Weekly Discover | Session 60 - "Trading Polish for Presence"

Some music doesn’t just play—it confronts. It arrives like an uninvited guest who somehow belongs at the table more than anyone else. This week, we lean into that raw tension: the sound of artists who trade polish for presence, harmony for honesty, and certainty for the kind of doubt that lingers long after the last note fades.

Every track here feels like part of a journey. The voices are imperfect in the way all truths are—cracked at the edges, carrying the weight of what’s unspoken. Percussion doesn’t march in line; it stumbles, it drags, it runs ahead as if trying to escape its own shadow. Guitars buzz like nerves, synths flicker like faulty neon, and silence itself becomes a character, never quite letting you breathe easy.

But isn’t that where the real connection happens? When an artist takes off the armor, letting us glimpse the fractures instead of the finish. In an industry that often worships shine, these songs dare to show scars. They remind us that art doesn’t have to be comfortable to matter—in fact, the discomfort might be the very thing that makes it unforgettable.

Like any hero’s journey, there’s conflict and release, tension and catharsis. You’ll hear the struggle in one verse, the surrender in the next. You’ll feel a sense of resolve not because the story ties itself neatly, but because it refuses to. And somewhere in that refusal, you might find a mirror.

This week isn’t about background music. It’s about foreground living. Music that grabs you by the collar and asks: are you listening, or just hearing?

"The Right Vibe: Sabrina Nejmah's Measured Dive Into Music

Sabrina Nejmah’s debut single doesn’t tiptoe in. “Deep End” arrives with that rare balance of youthful urgency and something older, wiser—like she’s already seen enough to know she doesn’t want the surface-level stuff. The track feels deceptively simple at first, but the longer you sit with it, the more layers you notice. It’s not trying too hard, and maybe that’s why it sticks.

The wild part? Sabrina is only sixteen. Born in Hamburg to a Moroccan mother and a German father, she’s been sketching out melodies and scribbling lyrics in her free time while most of her peers are still figuring out homework deadlines. Instead of chasing TikTok trends, she’s in her home studio, workshopping chord progressions with her dad, Norman Astor—a jazz bassist who clearly passed down more than just genetics. Their jam sessions are the kind of family rituals you almost don’t believe until you see the receipts.

That’s exactly how “Deep End” started. Norman tossed out some jazz-inspired chords, Sabrina leaned in with a melody, and suddenly they had something undeniable. He describes being floored by the way her voice carried the idea, like she was pulling more out of the song than either of them expected. You can hear that trust in the recording: father and daughter playing tug-of-war with tradition and fresh perspective, neither one overpowering the other.

Her influences make sense the second you listen. There’s a little of Norah Jones’ phrasing in the way she lets notes breathe, some Amy Winehouse in her insistence on honesty, but also the softer, more contemporary threads of Billie Eilish or Gracie Abrams. Sabrina doesn’t imitate any of them—she just lets their fingerprints mix into her own handwriting. At sixteen, she’s already building her own vocabulary of sound.

And while “Deep End” could have easily been wrapped in glossy overproduction, it wasn’t. They brought in Markus Norwin Rummel to record and produce in Hamburg, and the result feels grounded. It’s polished enough to sit comfortably on playlists next to her peers, but it still has that homegrown DNA you can’t fake. You can almost picture the room where it started, a family studio session turning into something much bigger than just a practice run.

There’s a detail I love: she chose “Deep End” out of several songs she’s written because it had “the right vibe.” That phrase is so understated, but it tells you everything about her instinct. She isn’t rushing to show every side of herself at once. She picked the song that spoke the loudest, the one that could carry her introduction. That kind of restraint at this stage is almost more impressive than the song itself.

What’s next? Hard to say, but you get the sense Sabrina isn’t in this for a quick viral moment. She’s building a foundation brick by brick—songs written with care, a family bond at the center, and an ear tuned to both the past and present. “Deep End” is only the first dive. The deeper waters are still ahead.

"Three Skins, One Song: Eclectic Whiz's Mythic Metamorphosis"

Eclectic Whiz doesn’t just make music—she conjures it. Her new Bandcamp-exclusive EP, Screaming. Casting. Bleating. (or simply S.C.B.), doesn’t sound like anything you can just put on in the background. It’s a performance, a ritual, a series of sonic masks worn and ripped off again. The whole project grows out of one track, “Enough, Saturn,” which already had its moment as a single and extended version on streaming platforms. But on S.C.B., that song explodes into three mythic incarnations: the Witch, the Siren, and the Goat. Each one feels like it’s trying to outdo the others, but also like they belong together in the same cracked universe.

