Weekly Discover 58 — “No Safe Zones”

Some music was never meant to sit quietly in the background. This week’s picks exist in the raw, unscripted corners—where melody collides with discomfort and intention overrides polish. It’s not designed to ease you in. It’s meant to wake you up.

Weekly Discover 58 brings together artists who aren’t just bending the rules—they’re throwing them out the window. The vocals crack not from imperfection, but because they’re carrying weight. The drums stagger like they’ve been through something. And the production? Frayed at the edges, on purpose.

These tracks don’t seek approval. They demand attention. You won’t find clean lines or safe choruses here—just a collection of sounds brave enough to feel unfinished, vulnerable, and gloriously off-center.

There’s grit. There’s tension. There’s a refusal to sit still. What ties it all together is that rare electricity you feel when something honest slips through the cracks.

Carefully handpicked by 1111CR3W, this playlist isn’t for those looking to drift—it’s for those ready to feel. Because in a world built to distract, these songs insist on being noticed.

Love Ghost Finds Their Frequency in “Spirit Box”

— a feature by someone who’s been hit square in the chest by this band’s honesty.

There’s something eerie but grounding about “Spirit Box.” Not eerie in the horror-movie sense — more like stumbling on your own teenage diary in a box under the bed and reading it out loud during an earthquake. That’s the best way I can describe hearing Love Ghost’s new track for the first time. It’s not just a song; it’s a séance. A raw, genre-fluid transmission from somewhere between the past and the now. And yeah, the title's a reference to paranormal gear — but this isn’t about ghosts. It's about the parts of yourself you’ve buried, and what happens when they answer back.

Love Ghost isn’t playing by genre rules, and honestly, they sound better because of it. "Spirit Box" alone slides between alt-rock, grunge, pop-punk and something whispery that feels like a confessional left in voicemail form. The production doesn’t try to be shiny. Instead, it lets the emotional messiness sit close to the mic. There’s a clear refusal here to over-edit or sanitize. If you’ve ever dealt with trauma or mental health shit (and let’s be honest — who hasn’t?), these songs land like someone finally said the quiet part out loud.

Frontman Finnegan Bell doesn’t just perform vulnerability — he builds with it. You can tell this isn’t some manufactured sad-boy persona. This is someone who’s lived through it, written about it, rewrote it, and still isn’t sure if he got it right. And that’s the magic. That push-pull tension between self-awareness and total emotional surrender makes their music feel alive in a way that a lot of modern alt-rock just... doesn’t.

They’ve been everywhere, too — Europe, South America, Mexico — and they’ve done it on their terms. Not chasing radio, not reshaping their sound to match algorithm trends. Collaborations with Rico Nasty, Skold, and Adan Cruz only underscore their chameleon energy, but instead of losing themselves in the mix, Love Ghost finds new shades of themselves in every track. Especially in Mexico, where they’ve tapped into something both communal and spiritual — feeding off crowds that know what it means to scream your pain into something beautiful.

And the industry’s finally catching on. Rolling Stone’s written them up a bunch. Lyrical Lemonade and Alternative Press are paying attention. But Love Ghost doesn’t act like they’ve “made it.” They’re still out here like underdogs — DIY in spirit, even when the co-signs pile up. That contradiction makes you root for them more. Big look, small ego. Global reach, bedroom vulnerability.

There’s a line in “Spirit Box” that stuck with me — something about not recognizing your own voice anymore. That hit hard. It reminded me why I care about bands like this in the first place. Not because they’re perfect, but because they aren’t. They’re figuring it out in real time. And they’re letting us listen.

If this is your first Love Ghost track, brace yourself. You might walk away feeling like someone just read your mind — or at least the parts you were trying to forget. Either way, they’ve cracked open something.

The Dobermans’ Nothing On The Internet Feels Like the Most Honest Album of the Year (Even If It Doesn’t Want to Be)

The new album from The Dobermans doesn’t ask for your attention — it practically shrugs at it. Nothing On The Internet, their seventh full-length, doesn’t posture, doesn’t try to charm. It’s a 12-track eye-roll aimed straight at the digital noise machine we’ve all been sucked into. And that’s exactly what makes it feel so damn relevant. Not in the timely, trend-baiting way — more in the sense that it gets under your skin without asking permission.

There’s an edge here. Not a “shouty” edge, but a kind of tonal exhaustion — like someone’s been watching the world glitch through a cracked screen and finally decided to plug in a guitar. The sound floats somewhere between the wiry energy of early Buzzcocks and the melancholy melodic instincts of The Smiths. But just when you think you’ve pinned it down, in slides a chord progression or tempo shift that feels more like They Might Be Giants having an existential crisis. It’s weird. But it works.

