Weekly Discover 63 — The Sound of Breaking Skin

Every story worth telling begins with tension, and this week’s playlist refuses to let you hide in comfort. Rap, hip hop, rock, and experimental collide here—not in harmony, but in friction. This isn’t music built for safe spaces. It’s for the nights when silence feels unbearable, when you need sound that bites back.

The opening tracks act like the “call to adventure.” Voices are jagged, urgent, almost reckless. Lyrics blur the line between confession and confrontation, demanding attention in a world that’s numb from scrolling. The bass doesn’t simply drop—it cracks the ground open. In those first minutes, you understand: this isn’t about escape. It’s about exposure.

Midway, the journey deepens. The production grows stranger, less predictable. Guitars tear through verses like unresolved arguments; beats stagger in a way that feels more human than perfect. The discomfort is deliberate, a reminder that growth never happens in rhythm—it happens in rupture. You’re pulled into the belly of the beast, where sound becomes both weapon and wound.

And yet, somewhere between distortion and dissonance, vulnerability sneaks in. A fractured hook clings to memory. A whispered line cuts sharper than the loudest chorus. These are the cracks where light seeps through. The heroes of this session are not polished icons but flawed storytellers, baring the fractures that make them real.

By the outro, you’ve circled back with something different—clarity, maybe, or simply the sense that you’ve been changed. There are no neat resolutions, but the energy is undeniable: survival, defiance, resilience. The storm doesn’t pass; you just learn to stand inside it without breaking.

Weekly Discover 63 isn’t background music. It’s a mirror with teeth. A soundtrack for anyone who understands that sometimes the most beautiful noise is the kind that refuses to be quiet.

Basement Confessions: Why Jayci Vale's DIY Debut Hits Different

The first thing that hits you about Jayci Vale’s debut single, “Bad4MyHealth,” is how unpolished it feels—in the best way possible. It doesn’t sound like it came from a million-dollar studio, because it didn’t. It was pieced together in a Cleveland basement, tracked on a phone through BandLab, and shaped with an AT4040 mic that Vale swears is the only piece of “real” gear he had. But there’s something about that stripped-down environment that lets the emotion bleed through. You hear the space, the hesitation, the decision to keep certain imperfections in. It’s like being let in on a private thought before he’s fully figured it out himself.

Musically, the song floats somewhere between late-night R&B and low-key rap confessionals. You can hear the Brent Faiyaz influence in the way he drags out melodies just enough to make you lean in, and Juice WRLD’s ghost lingers in the vulnerability Vale doesn’t bother to hide. There’s a PARTYNEXTDOOR-style haze too—moody, cinematic, and slightly dreamlike. But what makes “Bad4MyHealth” stick isn’t the references. It’s the feeling that Jayci is pulling you into his headspace, into that messy middle ground of knowing someone isn’t good for you but not being ready to walk away either.

I’ll be honest: when I first played it, I thought it was going to be just another basement demo that lived and died on SoundCloud. But halfway through the track, the hook landed differently. That line about “she probably did something, maybe she didn’t, but either way it’s bad for my health to think like this”—it’s not polished poetry. It’s anxious, restless, real. And that’s exactly why it works. He turned overthinking into a groove.

Vale’s story makes the track even more interesting. He didn’t grow up in a scene buzzing with label scouts or endless opportunities. Instead, he found his way through BandLab, trading beats with strangers online, then realizing—slowly—that maybe his voice was the thing worth putting at the center. That realization came with risk. “Bad4MyHealth” was the first time he decided to treat his music seriously, not just as an experiment. He took control of every layer, every vocal take, and the result is a debut that feels more personal diary than polished single.

There’s also a contradiction at the heart of Jayci Vale. He’s detail-obsessed enough to arrange and re-arrange his vocals for hours, but also loose enough to let the imperfections ride. He says the song came from wrestling with love and distraction, but you get the sense it was also him wrestling with himself—whether to play it safe or put his real feelings out there. Choosing the latter makes the record stand taller than the basement ceiling it was recorded under.

Visually, Vale leans into that same cinematic feel you hear in the music. The artwork and roll-out for “Bad4MyHealth” feel like stills from a moody film, low-light and slightly blurred, like memory. It’s consistent with how he talks about his vision: music as atmosphere, a vibe you step into instead of just stream in the background. That kind of clarity this early is rare. Most debut artists are still trying on sounds; Jayci seems to already know the world he wants to build, even if the tools are barebones right now.

And that’s what makes this moment exciting. “Bad4MyHealth” isn’t a perfect single. It’s a first step, a foundation. But it’s also proof that Vale doesn’t need the big studio or a major co-sign to carve out a lane. He’s already building it himself, one late-night track at a time. If this is what his ground level sounds like, I’m curious—maybe even a little impatient—to see where he goes when the world finally catches on.

"LLAMAME": When twoZERO1 Lost Everything and Found Their Sound

The first thing that hits you when you press play on CALL TWO THE STRE3TZ1: LLAMAME isn’t the beat—it’s the energy. There’s something about the way twoZERO1 stack English and Spanish bars on top of urban Latin rhythms that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a block party where no one cares what side of the map you’re from. It’s loud, layered, and unapologetically theirs.