The Witch version hits first, and it doesn’t creep in—it stomps, mutters, and hisses like a séance gone digital. The beats are warped, the energy occult, and you can almost picture smoke rising in the room while it plays. Then comes the Siren version, which is softer but still unsettling. It’s spectral, hypnotic, the kind of track that makes you wonder if you’re actually being lulled into something you might not escape from. And finally, there’s the Goat: wild, ranting, a ceremony teetering on collapse but still standing. It’s messy in the best way, like an artist refusing to bow to structure.

What makes all of this interesting is that Eclectic Whiz—real name Ismihan Nazli Suzer—isn’t just throwing sounds around for shock value. She’s coming at this from a multidisciplinary background in film, songwriting, and visual art. You can hear it in the drama of her production. The songs don’t just play; they stage themselves, like mini-theatre acts. She even calls herself a “chaos transmuter” and “void hacker,” which, for once, doesn’t feel like pretentious branding. Listening to S.C.B., you get the sense that she means it.

The backstory adds another layer. “Enough, Saturn” was written during a volatile period in her life, tied to the heavy astrological weight of Saturn’s transits. Instead of letting that pressure crush her, she funneled it into the track. There’s even this eerie detail: the first unfiltered recording session clocked in at exactly 1 minute, 11 seconds, and 1 millisecond. That’s the kind of coincidence most of us would shrug off. She built it into the DNA of the song. Those little obsessions make the music feel alive, like it’s chasing signs as much as sounds.

I’ll be honest—I was skeptical about the AI-collaboration aspect. We’ve all seen lazy “AI music” that’s basically a copy-paste job. But this isn’t that. Eclectic Whiz writes all her own lyrics, and the way she bends AI tools feels less like outsourcing and more like welding with fire. The human hand is obvious; the tech just warps the canvas. You can almost tell which parts are hers and which parts are pushed through the machine, and that tension gives the tracks a strange electricity.

What I like most is the contradiction at the center of her work. She’s clearly a perfectionist—someone who studied film directing at ArtCenter College of Design, someone who obsesses over detail—yet the EP itself was born from letting go. No nitpicking, no polishing to death, just splitting one idea into three versions and letting them breathe. There’s something refreshing in that, especially in an industry where overproduction can suffocate good ideas.

Right now, S.C.B. only lives on Bandcamp, while the original “Enough, Saturn” single and its full theatrical cut are on streaming. That feels deliberate—almost like she’s testing who’s paying attention. If you’re just a casual listener, you’ll get the main track on Spotify. But if you want to step deeper into the labyrinth, you’ll have to follow her into the Bandcamp shadows. I did, and honestly? Worth it. This feels like an artist still in the middle of her metamorphosis, but already brave enough to let us watch her shed her skins in real time.

"The Joker's Wild: Zarooni's Groove Between Confidence and Doubt"

Zarooni’s new single “The Joker” wastes no time in showing you what he’s about. That bassline comes in first — clean, rubbery, a little cocky — and then the guitars glide on top like they wandered out of a lost Nile Rodgers session. By the time the synths shimmer in, you’re locked in this sly groove that feels both retro and fresh. It’s the kind of track you catch yourself humming hours later, which is probably the point.

What I like most is the contrast baked into the song. On the surface it’s playful, built for late nights and dance floors. But if you listen closely, the lyrics land a little heavier. Zarooni’s talking about being the life of the party while quietly falling apart in the corner — the kind of duality everyone’s lived at some point. Confidence on the outside, doubt on the inside. That tension is what keeps the song interesting long after the first spin.

Zarooni himself is a bit of a contradiction, too. Born in London, based in the UAE, he’s managed to stitch together indie, electronic, and even a touch of country twang into his sound. (Yes, country twang — it sneaks in unexpectedly and somehow works.) His songs have been written all over the world, tracked in London, mixed in Dubai. The end result doesn’t sound like it belongs to any single city or scene, which makes sense — he doesn’t either.

And live? That’s where things click into high gear. Zarooni rolls with a full band — Yara on rhythm strings, Yenlas running keys, John smashing drums, Fahd holding down bass, and Keval adding extra guitar texture. They don’t just play the songs; they stretch them, give them edges, push them around until they feel alive. It’s less a “set” and more like a conversation with the crowd. At TODA Madinat Jumeirah last October, I watched a room full of strangers start nodding in sync by the second chorus. That’s a rare skill.