Recorded in a home studio in Milwaukee — with the frontman building most of the instruments himself — there’s a tactile quality to everything. You can almost feel the wood grain on the bass or the bite of analog imperfection on the mix. It’s unvarnished in a way that doesn’t feel retro, just… uninterested in perfection. Nothing about this record screams “look at me.” It mutters “this is what I see,” and leaves the rest up to you.

What sets Nothing On The Internet apart is its refusal to follow the emotional arc we’re used to in albums like this. There’s no big cathartic climax, no manufactured tearjerker moment. Instead, it lingers in this grey zone — equal parts satire, frustration, and melancholy — without ever telling you how to feel. Some tracks open like they’re about to punch, then dissolve into something soft and unexpected. Others keep their guard up entirely. It’s a kind of sonic whiplash that reflects the constant feed-scrolling disorientation it’s critiquing.

There’s something almost uncomfortably sincere about how stripped back it is — not in terms of production, but intent. The album doesn’t lean on any aesthetic crutches. No TikTok synth tricks, no lo-fi filters for vibes. It just puts its contradictions front and center and lets them breathe. At times, it even feels like the album is bored with itself — but in a way that’s entirely intentional. And yeah, that might turn some listeners off. But it might also make others feel seen in a way more polished records can’t quite pull off.

This isn’t an album built for playlists. You won’t find a radio single waiting to be discovered. And there’s something almost defiant in that. The songs are structured like they were written for humans, not algorithms — full of strange pacing, unresolved tension, and moments that feel clipped mid-thought. But those choices are what make it feel alive. Like someone hit record not because they had something to sell, but because they couldn’t not make this.

Nothing On The Internet might not dominate headlines, and honestly, it doesn’t seem to care. It sits on its own wavelength, almost daring you to meet it there. And for those who do, it’s weirdly comforting. Not in a hopeful way, but in a “yeah, the world is kind of broken, and no, you’re not crazy” kind of way. Which, let’s be real, might be the most comforting thing music can do right now.

Tuning Into Dying Habit's Frequency: How 'Three Letter View' Finds the Sweet Spot

There’s something about Dying Habit that doesn’t try too hard—but hits you anyway. Their new single Three Letter View isn’t flashy or overworked; it’s sharp, melodic, and oddly meditative in a way that sneaks up on you. The track kicks in with a kind of quiet urgency, like it knows exactly where it's going even if you don’t. And that’s the sweet spot for this Anglesey-based four-piece: they make alt-rock that feels as internal as it does explosive.

Frontman Nathan Jones doesn’t belt for the sake of it—his vocals feel more like a pressure valve slowly turning. There’s a tension in how he delivers lines that ponder emotional dislocation, like someone trying to decode their own wiring in real time. And that makes sense given the song’s concept. Three Letter View messes with the mind-body connection, diving into how frequencies (literal and metaphorical) can bend emotions, memory, maybe even time. It sounds like a sci-fi thesis wrapped in a three-minute rock song—but it works.

I’ve been following these guys since Unrealities, and while that was more exploratory, this feels laser-focused. Not polished to a shine—thank god—but dialed-in. Their earlier material had flashes of promise, sure, but it always felt like a band still testing the walls. With Three Letter View, they’re breaking them. You can hear that same pulse from Directions, that slightly heavier edge, but now with a cleaner trajectory. Alan Hart’s guitar work doesn’t scream for attention—it just cuts where it needs to.

The rhythm section deserves more love, too. Mark Jones and Daniel Garner don’t just hold it down—they move it forward. There's a momentum in this track that doesn't feel forced, like they’re driving the car while Nathan’s hanging out the window trying to explain the human condition. I caught myself looping the last 30 seconds of the song just to feel the whole thing rev up again. That rarely happens.

What’s most striking is how Three Letter View avoids melodrama while still tapping into something weirdly existential. The lyrics throw questions without pretending to have answers. There's one line—I’m paraphrasing here—that hit me harder than expected, about how we translate vibration into emotion. It’s the kind of lyric that makes you pause whatever you’re doing and think, "Wait, what did he just say?" But not in a pretentious way. More like a late-night conversation that got too deep, too fast.

There’s a real-world messiness to Dying Habit that I appreciate. No flashy image campaigns, no awkward genre pivots, just consistent evolution. They’re the kind of band you imagine recording in a cold rehearsal room that smells like old amps and stubborn ambition. And they keep pulling this off without sounding like they’re chasing a trend. With There Is No Sky on the horizon, it feels like they’ve hit that rare moment where identity and execution finally click.

I don’t know where this new album will land them. They’re too introspective for the mainstream alt-rock machine, but too dialed-in to stay underground forever. Honestly, I kind of hope they stay in this in-between zone—it suits them. Because if Three Letter View is the entry point, the rest of us might be catching up to what Dying Habit has already known for a while: they’ve built their own frequency. You just have to tune in.

