Weekly Discover 61 - The Uncomfortable Truth

Not every song is meant to soothe. Some are built to unsettle, to scrape against the surface until something raw and real is exposed. That’s the pulse of this week’s curation—a space where music doesn’t whisper politely in the background, but steps into the room with unshakable presence and asks to be felt.

These tracks don’t chase perfection. They live in the cracks, in the tremors of a voice that bends under its own honesty, in the rhythm that slips off balance just enough to remind us it’s human. The guitars hum with restless energy, synths sputter like half-lit neon, and the silences stretch out like questions we’re not ready to answer. Every detail feels alive, uncertain, and necessary.

And maybe that’s the point. In a world obsessed with smooth surfaces, these artists are showing us the fractures—and in doing so, they build something stronger than polish: connection. They choose vulnerability over gloss, weight over ease, truth over symmetry. That choice isn’t comfortable, but it’s unforgettable.

Like any story worth telling, there’s tension threaded through the journey. You’ll hear resistance in one chorus, surrender in the bridge, and the quiet persistence of survival in the outro. None of it resolves neatly, yet somehow it leaves you with a deeper sense of clarity—the kind that comes not from answers, but from facing the questions head-on.

Weekly Discover 61 isn’t here to fade into the background. It’s a soundtrack for the frontlines of feeling. Music that grips your collar, looks you in the eye, and leaves you with one challenge: will you let yourself truly listen?

"Unpolished Confidence: Lexi Lemonade's Five-Year Journey to 'Cinema: Directors Cut'"

Lexi Lemonade doesn’t just drop tracks—she stages scenes. Her latest release, Cinema: Directors Cut, feels like the closing credits of a story you didn’t realize you’d been watching until the lights came up. It’s moody, layered, a little dramatic, and it cements her as an artist who isn’t afraid to lean into big, cinematic gestures while still keeping things intimate.

The origin story is almost too good: Lexi made the demo in her bedroom back in 2020, sat on it for five years, and finally decided to let it out into the world as it was. That kind of patience—bordering on stubbornness—speaks volumes. Most artists I know would’ve tinkered the magic out of it by now, but she trusted the original spark enough to keep it alive. That decision alone sets the tone for what this track represents: unpolished confidence.

If you’ve been following her trilogy, you’ll know Cinema started as an instrumental mood piece, evolved with a sultry collab on Orion House of Bellaire, and now arrives here—full-bodied and unapologetically hers. The final act feels less like a sequel and more like a full-circle moment. She wrote the bones of the song in under an hour, recorded it herself on BandLab (her first attempt at self-recording), and then teamed up with engineers David L. Martins and John Burke to sculpt it into its widescreen form.

What strikes me is the mix of myth and sensuality in her storytelling. The violins shimmer, the bassline hangs low like a shadow, and her vocals cut through with a heroine energy—someone stepping onto the stage without asking for permission. It’s dramatic but not overcooked. You can hear the hesitation of those late-night trial-and-error sessions, but also the thrill of her finally saying: this is mine.

I’ll admit, part of me loves the contradiction. Lexi presents as deliberate and composed, yet she’s willing to admit how messy this process was. Recording herself for the first time, doubting every take, second-guessing whether the track deserved daylight. But isn’t that exactly the kind of tension that makes music worth listening to? You can feel both the uncertainty and the confidence pressed into every layer.

The visuals she pairs with her work always push the same envelope. Dreamy, mythic, a little surreal—like someone flipping between film stills and diary entries. Lexi doesn’t just want you to hear her songs; she wants you to step into them, inhabit the world for a few minutes. That kind of approach puts her in a unique lane of alt-R&B and pop, one where the narrative feels just as important as the beat.

And now that this trilogy is complete, it’s hard not to wonder what comes next. Cinema: Directors Cut feels like the kind of project that closes one door so another can swing wide open. Lexi Lemonade has proven she can hold her own as a songwriter, producer, and storyteller. If this release is any indication, she’s just getting started—and honestly, I can’t wait to see what scene she sets next.

"The Art of Contradiction: How Shelita Balances Polish and Raw Truth"

Shelita doesn’t just release songs—she builds entire worlds around them. Her latest track, “Fade,” might sound like a mid-tempo pop ballad at first pass, but spend a little time with it and you’ll catch the undercurrent: a meditation on connection, impermanence, and how quickly people can slip through our lives. The synths float like mist, the beat pulses steady, and her voice—clear but tinged with longing—ties it all together. It’s the kind of song you play on repeat, not because it demands attention, but because it sneaks into your memory and lingers there.