Industry folks have started catching on, too. He’s popped up at DIFC Art Night, the Emirates Literature Festival, even a TEDx stage. It’s not every day you see an artist bouncing between a mall performance and a literary festival without missing a beat, but that adaptability is part of his appeal. Put Zarooni in a small room, he’ll draw you in with stories. Drop him on a festival stage, he’ll own it with grooves. That kind of range is gold for promoters.

What strikes me, though, is that the polish hasn’t sanded down the edges. Zarooni’s music still feels personal, like he’s trying to figure things out in real time. One minute he’s writing big cinematic storylines with characters that sound larger than life. The next, he’s admitting he doesn’t have it all together. That push and pull — between spectacle and confession — keeps his catalog from ever feeling one-note.

With “The Joker” out in the world and more shows on the horizon, Zarooni’s momentum feels undeniable. He’s not chasing trends; he’s carving out his own lane somewhere between indie-pop sparkle and funk swagger. I can’t tell you exactly where he’ll end up, but I do know this: the songs stick, the live show delivers, and he’s got the kind of restless curiosity that usually leads somewhere interesting. You’ll want to keep him on your radar before everyone else does.

"The Walls Close In: Grim Logick's DIY Empire from a Louisiana Trailer"

Grim Logick doesn’t make music to impress anyone. He makes it because he has to. That much is obvious the second you hit play on In My Zone, the new single with iLLLogick that dropped August 15th. The hook—“I can feel the fuckin’ walls, they’re closing in on me”—isn’t just a catchy line. It’s a snapshot of someone sitting in a dimly lit room, headphones cracked, wondering if the work itself is the only way to breathe. And in this case, it literally was. That chorus was tracked on a pair of Bluetooth headphones gifted by a fan, before there was any proper gear, before stability. It stayed in the final cut, imperfections and all.

Grim’s story starts in Baton Rouge but spirals out in ways that feel both hyper-local and strangely universal. Together with iLLLogick, his long-time collaborator and co-founder of their DIY powerhouse 3NIGMA BRED MUSIC, he’s building something bigger than music: a network, a platform, an underground ecosystem that doesn’t wait for industry co-signs. But at its heart, it’s still just two guys recording in a trailer in Saint Amant, Louisiana. Bedroom setups, living room takes, no million-dollar studios. Just vision and obsession.

What hits me about In My Zone isn’t polish—it’s the tension. Grim comes in heavy, dragging the listener through past trauma, betrayal, and the suffocating grind of chasing a vision no one else fully sees. Then iLLLogick jumps in, flipping the energy, almost like he’s reaching back to pull Grim forward. His lines—“Things were lookin’ grim, then Grim came my way // Showed me the vision, we’re pavin’ the lane”—are both literal and symbolic. It’s that push-pull dynamic that makes the track work. One grounded in pain, the other barreling toward the future.

And yeah, there’s a bit of rebellion baked into it. For years, people told Grim to slow down, to make his flow more “digestible.” Instead, iLLLogick doubles down, unloading a rapid-fire verse at the end like a deliberate middle finger. It’s almost funny if it weren’t so serious: the refusal to bend to market rules becomes the entire point. That’s what 3NIGMA BRED MUSIC seems to thrive on—turning “you can’t” into “watch us.”

What I love most, though, is that the contradictions aren’t smoothed over. Grim calls the label his fortress and his prison. He admits that what protects him also confines him. The cover art even leans into that idea: the cell, the screens as the only light, the outside world calling but unanswered. It’s not some clean metaphor—more like a messy truth anyone chasing a creative obsession probably recognizes. That detail about iLLLogick always sitting on the floor during sessions? It feels almost too mundane to mention, but somehow it says everything about their process. It’s unglamorous, human, a little weird.

Since January, their music has already connected with over 40,000 listeners, despite—maybe because of—the stripped-down production. And they’re not stopping with just their own catalog. 3NIGMA BRED MUSIC runs an Artist Spotlight blog, Cipher Chronicles: Volumes, and membership tiers like Cipher Syndicate and Echo Nexus that give underground artists resources, community, and a chance to actually be heard. It’s equal parts record label, support group, and digital rebellion. That dual role—artists and architects—makes Grim and iLLLogick’s work feel like more than just songs on streaming platforms.

