I’m sitting here listening to a ghost rise from my speakers while my body responds physically to the familiar sound of distortion pedals; with every whine of guitar, an old tremor of hormonal angst climbs up the ribcage to my heart while my arms slowly and rigidly begin crossing themselves. Before I know it, 15-year-old me is huffing and puffing at the door, and she’s back with a vengeance. I spent my teens like a lot of isolated kids do, scribbling in my journal, rolling my eyes at anything that moved and crushing on boys and girls who looked straight through me. The only method of keeping the unpalatable world at bay was the pair of headphones secured tightly around my ears blasting the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, BRMC and The Killers on heavy rotation. That is to say, in a time before kids my age had any sense of self beyond malaise and wretchedness, we had early 2000s indie. 

“Impossible Weight,” the title track off of Deep Sea Diver’s forthcoming October album, embodies that era. It’s The White Stripes meets Sleater-Kinney, meets a cool glass of water with a cruel and jagged lip, meets a hole I want to crawl into headfirst, partly because of nostalgia, and partly because I'm so glad you can still find it somewhere. Frontwoman Jessica Dobson’s vocals prick like needles alongside the jaunty four-on-the-floor drumline. They dance through the verses, pushing the sound up and out towards the epic. A meek wail of guitar is layered in and around the chorus right before Our Lady Sharon Van Etten enters, her steady rich voice ringing out and grounding us against the bouncing instrumentals. The two singers move together in harmony before the music strips down once more, this time to only Van Etten’s low murmur—then the layers build back up again into a thunderous bridge. There’s something about the way that she draws out the last vowel in the line, “So I’ll just let you down now,” that creeps me out and electrifies me at the same time. Kind of like looking back at how formative music from a certain timeframe can be to a generation, how it accompanied us during that period and therefore shaped us as well. Yes, it’s true time (and therapy) heals all, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t run to preorder the LP from my local record shop immediately after listening. Photo by Matt Wignall.

Sometimes songs are special because they are good. Sometimes songs are special because the context surrounding your first listen is significant in some way. Sometimes, but rarely, a song is special because the first listen superimposes it with such a strong feeling that the song is forever etched in your brain. For me, "Runner" by Hovvdy wholeheartedly claims brain space in that way exactly. My first listen was about 20 minutes after it came out, as one of innumerable music recs bounced back and forth between me and one of my close friends. On its own, it’s a pleasant 3 minutes and 44 seconds that suits both of our tastes. Gentle syncopated bass and sentimental almost-love lyrics catch my ears and heart first. For him, it’s probably the percussion, gentle guitar (heavy on beat two), all overlaid with vocals that melt over everything else. Subtle effects tempt you in for repeat listens, your ears determined to mine every sonic easter egg you can find. I can’t count the number of elements to admire, but ironically the most poignant piece is something that was never written in at all. It’s memories of every piece of friendship with the person who shared it with me, montaged like videos on fuzzy aged film, in a way that makes me as happy as it does sad. The past is as gone as it is good, and only the future remains. That’s the core feeling of this new Hovvdy single, and I adore it. "Runner" is nostalgia, bottled and fizzy.

Berlin-based songwriter and soul singer Donna Arendse is The Septembers. On “Night Games,” her voice floats confidently atop the slowly expanding production of Melbourne-based producer Wayfarer//. The result is a deeply affecting electro-soul track that eventually grows to a sudden and surprising catharsis. At first, there is only a lonesome piano sample, and Arendse’s layered vocals lifting from the ground around it like swirling mist. When the bass finally kicks in, it seems to circle the piano like prey, and the poetry of the first lyrics shrouds the scene with even more mysterious tension. Halfway through the song, as Arendse sings the track’s mantra over and over in her honeyed alto, the words seem hesitant to leave their home in her heart. But the feeling is too powerful to stay in there. Soon it swells into a thunderous wave of sound, booming in and out of focus. And when the wave recedes, the five words written in the sand need no further explanation. “No one wants to hurt.”

Less is more on Linden Jay’s latest track "Got Me All Wrong." Half of FARR, the talented and accomplished producer creatively turns on the charm on this track. Beautiful vocals echo words that evoke the realization of incompatibility, “I think you've got me all wrong / you don't know me at all / you like the way I make you feel / you like the way I see right through you,” still, the exclamation, “I think your soul is so beautiful” dramatically stands out for more reasons than one—as isolated vocals highlight a sentiment seemingly juxtaposed from the rest. 

Playful electronic elements accent bassy undertones and unique vocal distortions. The stylization of repeated lyrics plays nicely with the beat, adding an air of novelty akin to getting to know someone familiar all over again. It's hard to deny the way "Got Me All Wrong" pulls you in lyrically and sonically with such stunning simplicity—a true testament to Jay's production prowess.

Cherished hometown heroes of West Palm Beach, Mona Lisa Tribe is a locally loved delicacy moving in a new direction, in terms of location, to Nashville. Their new song “Fly” was written on an airplane—a breeding place for boundless creativity and rumination amidst the company of strangers and the clouds. This track was originally written by band member Tabitha Meeks about a moment in her life where she felt that multiple people she loved had approached a time in which they could move forward and “reach their full potential." In a manner true to their form, they share charming harmonies, exemplifying (with their voices) exactly how they made the city of West Palm Beach fall in love with them. While the song was originally about friends of the band, it has taken on a new meaning as they’ve migrated to a new city to pursue their own full potential with all of the support of the loving community in front of whom they came to life.

Songwriter cham ii’s third single as The Sleepovers, “Come Back,” was created at home alone. Its location in the world of music is that uncontrollable molten center of true DIY bedroom pop: a person giving time to a feeling, alone, perhaps literally in his bedroom, and seeing what music comes out of it. In this case, the feeling being explored is FOMO: the fear of missing out. “Where are you guys going? Can I come along?” starts the track, and the question is never answered. But as time passes, it feels like cham is escaping deeper into his own mind, and that is an answer in itself. “Feel like a square, feel bad / that I can’t find my path,” he sings, and you start to realize the whole song is built on that feeling of meandering in the dark. But another word for “meandering” is “improvising,” and the sense of unedited spontaneity is one of the track’s strong suits. As soon as you compare The Sleepovers to another artist, the vibe shifts drastically and the comparison is gone. When the warm humming of synths is joined by the blooping funk of electronic water droplets in the track’s first moments, it might remind you of early chillwave artists like Toro y Moi. But then when cham delivers a stream-of-consciousness flow over an echoey breakbeat later on, it feels like hip-hop alchemists BROCKHAMPTON are more nearby on the musical family tree. Sometimes you just start walking and the path finds you, again and again.

Melting colors bleed into each other as Amaria’s new track "Moon" wraps itself around us like a delicious fog. The tune opens with a simple, oh-so-groovy bassline and a wah-wah synth but quickly becomes so much more. Amaria’s voice floats over a side-stick snare and a nearly imperceptible down-pitched vocal—something in between a duet and a ghost. "Caught up in all the motion / my mind is like the ocean," she sings, delicately placing each note in its place. It’s R&B at its most intimate and bedroomy, bringing to mind the romance of late-night infatuations. "Take me to the moon," she sings, "up high, up high," and we lift our eyes skyward in response.