The group’s story is a little messy, which honestly makes it more interesting. They’d been dropping singles for a while—gritty tracks that lived both in English and Spanish—until one day, out of nowhere, their manager Sam GuTTerz pulled the plug and deleted the entire catalog during a distributor switchover. The crew wasn’t happy (understatement), but instead of sulking, they regrouped. Out of that frustration came the decision to put everything into a full-length album. That’s how LLAMAME was born.

Recorded between LAVA and FUZION studios in L.A., the sessions became rituals. Don POLO would fly in from the East Coast, lock in for four-hour blocks, and the rule was simple: two tracks per visit—one English, one Spanish. No overthinking, no polishing the life out of it. Just raw perspectives bouncing around the room until the mic captured them. By the time producers like ANNO DOMINI BEATS and CITOONTHEBEAT layered their touch on top, the songs carried that chaotic-but-cohesive spark that’s hard to fake.

Visually, the project has its own personality too. The artwork, designed by Ahmad R, doesn’t try to look like anyone else’s branding. It feels more like a snapshot of a movement than a “cover.” That decision mirrors their whole approach—no big-name influences, no blueprint borrowed from the charts, just their own taste and lifestyle funneled into sound. It’s risky, but that’s what makes it stand out.

Listening through the album, you can feel how each member adds their own shade. Some verses lean heavy on social tension, others flip into swagger-heavy storytelling. There are moments where you catch yourself vibing to the bilingual back-and-forth without even noticing the language switch. That’s the magic—they’re not just bridging cultures, they’re collapsing the gap entirely.

I’ll admit, the first time I heard their catalog had been erased, I thought, “That’s career suicide.” But hearing the finished record, it makes sense. Those singles were the training wheels; this album is the ride. The group managed to turn a setback into a pivot point—one of those messy, necessary resets you only appreciate later. And with their NYC show lined up at The Delancey this November, it feels like they’re already writing the next chapter.

If you’re tired of hearing the same recycled formulas clogging up playlists, give twoZERO1 a spin. CALL TWO THE STRE3TZ1: LLAMAME doesn’t feel like an algorithmic product—it feels like a crew kicking down the door to let you in on their process, mistakes and all. It’s not perfect, and that’s the point. This is music that actually lives.

"Plastic Bits": Ratfink! and the Art of Turning Creek-Side Daydreams into Scrappy Gold

Ratfink! don’t waste time dressing up what they do. Their new single “Plastic Bits” is, as they put it, “just rock n roll.” Three chords, surf-pop shimmer, and lyrics that feel like they were scribbled on the back of a receipt while sitting by the Merri Creek, watching the water carry things it shouldn’t. It’s unpretentious, scrappy, and it sticks.

Liv and Raph met back in high school and, instead of growing out of music like most of their classmates, doubled down on it. They moved into a share house in Melbourne and turned their bedrooms into a makeshift studio. You can hear the room in the recordings—walls too thin, gear a little too borrowed, but it gives the songs a crooked grin. There’s no separation between life and music with Ratfink!, and that’s the charm.

Both of them sing on every track, sometimes trading lines, sometimes just shouting over each other. It feels less like polished harmonies and more like overhearing two friends trying to make sense of the world in real time. One song might lean into RnB phrasing, the next wanders into dream pop, and then they’ll yank you back with a straight-up rock track. “Plastic Bits” lands firmly in that last category—fast, loud, and cut with a dose of surf-pop sunshine.

The single itself grew out of something mundane: an afternoon hanging by the Merri, daydreaming, watching plastic bob past. Instead of leaving it as a passing thought, Liv and Raph turned it into a hook. The title alone sticks in your head, the way only a phrase that’s both too obvious and too weird can. It’s one of those moments where the band’s environmental concern doesn’t come across as a lecture—it’s just a story, a detail from their backyard, slipped into a chorus.

What strikes me most is how uncalculated it all feels. There’s no sense they’re trying to fit into some carefully marketed “indie” box. One week they’re writing about friends or coming out, the next it’s the natural world. Their songs don’t line up neatly, but they feel lived-in, like pages ripped out of a diary and stapled together. It’s messy in the best way.

I’ve listened to “Plastic Bits” three times in a row now, and it’s got that scrappy energy that makes you want to see it live. I can already picture it in a cramped Melbourne pub, the floor sticky, the crowd yelling the chorus back before it’s even finished. That kind of instant connection is rare, and Ratfink! seem to stumble into it without overthinking.

Their debut record WHEN U WERE MINE drops next month, and if “Plastic Bits” is the warning shot, the rest of the album’s going to be worth sticking around for. They might call it “just rock n roll,” but it feels like more—like two friends throwing everything they’ve got into songs that don’t just fill space, they make you lean in. And I can’t help but want to lean closer.