In My Zone ends on their mission statement: “a voice for the voiceless, an echo in the silence.” Lofty words, sure, but backed up by lived contradictions, late-night sessions, and Bluetooth-headphone takes that somehow still hit hard. Grim Logick isn’t trying to be polished, accessible, or easy to digest. He’s trying to be necessary. And if you ask me, that’s exactly the kind of artist the underground needs right now.

"Beyond Songs: Richard Green's Life in Chapters"

Richard Green doesn’t really make “songs” the way most people think of them. His track “A Story,” released this past April, feels more like sitting down with someone who’s about to tell you their life in chapters. It’s the first piece on his second EP A Journey, and instead of falling neatly into one genre, it moves—sometimes gently, sometimes with sharp turns—between classical composition and blues-jazz phrasing. You don’t expect those two languages to speak so fluently together, but in Green’s hands, they do.

What’s fascinating is how this whole project started. Green originally wrote a few pieces just for pianist Irene Veneziano, one of Italy’s most respected classical performers. The first two tracks he showed her got the green light, and suddenly what began as a side idea became a full trilogy of EPs. “A Story” sits right in the middle of that arc, capturing the unpredictable rhythm of life itself—quiet lulls, sudden shifts, bursts of emotion. Listening to it, you can hear why Irene said yes. The material stretches beyond technical skill; it asks the performer to feel, to react.

And then there’s Archimia, the string quartet weaving around Irene’s piano lines. They’re not just decoration; they’re co-conspirators. One minute they’re supporting the melody like a safety net, the next they’re pulling it into unexpected territory. It’s the kind of arrangement that makes you stop and think: okay, this wasn’t just sketched out on a laptop. This was built with care, with players who actually breathe into the music. You can hear the recording room in Piacenza, the acoustics of Studio Elfo wrapping around each note.

Here’s the contradiction, though. Green composed all of this from his home base in London. So you’ve got this very Italian studio sound—warm, precise, full of character—mixed with ideas born in a quieter, more solitary space. That tension is baked into “A Story.” It’s both intimate and expansive. Some parts feel like they could play in a concert hall; others feel like you’ve just stumbled across someone practicing late at night, not realizing you’re listening.

I’ll be honest: the first time I played it, I didn’t “get” it right away. It’s not background music. It kind of demands your attention, and if you let it, it pulls you into this ebb and flow where the jazz colors sneak up on you in the middle of something that started out classical. That unpredictability is what makes it work. It’s the sort of track you finish and think, “Wait, what just happened?” and then you play it again.

Green himself talks about life as a story—good moments, bad moments, loves, losses—and he’s not trying to dress it up. That simplicity is almost disarming. In an era where artists are always pressured to slap a big conceptual frame around their work, his approach is more direct: this is music that tells the story of being alive, without needing a manifesto. Maybe that’s why it connects. It’s both highly structured and strangely human.

What’s next? The trilogy is set to close soon with First Chapter, the final EP. Green plans to bring it all to the stage with the same collaborators—Veneziano on piano, Archimia on strings. If the recordings already feel this alive, a live performance could be something else entirely. I don’t think he’s chasing mainstream charts or playlists here. He’s building something slower, more lasting, brick by brick. And with “A Story,” he’s already carved out a chapter worth paying attention to.

"Chasing Moments, Not Sound: D.rime.all's Intimate Electronic Diary"

The first thing that struck me about D.rime.all’s new single, “Where are you now?”, wasn’t even the music itself—it was the story behind it. He didn’t invent some glossy narrative for a press release. Instead, he drew from a quiet, very human scene: watching his 17-year-old stepdaughter fall for a local boy during a summer holiday in France. That fleeting mix of love, longing, and nostalgia became the DNA of the track. You can hear it in every synth swell and vocal layer—it’s got that feeling of staring at the sea while your head is somewhere else entirely.

D.rime.all isn’t the type of artist to hand things off to a big studio team. He built the instrumental, produced, and mixed the track himself in his small home studio in Thuin, Belgium. Then, instead of chasing a big-name feature, he found a singer through SoundBetter who could carry the emotional weight he wanted. Their voice isn’t overly polished; it sits inside the production like a memory half-remembered. Honestly, it works. It makes the song feel lived-in, rather than engineered to death.