The Quiet Power of Maddy Carty's 'Dark Circles': When Less Becomes More

Maddy Carty’s Dark Circles doesn’t ask for your attention—it sort of sidles up beside you and starts talking before you realize you’ve already leaned in. It’s not flashy. No fireworks. But the songwriting? Sharp as hell. Her voice carries that lived-in, no-bullshit tone that makes you trust every word, even the ones she’s clearly still figuring out. And that’s part of the charm. These aren’t polished pop sermons. They’re conversations that spill out in quiet chaos and stick with you long after.

Carty’s background in soul and reggae isn’t buried here, but Dark Circles pivots from the brightness of her earlier catalogue. There's more static in the signal. A sort of softness warped by fatigue, frustration, and maybe—just maybe—a little hope if you squint. You hear it in tracks like “Blood on Your Hands” and “Downstream,” where the production leans lo-fi but purposeful. The beats stay out of the way. It's her voice and those offhand lyrics that do the heavy lifting. The kind of songs that don't beg for radio—they just belong in your headphones on a walk home at night.

Her storytelling hits a sweet spot between personal and pointed. Not confessional in the Taylor Swift sense, but more observational. She doesn’t tell you what to feel—she lays out the pieces and lets you figure it out. It’s smart. And surprisingly intimate. Like when she slips in a line about insomnia that’s less “poetic metaphor” and more “actual 3:40 a.m. thought spiral.” You believe her. Not because the production demands it, but because she’s clearly lived these lines.

What’s interesting is how Dark Circles doesn’t seem desperate to make a big statement—and yet it kind of does. There’s a quiet resilience threaded through these songs. A tension between wanting to call bullshit on everything and still caring enough to write about it. That tension carries the whole record. It’s also what gives Maddy her edge. She sounds like someone who’s tired of pretending she’s fine, but also not ready to burn the whole thing down. Yet.

You can hear how much of this was self-built. Not just in the DIY aesthetic—though that’s there, from the stripped-back arrangements to the slightly messy mixes—but in the emotional architecture of the songs. This is music made by someone who knows how to sit with a feeling for longer than is comfortable. It’s not afraid of awkwardness or silence. There’s power in that.

If this project had come out five years ago, it might’ve been buried under algorithm-friendly gloss. But now? Feels like perfect timing. There's a real appetite for music that doesn’t try to go viral, just resonates. The kind of artist people stumble on, then immediately send to three friends with a “yo, listen to this.” That’s Maddy Carty’s lane. No gimmicks. No genre-hopping spectacle. Just solid songwriting, well-worn melodies, and a voice that makes you stop whatever else you’re doing.

It’ll be interesting to see where she goes from here. Dark Circles feels like both a culmination and a beginning. Like she’s taken everything she’s learned, stripped it down, and left just enough room to grow into whatever’s next. And yeah, maybe it’s not for everyone. But that’s kind of the point.

Michellar's 'My Alma Latina': Prayer, Place, and the Quiet Revolution of Honest Art

It’s easy to tell when an artist really means it. With Michellar, you feel it from the first few seconds of My Alma Latina. There’s no showboating or over-polished sheen—just a genuine voice navigating life, prayer, and cultural identity through melody. It’s not flashy, but it hits differently. Ave Maria, the opening track, doesn’t rehash tradition—it reclaims it. Think less church choir, more smoky café in Austin where prayer sounds like guitar riffs and longing. It’s Michellar’s own spin on reverence, shaped by heritage and heartache, and it doesn’t ask for your approval—it just is.

What’s cool is that My Alma Latina isn’t just about sound—it’s about distance. Recorded in San Francisco, Austin, and London, the EP is stitched together like a travel journal from someone chasing a feeling rather than a destination. That fragmented geography actually works in Michellar’s favor. You can hear the Texas heat in Samba with Me, the misty melancholy of London in The Deep, and the rootsy grounding of San Francisco in California Fields. None of it feels forced. It’s like she’s building bridges with every track—between places, people, and even parts of herself.

That duality runs deep. Michellar’s Spanish-Filipino background isn’t a marketing bullet point—it’s the whole damn point. The rhythms, the storytelling, the tonal choices—they all feel pulled from family gatherings, cultural rituals, and childhood memories that stuck. There’s something refreshingly unstrategic about the way she honors her roots. It's not trying to be "world music" or fit into a box. It's more like she’s inviting us into her house, handing us a drink, and letting the music speak for itself.

