Weekly Discover 67: The Art of Collision

Music doesn’t evolve—it mutates. It absorbs, adapts, and redefines itself every time an artist refuses to play it safe. Weekly Discover 67 picks up where the last session left off, diving headfirst into that creative combustion where jazz brushes against rock’s grit, Americana collides with rap’s unfiltered confidence, and pop stands at the crossroads—smiling knowingly, daring everything to coexist.

This isn’t a playlist. It’s a map of emotional terrain. Every track feels like a chapter in a rebellion—the sound of artists turning their internal chaos into connection.

The opener sets the stage with a low hum of defiance. There’s the warmth of a vintage guitar—roots deep in Americana—but before nostalgia can settle, the rhythm flips. A syncopated beat slides in, clean and intentional, giving the track an urban backbone. It’s a quiet revolution—the sound of tradition learning to move with swagger.

Then the tone shifts. A rap verse enters not like an interruption, but like a revelation—sharp, rhythmic, philosophical. It’s not about bravado; it’s about belonging. Every syllable hits with intent, bridging past scars and present ambition. You feel it in your bones—the call to adventure in this sonic hero’s journey.

Halfway through, the energy morphs. Rock kicks in, loud and unapologetic, pushing the limits of structure. Guitars scream in conversation with jazz horns, percussion becomes punctuation, and for a moment, you can almost hear freedom taking form. It’s not polished; it’s raw, vital, human. The ordeal in full motion—where everything that doesn’t serve authenticity burns away.

Then, like dawn after a storm, the mix softens. A jazz-infused pop piece drifts in, intimate and self-aware. The vocals float between vulnerability and resilience, proof that emotional honesty can be louder than any guitar solo. This is the return—the artist reborn, the listener changed.

By the end, Weekly Discover 67 leaves you suspended between contrast and cohesion. It’s the rare kind of session that doesn’t ask for attention—it commands it. Because what you’re hearing isn’t just sound. It’s evolution documented in real time.

In a world obsessed with labels, this week’s mix reminds us of something simple but radical: music doesn’t have to fit—it just has to feel.

And this one?

You won’t just feel it.

You’ll remember it.

"Together Forever: Catalus Makes Love Songs Human Again"

There’s something quietly magnetic about Catalus. She doesn’t scream for your attention — she earns it. Her latest single, “معا للابد (Together Forever),” unfolds like a private moment caught between breaths, a love song whispered in Arabic over a lush arrangement that somehow feels both vintage and modern. The first time I heard it, I couldn’t tell if I was listening to something recorded yesterday or rediscovered from an old vinyl tucked away in Casablanca. That’s her thing — timelessness with intent.

The track opens simply, almost tentatively. Then the qanun slides in — that fluttering, crystalline sound that immediately transports you somewhere warmer. Catalus’s voice floats right above it, confident but never showy, the kind of voice that doesn’t need to prove a thing. There’s a little catch in her phrasing, like she’s smiling through the words “قبلني مرتين لأتأكد” (“kiss me twice to be sure”). It’s tender, but there’s wit in it too — that knowing tone of someone who understands love’s little games.

You can hear the craftsmanship behind this record — not in the overproduction, but in its restraint. Producer Chris Pellnat keeps things organic: vibraphone, clarinet, Arabic percussion, electric guitar, bass. No synthetic gloss, no lazy loops. It’s the kind of arrangement that breathes. You can practically hear the air moving between instruments, especially in those soft clarinet phrases that sneak in between verses. It’s old-school romance, but made for headphones, not ballrooms.

Catalus, Moroccan-born and fluent in three languages (Arabic, English, French), doesn’t just blend East and West — she lives that mix. Her voice carries the elegance of classical Arabic phrasing but the conversational ease of a Parisian café. She’s not chasing trends, not trying to sound global. She just is. That’s what gives her music its quiet power — it doesn’t perform diversity, it embodies it.

What’s most striking, though, is how intimate “معا للابد” feels. It’s technically a love song, yes, but it’s also a conversation with uncertainty. When she asks, “Am I torturing your kind heart, or my own?” — you believe she’s really asking. There’s no melodrama, no cinematic climax. Just the quiet ache of two people unsure if love will hold. Maybe that’s why it sticks. It’s not the declaration; it’s the doubt that feels real.