Listening to it, I kept thinking about how it sounds both electronic and deeply personal at the same time. There’s a kind of tension there—he likes to play with reverb, pitch shifts, subtle doubling, but it never feels like an attempt to hide flaws. It feels more like he’s painting the vocals into the track, making them part of the landscape. He even jokes that if someone thinks it’s AI-generated, he’ll take it as a compliment—though he’s quick to remind people that no machine can replicate the heart behind the music.

What I admire most is that he doesn’t chase trends. One track might lean heavy into bass, another might drift toward indie pop territory. It’s not calculated. It’s mood-driven, born out of random guitar riffs, scraps of poetry, or just sitting in nature. That looseness gives his catalog a kind of unpredictability—you don’t know if you’ll get something calm and reflective or a beat that rattles your speakers. “Where are you now?” sits somewhere in between, balancing melancholy with a kind of cinematic drive.

Of course, being this open comes with contradictions. D.rime.all admits he struggles with generalized anxiety, and because of that, he’s not planning any live shows anytime soon. In a way, that makes sense—his music feels almost too private for a festival stage. But at the same time, you can tell he loves the idea of connection. His home studio, as he describes it, is “a place of love and sharing.” That intimacy seeps into the music; you don’t just hear the song, you feel like you’ve been let in on something personal.

There’s also a quiet defiance in how he approaches the industry. No “perfect vocals,” no chasing famous features, no rushing to fit an algorithm. He says outright that he’s not making music to please anyone. And yet, ironically, that’s exactly why it works. Because when you stumble across an artist who’s putting out music purely because they have to, not because they’re trying to hack the system, you want to stick around. You want to see where that honesty goes next.

And that’s the thing with “Where are you now?”. It doesn’t feel like a one-off single—it feels like a chapter in an ongoing diary. There’s no big marketing hook, no attempt to make it more than it is. Just a story of summer love, translated into synths and melodies that linger long after the song ends. Personally, I’m already curious what mood he’ll capture next—because if this track is any indicator, D.rime.all isn’t just chasing sound, he’s chasing moments. And that’s a journey worth following.

"Between Worlds: Michael Goldberg's Elegant Metal Experiment"

Michael Goldberg doesn’t approach music like most pianist-composers. He doesn’t sit in the ivory-tower of classical tradition, nor does he fully surrender to the distortion and chaos of metal. Instead, he lives somewhere between those worlds, and “Dorian’s Dance (Midnight Metal Remix)” makes that tension sound like it was always meant to exist. The track starts with this brooding piano line—straight out of a 19th-century salon piece—and before you even settle into it, the floor drops and baritone guitars snarl into frame. It’s elegant one second, unhinged the next.

What hooked me wasn’t just the concept, though. It’s the execution. The rhythm section—Rich Gray and Fabio Alessandrini from Annihilator—aren’t phoning this in as some crossover gimmick. They hit with surgical precision, those double-kick runs tight enough to drive the song’s 7/8 shifts without feeling show-offy. And then you’ve got Peter Voronov on violin, bow cutting like a blade through the guitars. It’s not “metal with strings,” it’s strings as part of the engine.

Goldberg himself is interesting because you can tell he’s not trying to “be metal.” He’s a pianist at heart. You hear it in the way motifs weave back into the arrangement, like he can’t resist threading that Dorian hook through every section. It’s almost like he’s challenging himself: how far can I push this classical idea into a prog-metal framework before it breaks? Spoiler: it doesn’t break, it bends in all the right ways.

The recording feels cinematic without bloating into soundtrack territory. There’s a section midway where everything drops into half-time, the guitars breathing like a beast catching its breath, before Goldberg layers in these choral pads that feel unsettling in the best way. It’s playlist gold for anyone into gothic metal workouts, sure, but it also works as something you just sit with in the dark, headphones on, letting it pull you somewhere else.

I’ll admit, at first glance, I rolled my eyes a little. “Pianist does metal remix” sounds like something that should live in the YouTube novelty lane. But this isn’t that. Goldberg’s background in classical composition keeps the bones solid, and the collaboration with seasoned players elevates it into a piece that belongs in the same conversation as Katatonia or early Dream Theater. That contradiction—part academic, part headbanger—is what makes it stick.

There’s also this almost nerdy detail I loved: the groove flips between 4/4 and 7/8 so seamlessly that I didn’t clock it right away. It’s the kind of thing you notice only after the third or fourth listen, and suddenly the whole track feels like a puzzle you’ve been subconsciously solving. That’s where you realize Goldberg isn’t just dabbling; he’s orchestrating complexity in a way that’s digestible, even addictive.

