Weekly Discover 62 - Music as Mirror and Storm

Not all soundscapes invite comfort. Some are born to disrupt, to peel away the quiet layers we wrap around ourselves, and to remind us that music is as much confrontation as it is escape. This week’s collection leans into that rawness—it doesn’t tiptoe in, it arrives like a storm front, insistent, unshaken, and impossible to ignore.

Each track feels less like a polished artifact and more like a living organism—imperfect, pulsing, breathing. Voices fracture under the weight of their own confessions, guitars grind with restless urgency, and beats stumble in ways that feel more human than any metronome could design. Even the pauses matter here; they hang heavy, lingering long enough to make you question what fills the silence inside yourself.

But beneath the unease, there’s a deeper promise: connection. In rejecting gloss, these artists remind us that authenticity doesn’t need symmetry. Vulnerability is its own kind of power—the cracks in the surface don’t weaken the story, they make it unforgettable.

Like every great journey, the arc unfolds with tension at its core. One verse resists, the next surrenders, and somewhere in the outro, resilience finds its way back to the light. There are no neat resolutions, but there is a strange kind of clarity—the realization that some truths only reveal themselves when we stop demanding clean endings.

Weekly Discover 62 is not background music. It’s a mirror held too close, a challenge whispered just loud enough to shake you awake. The question it leaves behind isn’t if you’ll listen, but how deep you’re willing to go.

"Sophia Bolinder & John Soul: The Chemistry Behind 'I Can Feel It'"

The first thing you notice when you hit play on “I Can Feel It” is the bounce. Sophia Bolinder doesn’t waste time with slow intros or buildup—she drops you straight into a groove that feels like it’s been waiting for you all along. By the time John Soul’s voice slips in, it’s game over. Their harmonies click in this almost uncanny way, not perfectly polished, but perfectly alive. It’s the kind of track that makes you forget about checking your phone for three minutes.

Sophia’s from Malmö, but the single wasn’t crafted in some glossy Stockholm studio. It was recorded in Falkenberg, a quieter coastal town where she and John have been carving out their own sound. This is their third collaboration, following “What I Want” and “Under The Stars,” and you can tell they’ve built their own shorthand in the studio. According to Sophia, ideas spill out mid-session, half-serious experiments that somehow turn into the hooks you can’t shake later. That looseness bleeds into the music—you hear it in the way a chorus opens up just a beat earlier than you expect, or how their voices overlap like a happy accident.

Disco is the backbone here, sure, but “I Can Feel It” isn’t just nostalgia cosplay. It pulls pieces from funk, from R&B, from that early-2000s wave of house that never really left European dancefloors. Sophia’s goal, as she put it, was to bring back that optimism people used to feel going out to dance. And honestly, you can sense that mission in the track’s DNA. It doesn’t brood, doesn’t linger. It moves. Almost like it dares you not to smile.

What I keep coming back to is the chorus. It’s sticky, borderline dangerous—you’ll hum it while making coffee, walking the dog, scrolling TikTok. The vocal blend between Sophia and John is almost unfair; hers bright and slightly airy, his grounded with a soul edge. Put together, it’s the kind of pairing DJs dream about. You can already imagine this sliding into festival sets or underground club playlists, two totally different worlds that meet on the same dancefloor.

There’s also a bit of contradiction at play. The production is polished enough for radio, but the vibe feels like two friends just riffing in the studio. That duality gives it charm. You can hear the hours of tinkering, but you can also picture Sophia laughing mid-take, or John improvising a line that suddenly became permanent. Not many singles let you glimpse the process like that—it’s usually smoothed over—but here, it sneaks through.

For Sophia, this single feels like a turning point. The earlier collaborations hinted at her versatility, but “I Can Feel It” shows she’s willing to lean into big, unapologetic fun. It’s not trying to be cool in a detached way; it’s trying to get you out of your chair. And judging from the early buzz around Malmö’s local scene, it’s doing exactly that.

If this is where Sophia and John are landing on their third try, I can’t wait to see what happens when they really stretch. You get the sense they’re only scratching the surface of what they can do together. For now, though, “I Can Feel It” is enough—a bright, infectious reminder that sometimes music doesn’t need a heavy message or complex concept. Sometimes it just needs a groove that makes you want to stay out a little longer than you planned.

