your ex. Thankfully, Billy Vega chose the former—and six years later, that flash of inspiration turned into a sleek, synth-forward anthem that hits like a summer crush on overdrive.

There’s a pulse to “Hot Lava” that doesn’t let go. The synths aren’t just layered—they’re launched. Vega wanted momentum, and he got it. The track opens with a sonic buildup that mirrors actual lava rumbling under the surface, right before everything bursts into the chorus. That little “boom” sound before the hook? It’s not just a flourish—it’s a fuse. And when that beat drops out for a second, letting the bass line do the talking, it feels like the track is winking at you before pulling you in again.

What really gets me is how personal the song is, despite sounding like it was engineered for max crowd bounce. Vega first recorded it at his late mother’s house, and it carries that weight. It’s one thing to write a love song—it’s another to tie it to memory, grief, legacy. He didn’t just record where he felt safe. He recorded where he felt seen. That hits different.

There’s also this unpolished confidence about Billy. He’ll reference Justin Timberlake and Bieber—specifically SexyBack and Boyfriend—but then laugh and admit “Hot Lava” sounds nothing like them. But that’s kind of the point. He borrowed their swagger and ambition, not their sound. And by working with producer Killian Cruiser, he found the perfect partner to give the track a second life without sanding down its original spark.

Billy isn’t chasing algorithms, either. His 16-year-old niece called the song “viral potential,” which he humbly laughed off, but you can tell that nod meant everything. He’s thinking bigger than TikTok trends or regional hype—he wants to soundtrack feelings, moments, even sync opportunities. (And yes, there are already some calls coming in.) His mindset’s global, but the heart? Still very local.

What I appreciate most is the contradiction: a guy who clearly strategizes every beat, but still writes with pure gut instinct. He’s conscious of structure, audience, even the cinematic scope of sound—but he’s also the same dude who once made a song in one night because he was feeling lit and in love. That blend of control and chaos? That’s the sweet spot.

Billy Vega’s performing “Hot Lava” live for the first time this August. Something tells me the crowd won’t just hear the hook—they’ll feel it, like heat rising from the floor. And while “Hot Lava” might be the opening blast, you get the sense this is just the start of a much longer eruption.

Rewiring History: Ken Woods and The Old Blue Gang Unearth America's Silent Spike

Ken Woods doesn’t just write songs—he rewires history. His debut with The Old Blue Gang, Silent Spike, isn’t your average Americana record. It’s heavy with purpose, almost uncomfortably so. But that’s the point. This isn’t a soundtrack for barbecues or beer commercials. It’s a seven-track odyssey into a buried American narrative—the story of the “Railroad Chinese” laborers who built the nation’s first transcontinental railways and were then erased from it. That Woods—an Anglo-American born in 20th-century Wisconsin—would choose to center this story might raise eyebrows. But listen closely, and you’ll realize it’s not about him telling their story. It’s about asking, bluntly, how his ancestors’ actions helped silence it.

The record opens with a simmer and burns slow, like someone flipping through century-old letters no one ever got to read. Woods reminds us that 250,000 letters were sent home by these laborers—and none survived. That silence became the album’s spine. In response, Woods crafted seven lyrical poems, each one rooted in historical events and then amplified through genre-hopping, guitar-laced Americana. There’s the haunting acoustic minimalism of “Lily White Mine,” the raw garage fury of “Ride the Rails,” and the rollicking stomp of “Sundown Town.” But it’s the 21-minute monster “Dead Line Creek” that stops you cold. It’s part protest song, part psychedelic séance. The band doesn’t just play it—they exorcise it.

And when I say “the band,” I mean a proper gang. Joe Hoskin (bass) and Steve Roberts (drums) aren’t just rhythm section guys—they’re co-authors in this improvisational storytelling. The trio’s “narrative jamming” turns tragedy into movement, into mood. The Dead Line Creek massacre isn’t just recounted—it’s relived in real time through sonic tension and explosive release. You don’t just hear the history. You feel the injustice, the dread, the systemic erasure. It’s like Hendrix’s Machine Gun rode through Oregon on horseback.