So what’s next? If this remix is a glimpse, Goldberg’s lane is wide open. He’s already proven he can bridge eras and genres without losing either side of the equation. I’d be curious to hear him push even heavier, maybe lean harder into the prog world—or swing back and do something almost chamber-like with these same collaborators. Whatever direction he takes, “Dorian’s Dance (Midnight Metal Remix)” doesn’t feel like a one-off experiment. It feels like the start of a bigger conversation.

"Math Test to Music: Aidan Frenkel's Honest Debut"

Aidan Frenkel didn’t plan for his first single to start on the back of a math test. But sometimes the most important songs arrive in the messiest places. “No Peace,” his debut release, was born in a classroom panic attack—scribbled notes that slowly turned into a melody, and then into the kind of track that feels too personal to be manufactured. You can hear the weight of that moment in the song’s opening lines. It’s not polished pop drama; it’s the sound of a teenager putting his inner life on the record.

At just 18, Aidan already knows how to write from a place most artists spend years circling around: honesty that doesn’t try to be pretty. His voice carries that slightly unsteady conviction of someone who isn’t just performing but actively working through something. The production is minimal, almost hesitant, which is exactly why it hits so hard. There’s space to breathe, space to feel the anxiety in his words. I found myself replaying it late at night, not because it’s a banger, but because it lingers in the room like someone you can’t ignore.

OCD and anxiety aren’t the kind of things most teenagers want to put front and center, but Aidan seems to have skipped the “pretend everything’s fine” phase. That’s unusual in this industry, where image usually comes first. He’s not pushing the tortured-artist trope either—it’s quieter than that. “No Peace” feels more like a confession made under his breath that just happened to get captured on record. And in that restraint, there’s something almost brave.

What’s striking is that Aidan doesn’t present the song as a cure-all or inspirational anthem. It’s not neat. It’s not wrapped up with a bow. “No Peace” sits in the discomfort of being trapped in your own head, and it doesn’t pretend to solve it. That contradiction—wanting to reach out but also admitting he hasn’t figured it out—is what makes it relatable. When he sings, you get the sense he’s right there with you in the chaos, not preaching from a distance.

Musically, Aidan’s sound falls somewhere between soulful pop and the kind of singer-songwriter storytelling that works best in small, dimly lit venues. Think stripped-back arrangements where every syllable counts. There’s a rawness to the recording (yes, even with studio polish) that feels intentional. It’s the kind of track that could slide into a playlist next to artists like Alec Benjamin or Lizzy McAlpine, but it still feels distinct—like the kind of song you’d send to a friend at 2 a.m. when you don’t have the right words yourself.

And while “No Peace” is technically his debut, there’s already an audience for it. Not a mass-market one yet, but the kind of listeners who find an artist early and cling to them because they recognize something real. Aidan has that quality. He’s not just singing at people; he’s trying to build a little world where connection feels possible. That matters in a music landscape drowning in surface-level content.

The story doesn’t end with this track—it barely begins here. If “No Peace” is the math-test scribble that started it all, it feels like the prelude to something bigger. Aidan Frenkel is stepping onto the scene with a song that doesn’t try to be perfect, and that might be exactly why it works. I can’t say where he’ll take his sound next, but I know I’ll be listening.

"Crash the System: Erotika Dabra's Dangerous Liberation"

Erotika Dabra doesn’t tiptoe into the room—they crash the system, reroute the wires, and hand you a drink spiked with something dangerous and freeing. Their new single “EAT ME / DRINK ME” is exactly that: part pulse, part fever dream, part reclamation spell. It doesn’t just play in your headphones, it seeps into your bloodstream, demanding your body to move, to give in. Listening feels like being dragged into an underground party where the walls drip sweat and the lights flicker just fast enough to make you question if you’re still in control.

What I love about Erotika Dabra is that they don’t separate the sonic from the physical. The music and the movement are welded together. They’re not just producing electronic tracks in a DAW—they’re shaping experiences that take life when they’re on a pole, when they’re sweating under the same gravity the rest of us are bound to. It’s not just performance art, though it flirts with that too—it’s ownership, rebellion, desire, and survival wrapped up in rhythm.

“EAT ME / DRINK ME” is more than a club track, though DJs are going to snatch it for late-night sets, no doubt. It’s Erotika saying out loud: the fantasy is mine, the body is mine, the narrative is mine. There’s a charge in the bassline that feels almost dangerous, like it might combust if you stand too close. And then there are those moments—small production twists, eerie layering—that pull you into intimacy before slamming you back into the dance floor. That balance of intimacy and chaos feels like their signature at this point.