Christopher Rodriguez Builds His Own Scene on 'Flesh & Spirit'

Christopher Rodriguez doesn’t sound like someone trying to fit into a scene. He sounds like someone building his own. His new single Flesh & Spirit isn’t the type of track you just put on in the background—it demands your attention, like a conversation you didn’t expect but suddenly can’t turn away from. The whole thing was recorded in Pueblo, Colorado, and you can feel that grit and resilience baked into every second.

What struck me first was the honesty of the lyrics. They don’t feel like words written for streams or playlists; they feel like pages ripped out of a personal journal. Christopher isn’t hiding behind vague imagery—he’s drawing a line straight to faith, unity, and a bigger design. Not many artists are bold enough to be that direct in 2025. There’s risk in that, but it’s also what makes this song cut through the noise.

Christopher keeps bringing it back to family. He’ll tell you his wife and kids are the real backbone of this release, and you can hear it—this isn’t just a man singing about spirituality, it’s a man who’s lived it at the dinner table, in long conversations with his children, in the quiet moments when most of us are scrolling on our phones. That’s what gives Flesh & Spirit its weight. It’s not polished messaging. It’s lived experience.

I’ll be honest—this isn’t an easy listen for everyone. The track doesn’t chase trends. It’s not radio-ready pop with a shiny hook. Instead, it unfolds like a dialogue: flesh on one side, spirit on the other, wrestling through a vessel that’s clearly been shaped by belief. If you’re used to sugar-coated singles, this one might feel heavy. But heavy in the best way—like someone finally saying out loud what most people only think about in passing.

The Pueblo backdrop matters here too. It’s not Los Angeles or Nashville with glossy studios and marketing machines. It’s Bessemer, a part of Colorado better known for steel mills and hard times than music scenes. Yet, Christopher managed to turn that environment into fuel. You can almost picture him cutting takes quickly, inspired, not obsessing over perfect takes but capturing the urgency of the message. It’s a reminder that great records don’t always come from big cities—they come from people who believe deeply in what they’re saying.

What makes Flesh & Spirit linger after it ends isn’t just the music, though. It’s the conviction. Christopher sees this track as a warning, a reminder, a call to stay grounded in faith while the world feels like it’s unraveling. That might sound intense, but he delivers it without preaching at you. It’s more like a friend leaning in and saying, “Hey, I’ve seen some things, and I need you to hear this.” That tone is rare, and it’s what makes this song stick.

And this feels like just the beginning. He doesn’t have a slate of tour dates yet, but he’s already hinting at more tracks on the way. If Flesh & Spirit is the foundation, I can only imagine what the next few releases will build. Christopher Rodriguez may not be chasing spotlight culture, but that might be exactly why people are going to find him. Sometimes the most important voices don’t arrive polished—they arrive urgent, necessary, and impossible to ignore.

"Mike Stewart Throws Open the Doors with Mikey2Hats"

Mike Stewart doesn’t ease you into a song—he drops you right in. His new single “It Reaches Us,” out August 21, 2025, doesn’t tiptoe around the edges. It bursts. Synths flicker like neon signs, drums splash wide open, and then suddenly there’s Stewart himself, falsetto in full flight for the first time. The man known as Mikey2Hats has always been a producer with an ear for surprise, but this one feels different—more playful, more personal, like he’s finally letting us in on the joke.

This is the kickoff to his upcoming album Mikey2Hats Birthday, due October 17. The title alone tells you something about his approach. Stewart’s not afraid of being silly, even outright weird, if it serves the music. He calls it “psychedelic indietronic with a fun 80’s soul groove,” but genre tags don’t really stick here. You get Garbage and Radiohead moodiness in one verse, Pharrell Williams-style falsetto in the chorus, and a wink at Soul Train somewhere in between. It shouldn’t work. Yet it does.