What I love about this release is how it sits in the bigger picture of her work. “Fade” isn’t a one-off; it’s the second single from her upcoming album Into the Depths, out August 29. The title alone feels like a mission statement. Shelita has always leaned into cinematic storytelling, but this time she’s really going for it. The album is shaping up like a layered exploration of presence, loss, and transformation, and if “Fade” is any indication, it won’t be background music—it’s the kind of record you sit with, headphones on, letting it unfold track by track.

Of course, this isn’t Shelita’s first rodeo. She’s been on NPR, Forbes, Billboard—she even hit #24 on the Billboard charts with her last album. That’s no small feat for an independent artist. But here’s what sets her apart: she doesn’t chase trends. Take her other recent release, Cinema: Directors Cut. That one started as a bedroom demo she sat on for five years before deciding to put it out exactly as it was, imperfections and all. In an industry obsessed with polish, there’s something refreshing about an artist who lets the rough edges show.

And that contradiction—between the meticulously produced Fade and the raw honesty of Cinema—feels very Shelita. She’s not trying to fit into a single lane. She’ll give you a radio-ready pop single one moment, then turn around and release something experimental, something almost too personal to share. It keeps you guessing, but it also makes you trust her. She’s not performing vulnerability for clout; she’s actually living it out through her work.

Listening to Fade again, one line sticks out: “This could be the last time we see each other.” It’s the kind of lyric that stops you mid-scroll. Everyone’s felt that exact moment—when you’re saying goodbye but not sure if it’s the last goodbye. Shelita captures that without overcomplicating it. No heavy metaphors, no unnecessary drama. Just the truth, sung plainly. And maybe that’s why it cuts so deep.

The track is a collaboration too, which adds another layer. Lamar Van Sciver and Bellringer both had hands in shaping it, and you can hear that shared DNA in the production. Still, Shelita’s presence is undeniable. Her voice doesn’t just sit on top of the mix—it feels embedded in it, like it’s part of the instrumentation itself. That’s not easy to pull off, but it’s a trick she’s mastered.

With Into the Depths just around the corner, it feels like Shelita’s about to enter a new chapter—one that’s bigger, bolder, and more personal than anything she’s done before. If Cinema was her peeling back the curtain and Fade is her holding your gaze a little longer, then this album might be the full immersion. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to dive in.

"Postcard from La Grande Motte: How V.Of Turned Local Love Into Global Pop"

The first time I heard V.Of’s debut single “La Grande Motte,” I didn’t think of Paris or the Riviera or any of the usual French clichés. What came to mind instead was the strange geometry of seaside apartment blocks catching the sun, the sound of cicadas hidden somewhere in the pines, and that particular mood when a city feels like a memory you can’t quite put down. That’s the world V.Of is singing about, and he does it with a mix of warmth and guts that feels almost… unlikely.

Because here’s the thing: V.Of isn’t a polished conservatory graduate or a long-seasoned bandleader. He’s not even supposed to be a “musician” in the strict industry sense. He’s a guy who has lived nearly a decade inside La Grande Motte — a city that itself was once considered a bit of an architectural gamble — and decided the best way to explain his attachment wasn’t through another guidebook, but through a song. That pivot is both endearing and kind of radical.

The track itself plays like a postcard you’d keep taped to your fridge long after summer ends. Sunny rhythms, a little gypsy flair, touches of oriental melody weaving through French lyrics (and yes, there’s an English version too, because he knows the audience for this town isn’t local, it’s global). It doesn’t pretend to reinvent pop, but it does what all good pop songs do: it makes you want to dance and call someone you love at the same time.

It helps that V.Of already understands community better than most newcomers. His digital guide La Grande Motte et ses Bons Plans pulls in 1.4 million interactions per month — an absurd number for what is essentially a love letter to a city in the south of France. People write to him from Brazil, from Asia, from places that have probably never set foot on the Mediterranean. That built-in network gave him both a reason and an audience before he even recorded a note.

Listening to him talk about the project, you get the sense that this wasn’t a marketing strategy but almost a necessity. The New York Times gave La Grande Motte its international stamp of approval last year, and for V.Of, the timing felt like a green light: if the world is finally looking at this city, why not give it a soundtrack too? It’s a little bit tourist anthem, a little bit personal diary. That contradiction is what makes it work.