The backstory makes it hit harder. Erotika’s artistry didn’t just materialize from thin air—it grew out of necessity. Music production became the voice of a complicated inner world, and pole dance became the way to reclaim their body. Those two languages—sound and movement—interlaced until they became inseparable. You can’t listen to the track without imagining the choreography; you can’t watch them dance without hearing the beat vibrating through their bones. It’s rare when an artist actually dissolves the line between mediums instead of just talking about it.

And then there’s the video—choreography by Ellixir, dancers from TBR Studios, and Erotika themselves. It’s not a typical “music video.” It’s long-form, choreographed, sweaty, with space for both polished group pieces and messy, real freestyle moments. It feels less like promo content and more like community—like a showcase of talent that could only exist in a world Erotika is building piece by piece. I’ve seen the teaser, and honestly? It makes most big-budget pop videos look sterile.

What fascinates me most is the contradiction at the core of Erotika Dabra. Their music is heavy with intention, layered with meaning, and yet when you experience it, it doesn’t feel academic or over-thought. It feels primal, instinctual, almost too much. Fantasy and reality blur in ways that leave you unsure where one ends and the other begins. Not many artists are willing to get that messy in public. Erotika thrives there.

“EAT ME / DRINK ME” is out now on all major streaming platforms. This isn’t just another experimental electronic release, it’s the start of a bigger movement. Erotika Dabra is opening doors for outsiders, misfits, and anyone tired of playing by sanitized rules. They’re not just putting out tracks—they’re building a world, and the invitation is already in your headphones. You just have to decide whether you’re bold enough to step inside.

"Quiet Gravity: Rosie Byron's Territory of Thoughtful Pop"

Rosie Byron’s new single, Territory, hits you with a quiet gravity that sneaks up over the first few bars. Recorded in her hometown of Walsall, England, the track isn’t about big anthems or flashing hooks—it’s about people, movement, and the courage it takes to start over. Even before the lyrics land, there’s a sense that she’s thinking about her listener, not just the music itself. You feel the care in every note, every space between lines.

The song came together in a bit of a staggered process. Rosie describes waiting for inspiration in bursts—sometimes lyrics arrive in a rush, other times they hang in the background, teasing her for days until they feel worth committing to. Collaborating with Tuomo and Tommy, she layered words onto beats that seemed to call for a slower, more reflective pace than her usual pop-leaning tracks. The result is deliberate, almost conversational, but never heavy-handed.

There’s an 80s pop undercurrent in her sound, a warmth that recalls synth-driven nostalgia without feeling derivative. It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to nod along while paying attention to what she’s saying. Lyrically, Territory tackles starting anew in a foreign space, leaving behind the familiar to chase your goals. It’s thoughtful, sure, but it never lapses into cliché or oversimplification—Rosie clearly takes the storytelling side of her craft seriously.

What struck me most is her insistence on clean, meaningful lyrics. In a landscape often dominated by shock value, she chooses clarity and relatability, showing that you can be contemporary and socially aware without resorting to the obvious extremes. It’s a subtle kind of courage, but in some ways that mirrors the narrative of the song itself: stepping into new ground with integrity intact.

Rosie’s not just writing songs—she’s curating moments of connection. There’s a sense that each track is designed to resonate on a personal level. When she talks about wanting to be a role model for younger listeners, it doesn’t come off as performative; you can hear it in her pacing, the careful phrasing, the little vocal hesitations that make her feel human. You get the sense that if she does play live in the near future, those same qualities will translate—she’ll meet her audience without putting up a wall.

Despite the thoughtfulness, she’s refreshingly straightforward about her process and intentions. If a lyric doesn’t stick after a few days, she lets it go—a principle that keeps her material genuine. This patience shows in Territory, where every beat and word feels purposeful. Listening to the track, you can almost hear the pauses between her creative bursts, the spaces where reflection turns into artistry.

In the end, Rosie Byron is building something quietly impressive: music that’s approachable, honest, and just a touch unpredictable. Territory isn’t about spectacle; it’s about a voice you want to follow. And with her eye on potential live shows and an emerging presence in the UK scene, it feels like we’re only seeing the first chapters of a story that’s both personal and universally relatable. If you haven’t checked her out yet, this is the perfect moment to start.