Part of that comes from the crew he’s assembled. Marcus Praed, dialing up wild colors from a MiniMoog in a 15th-century grain mill in Germany. Julio Figueroa, splashing drums across the mix like he’s painting in motion. And Stewart himself, floating between Austin, London, and Bad Iburg to stitch everything together. There’s something charming about that patchwork—like three friends swapping ideas across continents, keeping the tape rolling even when things get goofy. (The Arabic-sounding vocal in the middle? A total goof that they decided to keep.)

What’s wild is that Stewart isn’t some newcomer. As a producer, he’s sitting on over 100 million Spotify streams and credits with names from The Dead Milkmen to Shinyribs. He’s toured with Tito & Tarantula and Beats Antique, bouncing from desert rock to bellydance fusion without batting an eye. But with Mikey2Hats, he seems intent on unlearning some of that polish. The rule in the studio was basically: don’t overthink it. First take, keep it, move on. Magic dust only.

Listening to “It Reaches Us,” you hear that ethos. There’s no perfectionism in the vocals, just enthusiasm. No hyper-compressed pop sheen, just a groove that makes you want to turn the volume way up. Stewart’s friends joke that he tried being Pharrell for five minutes, and you can almost hear the grin behind the mic. It’s fun, it’s a little messy, and honestly, that’s what makes it stick.

And yet, he’s not just chasing good vibes. Stewart talks about eclipses like most people talk about football—total awe, cosmic significance. “If the light from the stars ever stops shining, it would have happened a long time ago,” he says, half-philosopher, half-prankster. That mix of depth and silliness runs through everything he does. One minute he’s quoting Massive Attack, the next he’s playing a beer bar in Austin with a goofy smile, watching people dance.

With the album around the corner and European dates lined up for late 2025, Stewart seems like a man hitting a new stride. Not reinventing himself so much as letting the layers blur—producer, frontman, comedian, stargazer. “It Reaches Us” is only the opening chapter, but it feels like he’s throwing open the doors, daring us to follow wherever Mikey2Hats wanders next. And honestly? I’m in.

LoLo Darko Builds His Own Lane on 'Lajan

LoLo Darko’s new single Lajan doesn’t ease you in—it grabs you from the first bar and doesn’t let go. The bass hits heavy, the groove feels like late-night disco in a basement where the lights are too dim to see but the rhythm keeps your body moving anyway. Then there’s this eerie, almost spectral melody snaking through the track. It’s the kind of detail that makes you stop and think, who built this world, and how do I get inside it?

Brockton isn’t exactly famous for dark disco hybrids, but that’s part of what makes LoLo stand out. He’s not trying to fit into the lane of East Coast hip-hop or straight electronic; he’s building his own lane that swerves somewhere in between. You hear it in the bilingual bars of Je Suis L’homme—English and French folding into one another without effort. With Lajan, he flips the lens again, pulling Haitian rhythm into a futuristic electronic frame. It’s messy in the best way: heritage colliding with club culture, identity refracted through strobe lights.

Listening to Lajan with headphones is one thing—you catch the layers, the haunted synth textures, the subtle percussion details. But imagining it in a DJ set, maybe around 3:30 a.m., that’s another. There’s this bounce in the low end that feels designed for bodies in motion. And LoLo clearly knows it, because he dropped both a full and instrumental version. That’s a move straight out of the underground playbook—give the DJs something to stretch, chop, or loop into oblivion.

What I like most about LoLo Darko is that he’s not afraid of contradictions. His music is moody but danceable, intellectual but sweaty, grounded in culture but aimed at the future. You can tell he’s chasing something bigger than just streams. There’s intent here, a mission to thread Haitian identity into the global dance conversation. Not many artists are brave enough to carry that weight and still make music that bumps.

The visuals match the sound too. LoLo leans into the darker side of aesthetics—shadows, neon, hints of something supernatural. It’s not horror-core, but there’s a spooky edge to the branding that makes Lajan feel less like a track and more like an atmosphere. Even the title—Haitian Creole for “money”—is a provocation. Is he flexing? Critiquing? Both? The ambiguity is part of the allure.

I’ll admit, the first time I played Lajan I wasn’t sure what to make of it. The groove hit instantly, but the melody felt odd, almost unsettling. By the third listen, though, it clicked. That’s the point—it’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to haunt you a little, to pull you back for another round. The best club tracks work that way: they challenge your ear before they take over your body.