Catalus doesn’t chase virality, and maybe that’s her biggest rebellion. In an era of algorithmic hooks, she leans into musicianship — real instruments, nuanced emotion, multilingual storytelling. You can tell she’s studied her craft, but she hasn’t lost the human element. The imperfections in her delivery — that slightly delayed consonant, that breath before the third “kiss me” — make it feel alive.

It’s easy to imagine “Together Forever” slipping into playlists next to Fairuz or Sade, bridging generations and geographies. Catalus isn’t reinventing love songs — she’s rehumanizing them. And as she sings that final refrain — “kiss me three times so we can be together, together forever” — it doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like an artist just beginning to show how deep her music can go.

"BruceBan$hee Breaks the 4th Wall — And Dares You to Follow"

The first thing you notice when listening to BruceBan$hee’s 4th Wall isn’t the noise — it’s the conviction. Every distorted bass hit, every half-shouted lyric feels less like a performance and more like a transmission from someone who’s seen too much of both sides of the stage. It’s punk, it’s rap, it’s experimental — but more than that, it’s personal. There’s this strange sense that Bruce isn’t trying to impress anyone; he’s trying to show you something true, even if it’s uncomfortable.

Born and raised in Maryland, BruceBan$hee built his lane the old-school way — by refusing to wait for permission. He writes, records, produces, mixes, and even designs everything himself. That level of control gives his music this unfiltered, almost confrontational honesty. You can tell it’s not run through a label committee. There’s grit in his production, mistakes left in on purpose, and vocals that sometimes teeter between rage and revelation. It’s the kind of sound that doesn’t chase algorithms — it grabs you by the collar and makes you listen.

4th Wall feels like a turning point, though. It’s not just another underground release — it’s BruceBan$hee taking his chaos and shaping it into something more deliberate, more self-aware. The title itself is a clue: breaking the “fourth wall” means destroying that invisible barrier between performer and audience. And that’s exactly what he does here. These tracks make you complicit — part witness, part participant — in his unraveling. Listening to it feels like crashing a rehearsal that suddenly turns into a riot.

What’s wild is how controlled that chaos actually is. Beneath the distortion and the snarls, Bruce’s lyrics read like late-night notes scrawled between breakdowns and breakthroughs. He talks about identity, about perception, about the weird tension between being seen and being real. There’s a sense he’s constantly negotiating with himself — the artist vs. the person, the image vs. the impulse. And in that tension, his music finds its heartbeat.

It’s hard to neatly categorize his sound. Some tracks swing heavy into alt-rap — punchy 808s, sharp flows, distorted vocals that sound like they’re bleeding through the mic. Others flirt with punk and industrial textures, layers of feedback and aggression that somehow manage to feel... intentional. The production is bold, DIY, and unpolished in the best way. It’s the sound of someone chasing emotion over perfection.

Live, BruceBan$hee reportedly brings that same energy — unpredictable, loud, and weirdly intimate. There’s no wall between him and the crowd. He’s in it with them, sweating, shouting, occasionally laughing mid-set like he just remembered this whole thing is supposed to be fun. It’s that blend of intensity and self-awareness that makes him so magnetic. You get the sense he’s building not just a fan base, but a small cult of people who get it — who see through the surface and crave something real.

What’s next for BruceBan$hee isn’t clear, and that’s kind of the point. 4th Wall feels less like a destination and more like a warning shot — the sound of an artist stepping into uncharted territory, daring the audience to follow. Whether he leans further into punk chaos or experimental rap doesn’t matter. What matters is that, for now, BruceBan$hee is tearing down the walls — and the rest of us are lucky just to be standing close enough to feel the impact.

Punk Without Borders: STRAIGHT BACK FORWARD’s Explosive Debut

Some bands arrive with a press kit. STRAIGHT BACK FORWARD arrived like a thunderclap. Their debut double single Don’t Back Down / Haunted Home doesn’t just hit—it charges. There’s something infectious about the way this Tokyo–London hybrid attacks a riff, the way Joshua’s vocals seem to toe the line between fury and joy. It’s punk with conviction, but also with purpose. You get the feeling these guys aren’t trying to start a movement—they just are one.

