Weekly Discover 65 — The Fire Beneath the Noise

Rock has always been more than a genre—it’s a confrontation, a rebellion, a heartbeat turned amplifier. Weekly Discover 65 steps into that legacy, not with nostalgia, but with teeth bared and eyes locked on what comes next. This week’s session doesn’t invite you to simply listen—it challenges you to feel.

The opening chords strike like flint against steel. Rough, jagged, and unapologetic, they spark a momentum that won’t let you sink back into passivity. Drums thunder like boots on a march, guitars slash open the silence, and the vocals? They don’t plead; they demand. It’s the archetypal “call to adventure”—a reminder that comfort zones rarely produce revolutions.

As you move deeper into the set, the textures shift. Grit turns to groove, chaos bends toward structure, and yet unpredictability never loosens its grip. There are riffs that spiral out of control, basslines that crawl beneath your skin, and sudden drops where silence feels almost louder than sound. This is the trial stage—the point in the story where you learn that power isn’t about speed or volume alone, but about how tension and release can fracture, then rebuild, your sense of self.

But rock has always been more than aggression. Vulnerability sneaks in here, too, stripped of armor. A cracked vocal line bleeds honesty; a melody collapses into something fragile, almost broken. It’s proof that strength isn’t the absence of wounds—it’s the courage to let them show. These moments don’t dilute the fire; they feed it. They remind you that the truest anthems are born not from perfection, but from scars turned into sound.

By the time the final track fades, you realize you haven’t just consumed music—you’ve survived it. What’s left isn’t neat or polished; it’s raw resilience, the kind that lodges itself in your chest long after the volume drops. Rock doesn’t promise tidy answers, and neither does Weekly Discover 65. What it does promise is truth—loud, defiant, and unignorable.

This isn’t background music. It’s a battle cry, a mirror, and a spark all at once. If you’re ready to step into the fire and let the noise remake you, then Weekly Discover 65 is waiting.

Audra Watt's "Livin' It Up" and the Art of Starting Late

The first time I heard Audra Watt’s new single “Livin’ It Up”, I had one of those “wait, who is this?” moments. The organ hits first, bright and bold, and then her voice cuts in—confident, unhurried, like someone finally claiming their place at the table. It’s the kind of song you want to roll the windows down for, even if you’re just idling in Nashville traffic. And maybe that’s the point: it’s less about where you’re going and more about deciding the ride is worth taking in the first place.

Audra’s story is almost as compelling as the song itself. She didn’t grow up chasing record deals or playing smoky bars six nights a week. For years, she was the dependable one—the full-time employee, the mom juggling soccer practices, the steady presence in everyone else’s lives. Music was always there, but in the background, like a light she kept dimmed. Then 40 hit, and instead of quietly shelving the dream, she doubled down. Start Late—the title of her upcoming album—says it all.

What I love about Livin’ It Up is how it mirrors that pivot. The track was co-written with Jeffrey East, who she almost didn’t meet up with after a string of reschedules. When they finally sat down, Audra told him about two uncharacteristic moments: staying out past midnight and ditching work meetings to write. He stopped her mid-story: that’s what we’re writing today. Within hours, the song was born. It’s the kind of origin story that makes you believe in timing.

The recording process had its own twists, too. The first version leaned on their worktape, good but not quite “it.” A week later, while cutting another track at Dark Horse Recording, Audra threw Livin’ It Up into the mix on a whim. The second take had Chris Nole on organ, snow falling outside the studio windows, and Audra knocking out the lead vocal in just a handful of passes. That spontaneity stuck. You can hear it in the recording—it feels alive, almost impatient, like it couldn’t wait to exist.

Her influences aren’t hidden either. Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark, Billy Joel’s My Life—you can hear those reference points in the way the song balances storytelling with momentum. But it never tips into imitation. There’s a warmth in her delivery, an openness, that makes it distinctly hers. Audra has a way of writing songs that feel like they’re letting you in on a secret, but without asking for your permission to tell it.