Of course, debut singles are tricky. Plenty of people release one-off tributes and vanish. But there’s a confidence in the way V.Of frames this as just the first step — a bigger project meant to bring together locals, tourists, DJs, and radio stations around the same song. He’s betting on scale the way a startup founder bets on users. If you’ve ever seen a dance floor light up when a regional hit sneaks into the set, you know that gamble might just pay off.

I’ll be honest: I didn’t expect to find myself replaying a track about a seaside resort. But here we are. There’s something charming in how unpolished it is, how it wears its love for La Grande Motte without irony. Maybe that’s why it lingers — it’s not trying to be universal, and somehow that makes it exactly that. If this is what V.Of sounds like at the start of his journey, I’d keep an eye out for the next postcard.

"From Heartbreak to Heater: Emma Whybrow's Dance Floor Transformation"

If you’ve ever scrolled past Emma Whybrow on YouTube, chances are you’ve already felt that magnetic pull. Her last single “DARE” cracked 50K views, not by accident but because she has that rare mix of presence and storytelling that lingers with you. With her new track Amnesia, she takes things into a completely different dimension—quite literally reworking a personal heartbreak into something you can actually dance to.

The story behind the song almost feels too cinematic to be true. Mid-pandemic, everything seemed steady: nice apartment, steady work-from-home setup, boyfriend by her side. Then, he left for what was supposed to be a family event in India. Fifteen months later, he returned as if nothing had happened. The kind of plot twist you wouldn’t wish on anyone—but exactly the kind that makes for unforgettable songwriting fuel. Emma’s way of telling it is dry, almost cheeky. “Amnesia? I think so,” she quips.

What’s wild is that Amnesia didn’t even begin life as the EDM-fueled trance anthem it is now. It started as a Bollywood-inspired piece, something lush and rhythmically layered, and that version even landed her in the Top 30 of the Australian Songwriting Competition in 2024. Most artists would’ve stopped there, proud of the accomplishment. Emma flipped the script. She handed the track over to South Australian music legend Robert Pippan, who reshaped it into a full-blown dancefloor heater. The result feels like a completely different beast, but one that still carries her fingerprints all over it.

That contradiction—between Emma’s intimate storytelling and these soaring, euphoric productions—is what makes her stand out. You get this sense she could sit across from you at a café and describe heartbreak in blunt, funny detail, and then hours later you’d hear her voice commanding a packed festival tent. Few artists manage to wear both skins without feeling forced. Emma somehow does.

Watching her trajectory, especially from Adelaide’s local scene, you see a pattern. She’s not just releasing songs into the void; she’s testing herself constantly. Songwriting competitions, live performances, the willingness to collaborate with industry veterans—it’s clear she treats this as both craft and calling. There’s hustle there, but also playfulness. You can hear it in Amnesia: yes, it’s dance music, but it doesn’t lose the personal bite.

Listening to the track myself, the part that hit hardest wasn’t the chorus (though it’s massive), but the tiny melodic shift tucked into the bridge. It almost feels like Emma letting you peek behind the curtain, reminding you there’s a real story beneath the beat. That balance—between universal club energy and a sharply personal narrative—is what makes her music addictive.

Where she goes next feels like the exciting part. If Emma can spin a messy breakup into a trance anthem that also doubled as a competition-winning Bollywood song, then the possibilities are wide open. She’s not just building a catalog; she’s building a reputation for reinvention. And if Amnesia is any indication, this is just the start of something much bigger.

"Fog and Frequency: RIOT SON's Bedroom Studio Breakthrough"

The first thing that hits you when listening to RIOT SON’s debut single “Loneliest at Best” isn’t just the guitars—it’s the weather. That might sound odd, but the track carries the same damp heaviness you feel walking through Boone, North Carolina on a misty morning. Recorded in his bedroom studio in the historic tree streets of downtown Boone, the song soaks up the Southern Appalachian gloom and turns it into something strangely comforting. It’s heartbreak music, sure, but it doesn’t wallow. It lingers like fog.

What makes “Loneliest at Best” stand out isn’t only its subject matter—falling in and out of love, pretending everything’s okay when it’s not—but how it’s delivered. The song builds, drops, then claws its way back up in true early-2000s emo fashion, but with jangly guitar lines that nod to The Smiths and production that leans into heavy reverb, layered vocals, and a slight delay. It feels both familiar and dislocated, like hearing My Chemical Romance through a tunnel while someone else plays The Cure in the next room.