The story starts in Tokyo, 2020, right when everything stopped moving. Clubs shuttered, tours canceled, the world shrank to bedrooms and Zoom calls. But in the middle of all that silence, a group of veterans from Japan’s punk underground decided to make some noise. Masasucks (FULLSCRATCH, the HIATUS, Radiots), Masack (ex-MY FIRST STORY), Yoshi (GUMX), T_Wylde (PET), and Sugulu (the punk promoter who also runs an okonomiyaki joint, because of course he does) joined forces with a British frontman named Joshua—ex of London’s NEATZ, big heart, louder mic. The chemistry was instant.

Joshua says the name “STRAIGHT BACK FORWARD” came from the way they faced the pandemic: “You either freeze or move. We moved.” That mindset bleeds through their songs. Don’t Back Down is a call to arms—a track that feels tailor-made for fists-in-the-air moments and cramped club stages where sweat drips from the ceiling. Meanwhile, Haunted Home digs deeper, tracing the weird loneliness of finding belonging in a foreign city that somehow feels more like home than the place you came from. It’s an odd contradiction, and that’s what makes it stick.

There’s a particular sound that comes when East meets West in punk. You can hear it in the tightness of the rhythm section—years of Japanese precision—and the messy, melodic chaos of Joshua’s British edge. The result lands somewhere between NOFX and Hi-STANDARD, but with a freshness that’s hard to pin down. It’s the sound of musicians who’ve already done their time in other bands, who don’t care about being perfect anymore. They just want to feel it again.

I first stumbled across their demo back in April, and it was rough in the best way. Three songs, unpolished, no PR gloss—just energy. It reminded me why punk still matters. When the world goes digital and hyper-curated, hearing something that sounds alive feels almost rebellious. That demo quietly made waves overseas, catching the attention of JPU Records in the UK, which is now backing their official debut. And honestly, it’s about time.

Live, they’re a force. There’s no posing, no pretense—just five guys in a Tokyo club, playing like they’ve been caged for years. You see Joshua switching between English and Japanese mid-song, yelling to the crowd, and you realize: this isn’t about nationality anymore. It’s about connection. It’s about the shared language of distortion and drums. Even from the phone footage floating online, the energy is unmistakable.

STRAIGHT BACK FORWARD feels like a band that doesn’t overthink their next move—they just take it. Their debut on JPU Records is a statement, not a finish line. You can sense there’s more coming: bigger stages, louder rooms, maybe even a world tour if the stars align. But for now, Don’t Back Down / Haunted Home is exactly what it should be—a declaration that punk’s global heartbeat is still very much alive, and it’s pounding straight out of Tokyo.

"A Song for Elon: Clare Easdown's DIY Protest from an Affordable Housing Unit"

Clare Easdown’s new single, A Song for Elon, hits with a kind of immediacy that’s hard to ignore. You can hear it before you even know what it’s about—vocals clipped and urgent, beats that cut in like a neon warning sign. Recorded entirely in her Menai apartment, with just an iPhone and Apple headphones, Clare manages to make the DIY feel like a statement, not a limitation. And honestly, it works. It feels personal, political, and weirdly intimate all at once.

Hailing from Menai, Australia, Clare has been crafting music for nearly a decade. She’s self-taught, pulling inspiration from an unlikely mix of Grimes, Madonna, and the raw edge of Punk icons like Fugazi and Bikini Kill. That mix shows in her sound: somewhere between Trip-Hop and Trap, with recent dips into Post-Punk and Pop Punk. It’s experimental, sure—but it’s not the kind of experimentation that feels distant. You sense her fingerprints all over it, in every clipped vocal, in the small sonic choices that make the track feel lived-in.

Partnership has played a huge role in this latest release. Clare met producer and co-creator Jade Ryan on Tinder—a fact that almost feels too modern to be true—and together they’ve been pumping out music almost daily. Jade brings the political lens, and Clare brings the urgency. You hear it clearly in A Song for Elon, a track born from outrage at Elon Musk’s public gestures, but transformed into a commentary on control, wealth, and the small percentage of people shaping the rest of the world. It’s angry, sure, but also cunning, and yes, a little bit fun.

Recording in her affordable housing unit, Clare embraces a space she’s used for five years. Late nights, neighbors asleep (sorry, neighbors), she layers vocals and beats in a way that’s unpolished but deliberate. It’s not a studio sheen; it’s a statement: you don’t need expensive gear to make art that matters. That accessibility bleeds through the song itself, encouraging anyone with a voice—and a phone—to step up and make noise. There’s something quietly radical in that.