What complicates the narrative—and makes it more interesting—is that Audra doesn’t see herself only as an artist. She’s a wife, a mom, a coworker, a boss. Honoring the musician in her didn’t mean walking away from those roles; it meant showing up in all of them more fully. There’s something refreshing about an artist who doesn’t feel the need to romanticize the grind. She’s not pretending she sleeps in the studio or lives on black coffee and heartbreak. She’s building a career on her own terms, in her own timeline.

And she’s just getting started. Start Late is slated for early 2026, and if Livin’ It Up is any indication, the record will be less about chasing trends and more about carving out space for reinvention. There’s a quiet thrill in watching someone step into a chapter they once thought was closed. My gut says this won’t just resonate with late bloomers—it’ll hit anyone who’s ever felt like the clock was working against them. With Audra Watt, time isn’t the enemy. It’s the hook.

Ryan Sweezey Steps Into the Lights on "The One Up There"

Ryan Sweezey’s new single, “The One Up There – Radio Edit” (out September 5), doesn’t waste time getting to the point. It opens with that kind of guitar tone that instantly feels live—bright, slightly restless, begging for an audience to clap along. By the time the horns come in, it’s clear he’s stepped into new territory. It’s not just another indie rock track; it’s Ryan’s first time pulling brass into his sound, and it feels like he’s been holding that card close until the exact right moment.

The track is anchored in a very specific daydream—Ryan standing in a crowd at a JOSEPH concert, wishing he was the one under the lights. That’s not an abstract influence; it’s the spark that pushed him to chase this song. And you can hear it in the way his vocals lift in the chorus, somewhere between longing and determination. He’s cited Motion City Soundtrack as another touchpoint, and you can hear that too in the way the melodies skate over energetic guitar lines. It’s not imitation—it’s translation.

Part of what makes this single interesting is how it was built. Some of it was laid down at Lane Gibson Studio in Charlotte, VT—just before the studio shut its doors for good—while the rest came together in Philadelphia at producer Christopher Hawthorn’s space. It’s almost poetic, really. Closing chapters in one state, opening new ones in another. The process itself was a hybrid of Zoom brainstorms, email attachments, and one intense week of in-person tracking. It’s DIY modern music-making at its most resourceful.

And yet, the end result doesn’t sound patched together. Christopher brought in keys and horns, while Vermont musicians Kyle Saulnier and Caleb Bronz filled in the low end on bass and drums. You can hear the chemistry even though half of it happened virtually. That’s the contradiction that defines Ryan’s work: deeply collaborative, but still fiercely independent. He’s unsigned, six albums in, and somehow manages to make each project feel bigger than the one before.

I’ll be honest—when I first heard “The One Up There”, I wasn’t expecting the horns to hit as hard as they do. It gave me that same surprise-jolt as the first time Arcade Fire used them on Funeral. They don’t just decorate the track; they push it forward, make it feel more celebratory. Which makes sense, since Ryan describes the song as a celebration of the dream itself: the joy of playing, of flipping the script from fan in the crowd to artist on stage.

Of course, this isn’t just a single floating on its own. It’s the fourth release leading up to Ryan’s upcoming album, Maybe Magic, set to drop later this year. He’s already proven he can hold down a headline spot at Higher Ground’s Showcase Lounge, and he’s got a release show booked at Foam Brewers in Burlington on November 1. The local scene has been riding with him for a while, but you can feel the momentum starting to spill out wider.

What I like most, though, is that Ryan doesn’t frame this music as destiny or some grand calling. He admits it’s built on daydreams, persistence, and the thrill of connection. That makes it easier to root for him. “The One Up There” is just a glimpse of where he’s heading, but it’s also proof that sometimes the thing you imagine yourself doing from the back of the crowd is actually the thing you’re meant to build your life around.

Archer Stevens Find Their Footing on "Turned Around"

The first thing that hits you about Archer Stevens’ new single “Turned Around” isn’t the guitars—it’s the piano. A riff that feels both old-school and urgent, like something beamed straight out of the mid-70s but dressed up in sharper modern tones. It’s unexpected, especially from a band who describe themselves as desert rats clawing their way out of Phoenix. And maybe that’s the hook: they take the bones of classic rock and twist them just enough to keep you on edge.