LoLo Darko feels like one of those artists who could quietly build a cult following before anyone notices what’s happening. The kind of name you see popping up on lineups in Berlin, Montreal, or São Paulo before your local scene catches on. Lajan is a statement—he’s not waiting for permission, he’s already moving. And if you’re smart, you’ll get on board now, while the dancefloor’s still underground and the story’s still being written.

Carla Patullo Maps Grief and Motion on 'Nomadica

Carla Patullo doesn’t ease you in. On Nomadica, her voice arrives like a signal from a place you half-recognize, layered over orchestral swells and the hum of a passing train. It’s disorienting, in the best way. The record doesn’t just play through your headphones — it feels like you’ve stumbled into a room mid-conversation, one that’s happening between Carla and someone who’s no longer here.

The album was born from loss — Carla’s mother died suddenly in a car accident years ago — but it doesn’t sit in grief alone. Instead, it leans into the surreal idea of reconnecting with someone you can’t call anymore, imagining the conversations that never got to happen. That premise could’ve been heavy-handed, but Carla sidesteps sentimentality with craft: field recordings of water and wind, strings that stretch and break like breath, and isochronic tones that nudge you into a meditative headspace.

And then there are the collaborators. Martha Wainwright shows up for “Fly Under,” bringing her own history of maternal loss into the mix, her voice cutting like gravel under silk. The Scorchio Quartet — Lorenza Ponce, Frederika Krier, Leah Coloff, and Martha Mooke — add strings that don’t just decorate but drive the emotional arc. Tonality, led by Alexander Lloyd Blake, rounds out the sound with choral work that feels ancient and intimate all at once.

I kept replaying “Arrival,” where Lorenza Ponce’s violin solo practically stages a dialogue on its own. It’s one of those moments where an instrument stops being a tool and starts acting like a witness. Same with “Undercurrent,” where Coloff’s cello rides alongside recordings of rain — a reminder that nature can sometimes out-sing us. Not gonna lie, that track made me pause whatever else I was doing.

What’s fascinating about Nomadica is its contradictions. It’s both deeply personal and widely relatable. It’s an exploration of grief, but it also flirts with joy, especially toward the back half. By the time you reach “Lightning,” there’s a sense of lift-off — like Carla isn’t just writing to her mom anymore, but writing herself back into motion. That progression makes the album feel less like a diary entry and more like a hero’s journey mapped onto sound.

Carla herself describes the process as revisiting a frozen part of her life, thawing it through music. That’s a bold move — most of us try to avoid re-opening old wounds. She chose the opposite, dragging the memory into the light and letting it reshape her work. Maybe that’s why the record resonates beyond her own story. The details are hers, but the undercurrent — losing someone and finding a way forward — is universal.

I keep thinking about the way Nomadica closes. “Fly Under,” co-written with Wainwright, doesn’t tie things up neatly. Instead, it lands on the idea that love doesn’t evaporate with absence, it mutates and lingers. That’s not closure, exactly — more like a truce. And that’s what makes Carla Patullo’s work worth sitting with. She’s not just giving us songs, she’s offering a place to grieve, to imagine, and maybe even to breathe a little easier.

LARJIMAR Builds His Own World on 'Metro Subterráneo

The first thing that hit me about Metro Subterráneo wasn’t even the music—it was the cover. Those pixelated visuals look like something ripped from an old video game, but sharper, intentional. Turns out LARJIMAR made them himself. That detail alone tells you a lot: this is an artist who isn’t waiting for the perfect budget, the perfect team, the perfect anything. He builds the world himself and then lets you step into it.

The music’s just as layered. On the opener “Looking Back,” you hear Afrobeat slipping into Spanglish R&B, smooth but restless, never quite settling in one lane. Then track two, “In My Feels (I Get),” flips the script—more uptempo, a little party-ready, a little mischievous. By the time you’re deep into “Walkin Ere’” or “Floro Caverns,” the mood shifts again, leaning chill, almost meditative. It’s like the album was designed to soundtrack an entire night out, from the first drink to the quiet ride home.