Visually, the duo leans into this idea of visibility versus privacy. The music video features Clare’s housing number in full view, a subtle jab at the erosion of privacy in the modern era. It’s confrontational without being pretentious. And it’s emblematic of their larger ethos: challenging societal norms while keeping the work grounded in real, tangible spaces. You get the sense that for Clare and Jade, every artistic choice—sonic or visual—serves the mission.

Live, Clare brings the same energy. Shows at The Moshpit Bar and LazyBones Lounge are part of a carefully curated trajectory, mixing politically charged tracks with audience engagement that doesn’t feel rehearsed. They’re not just performing songs—they’re rallying calls. Watching them on stage, it’s hard not to get pulled into the urgency, the insistence that we pay attention and maybe even join in.

At its core, A Song for Elon is a continuation of Clare Easdown’s journey as an artist unafraid to confront discomfort, both hers and ours. It’s a track—and a career—that refuses to sit quietly in the background. There’s anger, sure, but also humor, and an invitation to speak, record, and push back. By the time it ends, you’re left thinking about more than just a song; you’re left thinking about what it means to have a voice in a world that often tries to quiet it. And honestly, it’s refreshing.

"Liz Nash Invites You Into the Swamp — And You Walk Out Changed"

When I first hit play on Liz Nash’s upcoming single, “Nana and the Gator,” I didn’t expect to get pulled straight into the swamplands of Florida—but that’s exactly what happened. There’s a tangible sense of place in her music, a careful layering of story and sound that makes you feel like you’re standing on damp earth, listening to cicadas hum in the distance, watching someone navigate the thick, unpredictable wilds. Influences like Mary Chapin Carpenter and Lori McKenna shine through—not in imitation, but in the way Liz spins narrative threads into melodies that stick with you.

Liz hails from Mount Dora, Florida, a picturesque town that seems worlds away from the grit she captures in her songs. Her last single, “Baked Potato,” dropped in November 2024 and already hinted at her quirky, inventive side. Inspired by an exercise from Andrea Stolpe and flavored with hints of Beatles-esque charm, it showed she’s not just a storyteller—she’s also willing to play with the absurd and the joyful. That balance between heart and humor is something you feel again in “Nana and the Gator.”

Collaborations play a big role in Liz’s sound. She’s worked closely with John Marsden out of Orlando, who’s been instrumental in shaping tracks like “Boo Boo Betty,” and Nashville’s Jeff King, whose guitar work injects a warm, creative pulse throughout her recordings. The combination of these musical minds helps Liz’s stories breathe—they’re not just songs; they’re living spaces. You can almost picture the guitars moving through the swamp right alongside Nana, a kind of subtle cinematic touch that doesn’t feel forced.

The story behind “Nana and the Gator” is deceptively simple: an elderly woman navigating the perils of Florida’s swamplands, facing isolation, food insecurity, and unexpected danger. But Liz doesn’t tell it like a news article. She’s sitting in the room with Nana, listening to her triumphs and frustrations, and translating that into melody. You get the resilience, the small victories, the humor that life forces you to find when you’re living in challenging circumstances.

Listening to Liz, it’s easy to feel that contradiction that makes her work so compelling: these are intimate, human stories told through meticulously arranged music that’s also catchy enough to stick in your head. You feel both grounded in her Florida roots and lifted by her artistry. The humor of “Baked Potato” and the gravity of “Nana and the Gator” coexist without tension, which says a lot about her ability to inhabit multiple emotional spaces at once.

“Florida Songs,” the series that “Nana and the Gator” inaugurates, promises more slices-of-life storytelling. Liz is clear-eyed about her purpose: she wants listeners to care about these characters, to walk in their shoes for three minutes or so, then carry some of their lessons into the real world. It’s an ambitious framework, but Liz’s warmth and curiosity as a writer make it feel effortless. You don’t just hear the songs—you meet the people behind them.

By the time the track ends, there’s a lingering sense of victory—Nana always wins, as Liz puts it. And maybe that’s the larger charm of Liz Nash’s music: she invites you into the swamp, into the mess and the humor and the small-scale heroism of everyday life, and you walk away a little changed. She’s a storyteller, a musician, and now, with “Nana and the Gator,” a guide to a corner of Florida that most of us have never seen but somehow feel we’ve known all along.