Their debut single, “Pretty Ugly,” was already a warning shot—a brash, swaggering track that felt like a Mack truck barreling through 1977. But “Turned Around” shifts gears. It’s still loud and unapologetic, but there’s storytelling here, a narrative about walking away from toxicity and finding your footing again. It doesn’t play like some self-help anthem—it sounds more like the kind of advice you get at 2 a.m. from a friend who’s lived through it, bruised but unbroken.

The song features Grace-Ella stepping back into the spotlight, sharing lead vocals and weaving harmonies that feel surprisingly cinematic. Her voice cuts through the band’s grit without softening it, and when the track hits that extended bridge around 2:19, everything clicks. The guitars stretch out, the organ swells, and those layered vocals spiral into a kaleidoscope of sound. It’s one of those rare moments where you can feel a band taking their shot at something bigger.

What I love most is that Archer Stevens aren’t trying to play dress-up as a “classic rock revival” act. Yeah, you hear Elton John, Alice Cooper, Deep Purple in the DNA, but it’s not cosplay. They’ve pulled the influence forward rather than just polishing the past. The production is clean, balanced, and modern—but the energy? That’s pure, unfiltered bar-band chaos, the kind that used to get people into fights in parking lots after shows.

There’s also this contradiction that makes them interesting. On paper, they’re leaning into nostalgia hard—vintage gear, desert swagger, Rolling Stones worship. But in practice, the music feels strangely fresh. Like they’re not trying to compete with what’s happening in pop-rock playlists right now, and because of that, they stand out more. It’s a risky lane to pick, but judging by the reaction around “Turned Around,” it’s paying off.

And lyrically, they’re sharper than you’d expect from a band still this early in their run. Lines like “Roses cut me wide open” don’t feel like filler—they land. It’s the kind of detail that sneaks up on you in the middle of a song and stays rattling around in your head. That might be the biggest surprise here: for all their bravado, Archer Stevens have a knack for weaving in vulnerability without sanding down the rough edges.

Right now, they’re only two singles deep, but it feels like something’s bubbling. They’ve got the chops, the references, the songwriting muscle—and most importantly, that sense of hunger you can’t fake. If “Pretty Ugly” was the introduction and “Turned Around” is the statement, then the next move is the one that could cement them as more than just another barroom band with good taste in records. And honestly, I’m betting they’re ready to swing for it.

The Lived-In Sound of Fiona Amaka's "Cowards and Shadows"

If you’ve ever stumbled across Fiona Amaka mid-set at a London open mic, you know she has a knack for turning a casual audience into a small, breathless crowd. There’s a moment in her new single, Cowards and Shadows, where her voice bends over the melody like it’s hesitating and then deciding to leap anyway—suddenly, you’re leaning in, listening closer, not sure if you’re witnessing heartbreak or triumph. That tension, that uncertainty, is something Fiona seems to thrive on.

Her music has this unusual balance—gritty and soulful one second, introspective and delicate the next. On No Daylight, released this January, she straddles indie-rock and 80s-inspired vibes, letting guitar lines crawl over bluesy vocals that feel like they’ve lived through betrayal. It’s easy to hear why listeners have floated comparisons to Bowie or Stevie Nicks; there’s a theatricality in her delivery, but never forced, always personal. I found myself rewinding sections just to catch the little flourishes she sneaks into the bridge.

The story behind Cowards and Shadows feels equally alive. Fiona says it grew out of conversations around ghosting—how the act has bled from dating into work and social spaces. She first tested it at acoustic nights, watching the audience instinctively nod along, their reactions validating the shared frustration embedded in the song. It’s not just a track; it’s a social commentary wrapped in riffs and whispered confessions, a subtle reminder that her music comes from noticing the small, uncomfortable truths people often skim over.

Recording with producer and guitarist Andy Zanini in London added a tactile, almost cinematic quality to the song. You can hear it in the layering—guitars swelling just enough to punctuate, never overshadow, her vocal delivery. There’s a texture to the production that makes it feel immediate, like you’re standing in the same room, watching the chord changes shift under her fingers. For an artist whose sound blends folk, rock, and soul, that level of nuance isn’t easy to pull off—but she does it without hesitation.