What makes it stick, though, is the voice behind it. LARJIMAR sings and raps in both English and Spanish, sliding between the two without making a big deal of it. It feels natural, like the way you’d talk to your friends on the subway. He’s pulling from 90s and 2000s R&B influences—Aaliyah, Timbaland, Chris Brown—but it doesn’t feel like nostalgia bait. There’s always some modern twist: a synth line inspired by Addison Rae’s “Diet Pepsi,” a hook that sounds like it could sit next to Bryson Tiller on a playlist.

There’s also a story here, even if he doesn’t spell it out. His debut, La Luna Llena Se Eleva, was darker, a kind of therapy project from a moment when he felt like life was slipping away from him. Metro Subterráneo feels like the other side of that coin. Not perfect joy, but something calmer, more grounded. He told me, “To be good with others, you gotta be good with yourself.” That line reads almost self-help at first, but in his songs you can hear he means it.

The recording process wasn’t glamorous—New York apartments, borrowed sounds from Soundtrap, DIY mixing and mastering—but that’s part of why it works. There’s an honesty in the way he stitched it together. Instead of outsourcing the visuals or chasing a radio-ready polish, he leaned into his resourcefulness. Honestly, the album sounds better for it. A little weird in spots, yeah, but weird in a way that makes you lean closer.

I’ll admit, not every track hits with the same punch. Some meander, some feel more like sketches than fully fleshed-out songs. But that’s also what makes the record interesting. He’s not afraid to test ideas, let them stand even if they don’t land the same way for everyone. And when it does click—like the hypnotic sway of “La 42”—it feels like he’s onto something special.

LARJIMAR’s not positioning himself as the next big crossover star just yet. He’s carving his lane slowly, intentionally, blending Spanglish R&B with underground grit and Caribbean color. If La Luna Llena Se Eleva was survival, Metro Subterráneo is momentum. And listening through, you get the sense this is just the warm-up lap.

Lost in Town Find Their Sweet Spot on 'Summer With Rain

Lost in Town don’t waste time easing you in. Their new single Summer With Rain kicks off like you’ve just stepped into the middle of a conversation — guitars already in full swing, drums hitting with that Foo Fighters-style drive, and a vocal line that feels urgent but strangely familiar. I had it on repeat the other night while answering emails, and at some point realized I’d stopped typing just to catch the way the chorus folds back into the verse. It’s not flashy, but it’s sticky. The kind of hook you’ll accidentally hum when you’re supposed to be quiet.

What grabbed me wasn’t just the sound, though. There’s this emotional push-pull running through the track. Lyrically, it’s about holding onto something you know is slipping away, but the music doesn’t collapse into gloom. Instead, it barrels forward — like someone driving fast in the rain with the windows cracked, half-smiling at the mess of it all. That tension between heartbreak and energy is tricky to nail, and Lost in Town hit it right in the center.

They’ve been name-dropped alongside Soundgarden, Foo Fighters, and The Killers, and yeah, you can hear all of that. The grit, the punch, the melodic edge. But what’s more interesting is how unpretentious it feels. A lot of alt-rock revival bands lean too hard on nostalgia, but Summer With Rain doesn’t sound like cosplay. It sounds like four people in a room who actually like playing loud together. There’s sweat in it.

The track is also our first look at their upcoming EP Move to Mars, which the band describes as an exploration of escape — whether that means literally blasting off or just trying to move forward in life. That framing feels right. If Summer With Rain is the teaser, then the EP might lean into that restless energy, the “anywhere but here” headspace so many of us know too well. I don’t need concept albums to be sold to me, but I do like when a band builds a world around their songs, and the teasers hint they’re doing exactly that.

I checked out the lyric video they dropped, and it’s not just filler. The visuals — streaks of neon over washed-out footage, flashes of water and static — match the song’s restless mood. It’s lo-fi enough to feel personal but polished enough that you can imagine it living inside a bigger visual universe once Move to Mars fully lands. Bands underestimate how much fans latch onto these little visual breadcrumbs, but Lost in Town clearly thought it through.

What makes them compelling is that they’re not afraid to sit in contradictions. Their music is heavy but melodic, nostalgic yet forward-looking. Summer With Rain is a breakup song you can blast at full volume without sinking into sadness. That duality keeps me hooked. And maybe that’s the secret — they’re not chasing a single vibe. They’re chasing the messy overlap where life usually happens.