RIOT SON worked with German producer Magnet$u, who’s been carving his own name in the underground alt/rock indie scene and has credits with artists like The Kid Laroi and Ekkstacy. Their collaboration doesn’t sound like a first outing—it feels lived in, like two people who found the same frequency on opposite sides of the ocean. The result is a debut that doesn’t posture. It just exists, loud and uncertain, which is exactly why it lands.

He cites influences that make sense—Brand New, The Used, Robert Smith, Billy Corgan. But the real quirk is how he talks about learning recording tricks from Joey Ramone, Elliott Smith, and even Lil Peep. That layering of multiple vocal tracks isn’t something you notice right away, but once you do, it makes the song feel more haunted, more crowded with ghosts. It’s a bedroom recording that doesn’t sound small, and that’s a tough trick to pull off.

RIOT SON isn’t shy about ambition, either. He’s already signed with Very Rare Cinema, a New York-based management team plotting a music video shoot and his first shows in the city. At the same time, he’s working with London producer Philip Spalding—who learned under Martin Rushent (Joy Division, The Buzzcocks, The Human League)—on a post-punk-inspired EP due this fall. For a kid from a foggy mountain town, that’s a lot of reach, but somehow it feels believable. He’s already got that cult-like online following bubbling, the kind that turns demos into anthems.

And here’s where the contradiction comes in: “Loneliest at Best” is a deeply personal track, but RIOT SON talks about it with the same distance you’d expect from someone describing the weather. Maybe that’s part of the appeal. The song is melodramatic, sure, but his way of framing it strips away any self-indulgence. It’s like he’s saying, “Yeah, it hurts, but what did you expect?” That restraint makes the payoff at the end—the buildup, the breakdown—hit harder.

Listening to RIOT SON feels like stumbling into the early stages of something with legs. He’s not polished yet, and that’s the point. The debut is jagged and atmospheric, carrying all the contradictions of its creator: small-town but global, intimate but ambitious, gloomy but oddly hopeful. “Loneliest at Best” is just the start, and it already sounds like the kind of song that belongs to fans more than to the artist himself. Which is exactly how cult followings are born.

"The Quiet Arrival: Laoise Leahy's Unhurried Debut Demands Your Attention"

The first thing that hits you with Laoise Leahy’s Breathe In & Let Go is how unhurried it feels. No rush to get to the hook, no pressure to fill every second with sound. It’s music that trusts silence as much as melody, which honestly feels like a rare confidence these days. The opening track stretches out like a deep breath—you almost catch yourself unclenching your shoulders without realizing it.

Leahy’s voice has that slippery quality where you can’t quite pin it to a single tradition. There are shades of jazz phrasing, little flickers of folk warmth, and a soulful undercurrent that keeps everything grounded. It doesn’t sound like she’s trying to impress anyone, but more like she’s letting you into a private moment. That balance between polish and intimacy is what makes this debut EP land so hard.

What’s wild is that this project was shaped in the “cracks” of her full life—between lecturing, performing, and everything else that comes with being a working musician. You can hear that tension in the songs. They’re searching for stillness, but never in some lofty, unattainable way. It’s the kind of stillness you find when you finally shut your laptop at midnight or stand at a bus stop staring at the rain. The human kind.

She built the record with producer Christian Best and a circle of heavy hitters—Johnny Taylor on piano, Barry Donohue on double bass, Dominic Mullan on drums. You can feel that it’s a collaboration of trust, not just session players showing up for a paycheck. The arrangements breathe. Nothing is overstuffed, nothing shouts over her voice. It’s almost old-school in that sense, like the band is leaning in to serve the song instead of themselves.

I’ll admit, there’s a contradiction here. These tracks are calm, reflective, designed to soothe—yet I caught myself replaying the more upbeat cuts because they stick like proper earworms. There’s a track with a groove so tight you could slip it into a late-night set without anyone batting an eye. She’s presenting this EP as a meditative journey, but don’t be surprised if it sneaks onto your weekend playlist next to your favorite alt-soul records.

What makes Laoise compelling isn’t just her voice or the musicianship—it’s the sense that she’s been through something and had to strip things down to essentials. She’s not selling transcendence in neon lights; she’s whispering that maybe we can pause for a second and be okay with not having all the answers. There’s weight in that. And as a listener, it makes you lean closer.

Breathe In & Let Go is out now, and it’s worth carving out twenty minutes to take it in front-to-back. It may only be four songs, but it feels like a chapter in a longer story she’s just beginning to tell. Laoise Leahy has arrived, quietly but firmly, and if she keeps following this thread, the next chapter won’t just whisper—it’ll be impossible to ignore.