Fiona’s previous single, Justified, leaned into more cerebral and ambient landscapes, showing she isn’t content repeating herself. She seems drawn to exploring moods and textures, always chasing that point where lyric and instrument intersect in a way that feels lived-in, yet strikingly original. There’s a subtle tension in her catalog: the listener wants to pin her down, but she keeps moving, teasing with unexpected harmonics or shifts in tempo. It keeps you engaged, guessing, returning.

Live, she’s a different beast. The Fiona Amaka Band has been lighting up London gigs for months, building a rapport with audiences that feels organic rather than choreographed. Camden Weekender Festival, where they’ll be performing Cowards and Shadows in August, is shaping up to be a moment where her studio work and live energy converge. Watching her perform, you notice how she invites the crowd into the narrative—sometimes with a glance, sometimes with a hesitant laugh mid-verse—and it feels unforced, spontaneous.

There’s something refreshing about Fiona’s trajectory: she’s ambitious but not flashy, reflective but willing to expose contradictions in her own storytelling. She’s not waiting for the world to hand her approval; she’s making space for listeners to recognize themselves in her songs, whether that’s through the sting of betrayal, a memory of someone who ghosted, or the fleeting triumph of surviving it all. And if Cowards and Shadows is any indication, she’s only getting started.

Taps and Tension: The Higher Desires' "Unknown Soldiers"

You notice it immediately in Unknown Soldiers (Veterans Edition)—that tension between intensity and quiet reflection. The guitars surge and crash like a classic indie rock anthem, but then there’s that moment: an electric guitar version of Taps, stretching across the track like a pause in time. It’s simple, understated, yet it lands hard. I found myself leaning in, trying not to breathe over the solemnity of it.

William Walbaum, the brains and heart behind The Higher Desires, doesn’t shy away from carrying weight in his music. He writes, produces, and plays almost everything himself, and it shows—the details feel intentional, even in the smallest flick of a cymbal or subtle vocal inflection. With guest guitarist Michael Stoican stepping in for the lead, the song becomes both personal and communal, almost like a conversation you weren’t expecting but are glad to have.

Lyrically, the track is haunting in its simplicity. Lines like “They’re the unknown soldiers, all the heroes” and “There are so many names” don’t try to be profound—they just are. And yet, that honesty is what strikes the listener hardest. The Veterans Edition stretches longer than a standard release, giving space to reflect, and every stream, every royalty, funnels straight to veterans’ charities. That sense of mission, of action behind the art, is rare in indie rock these days.

But the band isn’t trapped in solemnity. Even within the heavier releases, there’s this pulse of life and warmth threading through—like on The Children, where reflective lyrics and acoustic textures suggest hope rather than mourning. It’s clear that for Walbaum and The Higher Desires, music isn’t just catharsis; it’s a platform. A chance to honor, to advocate, to spark conversations beyond the usual indie rock fanbase.

Listening to them live or on recordings, you catch the contradictions: raw energy alongside tender detail, social conscience paired with celebratory riffs. There’s this moment halfway through where you expect a traditional anthem, but instead they pull back, almost teasing you, before returning with full throttle. It’s a band that seems unafraid of pacing, of letting listeners catch their breath before hitting hard again.

And then there’s the future. Upcoming songs hint at lighter themes—love, connection, life’s fleeting joys—but you know it’s coming from the same core: honesty. The Higher Desires write about real experiences, and there’s a humility to it, a refusal to glamorize or oversell. You get the sense that whether they’re exploring sacrifice or celebration, they’re always chasing something bigger than just the song itself.

By the end of Unknown Soldiers, you’re left with more than music. There’s reflection, gratitude, and this lingering curiosity about what’s next. The Higher Desires are carving their lane in indie rock not just with riffs and vocals, but with integrity and mission-driven storytelling. And honestly? It makes you want to follow along, not just as a fan, but as a witness to what this band is building—one song, one story, one human connection at a time.