So, yeah. If you’re building your late-summer playlist, put this one next to your go-to anthems. And keep an eye on Move to Mars — I have a feeling it won’t just be another “here’s some songs” release. Lost in Town sound like a band gearing up for a bigger leap, and honestly, I’m ready to follow.

"Ashley King's Opening Statement: No Half-Measures Allowed"

Ashley King didn’t waste any time on half-measures with her first single. “Whatever We Want” doesn’t sound like the cautious opening move of an emerging artist—it lands with the confidence of someone who already knows exactly what she wants to say. It’s the lead track off her EP Love Lately, and it sets the tone: soulful, ambitious, and quietly daring.

The collaboration here is sharp. Ashley teamed up with Kahncept, a Grammy-nominated songwriter and vocalist whose smooth delivery wraps around the track like silk. Their chemistry is the first thing that hits you. Ashley’s grounded storytelling meets Kahncept’s melodic instincts, and suddenly the song feels bigger than the sum of its parts.

What I like most is how the track refuses to sit neatly in one box. Sure, it’s a love song, but it’s also a blueprint. The lyrics slide from the romantic to the aspirational without missing a beat—one second you’re picturing a golden sunset with someone you love, the next you’re grinding toward future success, promising to wait until “the money is right.” It’s personal and universal at the same time, which is probably why it sticks.

I’ll admit, there’s a little contradiction at play here. The song is all about limitless possibility, but it’s delivered with such calm assurance that it doesn’t feel like dreaming—it feels like planning. That’s the Ashley King effect. She doesn’t come across as someone chasing stardom on a whim. You get the sense she’s been working quietly, waiting until the music sounded exactly the way she heard it in her head.

And about that sound—it’s smooth but not slick, soulful but not heavy-handed. There are touches that feel almost cinematic, like when the production drops low to let the rain-on-pavement imagery breathe. That detail hit me harder than I expected. It’s the kind of line you remember because it’s oddly specific, almost mundane, yet instantly recognizable.

There’s also something refreshing about the timing. Releasing a track like “Whatever We Want” in the middle of a moment when most artists are chasing viral hooks feels almost rebellious. Ashley isn’t aiming for the quick burn. She’s laying out a story arc. The whole EP feels like it’s designed to live longer than a TikTok trend, which is rare enough to make you pay attention.

So where does this go next? If “Whatever We Want” is Ashley King’s opening statement, then she’s only getting started. The song leaves you with that familiar itch—you want to know what else she’s hiding on the hard drive, what other stories she’s saving for the right moment. It feels like she’s just cracked the door open, and now the question is how far she’s willing to push it. My bet? Pretty far.

"BruceBAn$hee: Precision Disguised as Recklessness"

BruceBAn$hee doesn’t really wait for permission. His latest single, WhiteBoyWa$ted, sounds like someone kicked the door down at a house party and never left. It’s messy, loud, full of reckless confidence—exactly the kind of track that thrives on not playing by the rules. The first time I heard it, I felt like I’d stumbled into a late-night set where punk kids and rap heads were suddenly in the same pit, and it somehow made perfect sense.

The Maryland artist is a one-man machine. He wrote it, produced it, mixed it, mastered it, and even designed the cover art in his home studio. No label polish, no co-signs—just Bruce locking himself in a room and chasing down the sound in his head until it existed. That self-sufficiency gives the track a weird tension: it’s chaotic and reckless, but you can tell every detail has been fussed over. Like someone spray-painting a wall but making sure the colors clash just right.

His influences are all over the map—Ozzy, Hendrix, Nirvana, Mac Miller—and you can hear the fingerprints without it sounding like cosplay. The guitars grind with that grunge-era dirt, the drums hit like a trap record, and his vocals swing between snarling punk sneer and hip-hop cadence. It shouldn’t work, but it does. That’s probably the best description of his music overall: it shouldn’t work, but it does.