The standout track for me? The Deep. It’s moody, a little haunting, and feels like the sonic version of a late-night conversation you didn’t know you needed. It contrasts beautifully with the celebratory energy of Samba with Me. There’s this tension across the EP—between celebration and solitude, faith and questioning—that keeps it interesting. And honestly, that contradiction? That’s where it feels most real. She's not trying to tie everything up in a neat bow. She leaves space for uncertainty, which makes it all the more human.

Credit where it’s due—Lloyd Miller from Spirit Song Studios did a stellar job keeping this all cohesive without sanding off the edges. There's a handmade feel to the production, in the best way. You get the sense this project came together late at night, across time zones, through voice notes, scrappy ideas, and a whole lot of trust. That kind of collaboration doesn’t happen unless the artist is crystal clear on who they are. Michellar might be new to the game, but she’s got that clarity.

There’s something magnetic about how she talks about prayer—not religious doctrine, but the act of it. Of reaching for something higher when things get rough. It's not preachy. It’s just honest. And that vibe runs through the whole EP. My Alma Latina feels like a quiet act of defiance in a landscape where louder often means better. She’s not yelling. She’s not begging for streams. She’s telling stories, honoring legacy, and leaving the door open for anyone who needs a place to land.

Michellar’s got upcoming art exhibitions with live sets this fall—keep your eye on her Instagram if you're the type who likes to say “I was there before the buzz.” And honestly? You should be. This EP doesn’t feel like a peak—it feels like the first few steps of someone who’s in it for the long haul. There’s grit here. And soul. And something that doesn’t quite fit the algorithm, thank God.

Gürschach's "Dawn of a New": When Desert Metal Meets Cosmic Ambition

When Gürschach dropped “Dawn of a New,” I didn’t expect to be transported straight into a windswept desert — one where the sand kicks up like distortion fuzz and ancient instruments hum under the weight of some cosmic mystery. But here we are. It’s a wild, cinematic trip right out the gate. Persian Tar, acoustic guitar, and a driving bassline that’s more swagger than support. The first taste of their concept album Absolutely Nothing (due next year) kicks things off with an ambitious scope and the kind of bold sound design that makes you perk up, like: “Wait, who are these guys again?”

Turns out, Gürschach isn’t new to pushing limits. Formed back in 2013 in the East Bay area, they’ve kept the same four-man lineup through thick and thin: X on lead guitar and vocals, Scotty McRib on bass (yes, that’s his real name—kind of), Leyland Reid handling guitar and keys, and Daniel Justo-Sanchez behind the kit and on vocals too. That kind of consistency shows — not in a polished, over-rehearsed way, but in how tightly they play off each other, even when they’re swinging between thrash riffs, experimental grooves, and Middle Eastern melodies. It’s controlled chaos. Think Metallica meets Mastodon in a desert shrine, with Tool nodding approvingly from the shadows.

“Dawn of a New” also features a guest appearance by King Night of Nox Sinister, and he fits into the mix without feeling like a gimmick. If anything, the extra vocal layer adds depth to an already dense arrangement. The track pulses with movement. There’s a narrative being told here — not just lyrically, but structurally. It begins with a kind of ritualistic energy, builds into a gallop, and never really lets you get comfortable. And that’s a compliment. This isn’t background noise. It demands you sit with it.

What really caught me off guard, though, was how intentional everything feels. This isn’t just a band throwing spaghetti at a wall for prog cred. They recorded across different studios, including the now-closed Altman Studios in Brentwood and their own home setups during the pandemic. Then they pulled in Ulrich Wild (yep, the guy who’s worked with Slipknot and Deftones) for mixing and mastering. That combo — scrappy DIY ethic with pro-level finishing — kind of sums up Gürschach’s whole deal: grounded, but not afraid to go full interstellar.

And then there’s the weird little stuff that sticks. Like that quote they dropped — “The gang gets arrested in Area 51.” Totally unserious on the surface, but kind of perfect once you realize how much of their vibe plays with conspiracy, curiosity, and the absurdity of chasing something big and unknowable. A black stone falling from the sky? Sure. Why not. It’s not about the literal. It’s about what chasing that stone feels like.

Live, they’re just as unrelenting. They’ve hit stages at Brutalpalooza and Redwood Metalfest, leaving the kind of impression that gets fans talking and other bands taking notes. With Absolutely Nothing on the horizon, it’s hard not to feel like Gürschach is teeing up for something bigger — not just in scale, but in impact. They’ve been at this for over a decade, but this next chapter feels like the one that could tip them into wider recognition.

If you’re into metal that dares to color outside the lines — with enough groove to dance to and enough grit to headbang through — Gürschach’s “Dawn of a New” is the kind of track you play once and then immediately replay just to catch what you missed. It’s loud, it’s layered, it’s a little weird, and honestly? That’s exactly the point.