Woods never pretends he’s found redemption here. There’s no neat emotional arc, no grand apology dressed in minor chords. Instead, he confronts the gaps. The contradiction of loving Americana while acknowledging its deep rot. The discomfort of wearing cowboy boots while singing about Sundown Towns. He even hijacks the name “Old Blue Gang” from a group of racist murderers who committed the Hells Canyon Massacre. “Why should they get to own that name?” he asks. Why should we let any part of culture, musical or otherwise, remain the private property of hatred?

There’s something defiant in that rebranding. Woods doesn’t erase the past—he stains his hands in it, then retools the wreckage. Musically, Silent Spike spans more territory than most debut albums dare. Western swing, folk noir, even psychobilly—it’s all in the mix. But there’s a through-line: purpose. Even the most chaotic solos feel like they’re heading somewhere. And maybe that’s the weirdest part: it’s a deeply listenable record, even when it’s dealing with atrocities. You catch yourself nodding along, then stopping mid-beat to ask, “Wait—what did he just say?”

I came into Silent Spike with mild curiosity. I left feeling like I’d been handed a family secret I never asked for, but can’t unhear. It’s not a record for casual spins. It demands attention. It wants to change your framework. And maybe that’s the most punk-rock thing about it. Woods and The Old Blue Gang aren’t just reviving forgotten stories. They’re daring us to question why we forgot them in the first place.

Next time someone tells you Americana is stale, hand them this record. Or better yet—don’t say a word. Just drop the needle on “Dead Line Creek,” and watch their face change.

Allcapsallan Is Done Holding Back – With “Pressure,” He’s Dialed In

The first thing that hits you about “Pressure” is the weight. Not the kind that sinks you—more like the kind that sharpens you. Allcapsallan doesn’t walk into this track casually. He stomps in, steady and unapologetic, like someone who's been through enough silence and is finally ready to say something that sticks. After two years of near radio silence since Family Ties, the Long Island native returns not just with a new single, but with something that feels like a line in the sand.

“Pressure” doesn’t waste time dressing up its message. It’s unfiltered—lean, direct, and cracked open with that kind of intensity you only get from someone who's been sitting on something for way too long. The beat's minimal but pulsing, and his voice cuts through like it knows exactly what it's doing. No theatrics, no pretending. Just the tension of a man who’s been climbing in the dark, finally catching some light. It’s the kind of record you put on when you’re pacing the room at 2 a.m. wondering what the hell you’re doing this all for.

You can hear Long Island in this track—not just in his accent or cadence, but in the energy. There’s something about hometown pressure that doesn’t get filtered through the algorithms. This isn’t a Spotify-core, industry-polished product. You get the sense he recorded it where he lives, where he thinks, where the ghosts are loudest. He built this one from the ground up—literally and emotionally. And it shows. There's a line in the press quote that stuck with me: “We was outside when they ain’t wan’ jump.” It’s the kind of thing that doesn’t need explaining if you know, you know.

This whole release feels like an unbottling. You can tell he’s been quiet for a reason—and not because he was lost. He’s been watching. Calculating. Dealing with that slow grind of expectation that nobody warns you about when you say you want to do music full time. The pressure isn't just industry noise; it’s internal. It’s “I’ve come this far and I still don’t feel seen.” That frustration bleeds into the song, but so does clarity. This isn’t desperation—it’s drive.

There’s no massive rollout. No co-sign parade. Just a single that punches harder because it doesn’t ask for attention—it demands it. And maybe that’s what makes Allcapsallan so interesting right now. He’s not trying to be a viral sensation. He’s playing the long game. And if “Pressure” is the tone-setter for what’s next, he’s just getting warmed up. The way he phrases things—short, clipped, sometimes unfinished—feels more like voice notes than lyrics. Honest and off-the-cuff, like you caught him mid-thought.

I’ve covered a lot of returns, but this one feels personal. There’s something gritty and refreshing about someone re-entering the scene not trying to reinvent themselves, but reaffirm themselves. Allcapsallan didn’t come back to fit in—he came back to remind you. And with a backlog of releases apparently lined up, “Pressure” might just be the first domino. Whatever comes next, one thing’s clear: he’s not shrinking for anybody anymore.