"Pelican Song": How Two Headed Shadow Puppets Turned State Lines into Studio Magic

Two Headed Shadow Puppets don’t sound like a band that’s trying to chase trends. They sound like a group of friends who’ve been trading riffs and inside jokes long enough that their music feels lived-in, like a backyard hammock that’s been sun-bleached but still sturdy. Their track “Pelican Song,” tucked right in the middle of their debut album Bangin’ in Your Mom’s Garage, is proof of that. It’s breezy, it’s cheeky, and yeah—it might actually make you want to drop everything and head straight for the nearest shoreline.

The band has roots in Florida’s humid underbelly, where garage bands are practically a rite of passage. Taliesin Powell (vocals, guitar) calls the project less about chasing perfection and more about “laying down tracks we’ve been playing for years.” That comes through. “Pelican Song” isn’t a polished, committee-approved pop single. It’s the kind of tune that feels like it was played a hundred times at beach bonfires before someone bothered to hit record.

Sonically, it’s this sweet spot between reggae-influenced grooves and punk’s scrappy attitude. Think Bob Marley if he grew up swapping mix CDs with 311 fans. Kaleb Marazon’s guitar licks snap just enough to cut through the haze, Dylan Marazon’s bassline is playful without losing its pocket, and the whole thing rides on a rhythm that doesn’t ask you to take it seriously—it just dares you not to move. There’s something charmingly unselfconscious about it.

What I like most, though, is the contradiction baked into the band’s story. They’re spread out now—Powell is in New York while the others remain scattered through the South—but they still manage to sound like four guys crammed in the same sticky garage. The track was stitched together across state lines: recorded in Florida, then edited and produced remotely. For a song that makes you picture everyone piled together on the same porch, that detail feels almost ironic.

If you scroll their socials, you’ll see the other side of their personality. They’re not above a good meme, and their posts have that wink-nudge humor that makes you feel like you already know them. It’s a smart way to build community without leaning too hard on self-promotion. The band isn’t just selling music—they’re selling a mood, a summer escape you can carry around in your earbuds.

Live, I imagine this song probably lands harder than it does on record. That’s not a knock on the production—it’s just the kind of track that begs for singalongs, cheap beer, and maybe a crowd that’s a little too loud. You can almost hear the laughter bleeding between the lines. Not every band can pull that off without it feeling corny. These guys can.

So yeah, Bangin’ in Your Mom’s Garage might not be the slickest debut you’ll hear this year, but it doesn’t need to be. Two Headed Shadow Puppets are playing the long game. They’re building a legacy one hook, one laugh, one sandy-footed chorus at a time. “Pelican Song” is just the start—and if they can bottle this kind of sun-soaked energy again, they’ll have no trouble keeping people listening.

Carving Space: How Giuseppe Bonaccorso Built His Own Musical World

Giuseppe Bonaccorso doesn’t make background music. His latest piece, L’Ombra della Terra, feels more like a manifesto than a single—four minutes of sound that drags you into a space where music isn’t meant to comfort, but to challenge. The opening is patient, almost unsettling, with synths and textures that feel cinematic before the pulse of rhythm cracks it open. Then come the guitars—distorted, restless—cutting through the atmosphere like someone refusing to sit quietly anymore.

What struck me most is his voice. It isn’t singing in the way most people expect; it’s closer to poetry delivered from a stage, somewhere between theatre and protest. It has this declarative quality that dares you to follow along, even if you’re not sure where he’s leading. And that’s the thing—Bonaccorso’s music isn’t about spoon-feeding you melodies. It’s about guiding you into a world of questions and contradictions.

The story behind L’Ombra della Terra is as layered as the sound itself. It’s framed as a man’s inner journey, born from observing the hollowness of rituals, traditions, and authority. What starts as disillusionment mutates into rebellion, and finally, emancipation. That progression is audible—you can almost hear the breaking points. There’s one passage where guitars flare against his voice, and it feels like the exact moment when someone decides they’ve had enough.

Bonaccorso’s path to this track is anything but conventional. He spent years between Rome and Berlin, immersing himself in experimental and progressive scenes before retreating to Sicily to build his own “creative sanctuary.” He’s a guitarist, a composer, a poet with awards to his name, and, interestingly, he started with ceramic sculpture as a kid in Caltagirone. Add in his background in computer science and philosophy, and suddenly his music makes sense—structured like an equation, but pulsing with something deeply human.

Of course, this isn’t his first provocation. His earlier track Playground in Gaza already made waves for its boldness. But L’Ombra della Terra feels bigger, more theatrical, like he’s less interested in shocking and more interested in carving out an entire philosophy through sound. It doesn’t care if you’re comfortable. It wants you to think, maybe even squirm a little.

I’ll be honest: this isn’t the kind of song you throw on while driving or cooking dinner. It demands attention. But when you give it that attention, it rewards you with layers you don’t catch the first time. The more I replayed it, the more details surfaced—tiny guitar inflections, unexpected synth swells, subtle shifts in pacing that mirrored the narrative arc. It’s music built for people who like to dig.

What excites me most is where this could lead. If L’Ombra della Terra is Bonaccorso’s way of saying he won’t compromise, then we’re in for more work that ignores trends and cuts straight to the marrow. It’s rare to find an artist so firmly outside the algorithm, uninterested in fitting a playlist. Giuseppe Bonaccorso is building his own world, and honestly, I want to see how far he takes it.