Live, BruceBAn$hee doubles down. I caught some fan-shot clips online and the shows feel like organized chaos—crowdsurfing, mic-grabbing, kids yelling every word. He’s got that punk energy but also the swagger of a battle rapper. You don’t just watch him perform; he drags the whole room into the storm. Even through a shaky iPhone video, you can feel the sweat and urgency.

There’s also this contradiction in him that I find interesting. He talks about embracing chaos, “no rules, no filters,” but when you listen closer, you hear how tight his vision actually is. That’s not sloppiness—it’s precision disguised as recklessness. It’s the same way some of the best skaters make eating concrete look effortless when you know they’ve bailed a hundred times to land it once.

What makes WhiteBoyWa$ted stand out isn’t just the sound, though. It’s that it feels like Bruce’s real life bottled up and thrown against the wall. He calls it “the sound of me kicking down my own creative limits,” and you believe him. There’s no A&R trimming the edges, no committee deciding the vibe. Just a kid in Maryland, turning one wild night into a genre-bending anthem that feels too specific to be manufactured.

And that’s why I think he’s worth paying attention to. BruceBAn$hee isn’t trying to be the face of a movement or chase TikTok trends—he’s building his own world, brick by chaotic brick. If WhiteBoyWa$ted is any sign, he’s not slowing down. Next time he drops, don’t be surprised if the pit gets even bigger.

All Roads Lead Back: Particle X's Decade-Long Detour

When you put on Roads, the debut album from Tel Aviv’s Particle X, the first thing that hits isn’t just the riffs or the soaring vocals—it’s the weight of lived experience behind it. This isn’t a band throwing out songs just to fill an album; it feels more like five people who’ve taken a long, winding detour back to music and finally decided to say what’s been sitting heavy on their chests.

Particle X formed back in 2014 when the members were barely out of their teens—Idan Asias on vocals, drummer/vocalist Tom Lezmy, guitarist Yoni Grobman, and their early lineup. Life, as it does, got in the way. Jobs, obligations, the grind. The band dissolved quietly, though they’d still meet up now and then to jam. But the fire never fully went out. A decade later, in early 2024, Idan made the call that changed everything: he wanted to bring the band back. Tom and Yoni signed on, guitarist Eran Zaksh came into the fold, and then bassist Aviv Peled sealed the deal. Suddenly, Particle X was a five-piece with unfinished business.

Listening to Roads, you can hear that urgency. The songs sound like they’ve been bottled up for years, waiting for the right moment to break out. Tracks like Certificate 16 hit especially hard. Written years ago about two orphaned brothers caught in tragedy, the song gained chilling new meaning after the October 7 attacks, when Idan lost a close friend’s brother at the Nova Festival. It’s one thing to write about struggle in the abstract; it’s another to sing words you now carry in real life. That’s the emotional gravity Roads thrives on.

What makes Particle X stand out isn’t just the heaviness of their subject matter, though—it’s the way they balance it with melody. There’s plenty of grit, sure, but also a surprising softness at times, like they’re constantly walking the line between rage and tenderness. It’s that dual-guitar setup with Yoni and Eran that creates the push and pull, while Tom’s drumming gives everything this sense of restless forward drive. And Idan? His voice doesn’t just perform the lyrics, it sounds like it’s carrying the stories on its back.

Their process wasn’t glamorous. They recorded the album in Tom’s studio, which has its own story—before they could even celebrate the release, the studio was bombed in the war. The fact that they managed to finish Roads beforehand feels almost like fate. There’s something poetic in that: a space built for music, destroyed by violence, yet the songs survived. Those details linger when you listen. They make the album feel heavier, but also strangely defiant.

Particle X isn’t famous. Not yet. They’re booking shows, trying to get their sound out, one stage at a time. But watching them play, you get the sense that recognition isn’t their main fuel. It’s more personal. It’s about proving to themselves—and maybe to anyone else who ever hit pause on a dream—that it’s not too late to pick it back up.

The title Roads says it all. Each member took their own path after the band split, but somehow, years later, those roads led back to one another. That "X" in their name? Look at the artwork—it’s not just a logo. It’s the crossing point where all those separate lives converge. And now, with Roads finally out in the world, you can feel that Particle X is just getting started. The detour’s over. They’re moving.