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.

McCall's latest release “Nothing Even Wrong” blooms like a phosphorescent garden surrounded by a dense and shadow-casted forest. The track, which features stiff chords from an electric guitar, rose-toned vocals, and unconventional synth soundbites, has a distinct sound that is pleasantly jarring—time to wake up and smells the flowers!

While the compositional and stylistic elements of this song allow us to classify it as both modern and eclectic, its lyrical sentiments are surprisingly atemporal: emotions are complicated “Nothing Even Wrong,” is a piece that one experiences with all their senses. It is lush, harmonious, and undoubtedly fitting for the end of a long-over-complicated-paradoxical summer. Photo by Keegan Burckhard

One of the mystical aspects of a romance is never knowing exactly where it's going to go. Freak Fingers' newest track exhibits this feeling right off the bat. Marked by the beginning sounds of a dreamy acoustic Spanish guitar, "Romance" suddenly drifts further into an otherworldly state influenced by the sudden appearance of synthesizers. As lead vocalist Joan Sullivan begins singing, she blends the beauty of both Spanish and English—taking you further down a soothing, romantic journey for the next two minutes. Clocking in at nearly five minutes, "Romance" maintains the feeling of a daydream abruptly cut short. An 80s influenced electric guitar comes in right before the song ends, illustrating the exhilarating moments of a brief romance when it has hit its peak.

The track is propelled by its slow-but-captivating moment—proving that beauty can still exist among upheaval. The idea of spending a night driving around with the one you love has become more or less of a fantasy taken for granted in 2020, but Freak Fingers help bring it back, if only for a brief few minutes inside your headphones.

It’s smooth, it’s got groove, it’s "Runaway" by Salarymen! It’s 4.5 minutes of lighthearted nostalgia rock, simultaneously full of longing and intense optimism. As the title implies, most of the song is dedicated to the duo trading verses daydreaming about running away together. Though de la Motte and Eagleton’s vocals don’t quite overlap, they flow effortlessly from one line to the next, creating a feeling of tender closeness. Crisp synth hits maintain momentum and excitement. Bass brings the groove and warmth, sitting coyly underneath it all, and occasionally tossing out some fun licks. Meanwhile, surfy guitars wrap around the rest of the track, painting everything over with a rose-colored sunset glow. Though it’s playful and light in nature, "Runaway" is anything but simple. It catches your ears and keeps them with a somehow feather-light density that yields new details to notice every listen.

Tomberlin grew up in Florida within a religious community—her father was a Baptist pastor. Although she has splintered away from Christian doctrine, her music creates a certain kind of mystical nature that mirrors feelings of faith-based transcendence. “Wasted,” her first single off of her new album Projections, is a verbal tug of war, from wanting to say something, trying not to say it, but ultimately, having to. “I run my mouth and it runs me over,” she sings, describing quite literally feelings of regret after being vulnerable. It’s a give-and-take, trying to have faith in the situation, but not wanting to ruin it by admitting what she knows to be true. She opens with, “I tried to keep it close / Keep it in a locket,” as the repetitive nature from both the drumbeat and her wordplay creates a soothing ambiance, lulling you into thinking about higher matter.

Direct and extroverted, Oceanator’s "Heartbeat" hits you with high octane summer rock right off the bat. The main riff rips and rolls exactly the way your heart leaps and drops into your stomach when That Person texts you back. It’s the backdrop music to the spontaneous summer carnival date I always see in rom-coms and secretly yearn to experience someday. It’s not hard to conjure the mental image of grabbing your crush’s hand and sprinting to the Ferris wheel, partly because the view is great and partly to sneak a romantic moment at the top. The bass and whip-quick rhythm guitar flirtatiously pace each other, almost daring the other to run faster. Vulnerable lyrics and a slower-paced vocal line stand in assertive contrast to all the instrumental bravado, weaving in an intoxicating sense of intimacy. It’s an homage to the excitement of moving from the anticipation of interest to noticing something about this dynamic fundamentally works. Neither of you are half of a whole, but definitely complementary colors. You work well together and enjoy each others’ company immensely. At the end of the day, what’s a more compelling love story than that? Overall, this single is a delightful build of anticipation for Oceanator’s new album, Things I Never Said, due August 28, 2020

James Ivy has one of those pop-punk voices that easily transmits angst and intensity—in other words, it’s perfectly suited to chronicling the heightened emotions and dizzying mood swings of high school. “Yearbook” invites nostalgia, with each carefully crafted melody like a punch to the gut. The opening lyric, “I make it weird. I don’t even have to try,” introduces Ivy as the awkward underdog in his own coming-of-age film. That tone carries throughout the track, with collaborators Instupendo and Harry Teardrop as co-stars. Vocal layering reminiscent of BROCKHAMPTON builds emotional charge as Ivy spirals into bottomless infatuation. Backed by the low crunch of guitars, he feels “wide-eyed, tongue-tied,” then before you know it, he’s “spent the whole summer in your living room.” He sings about trying to recapture the vibrancy of an early love and the frustration of realizing that the colors have faded. It’s the ideal soundtrack for paging through old photos and superlatives, accessing feelings long since forgotten.

Neo-soul collective Glasshouse Worldwide break hiatus to introduce “2001*," a nostalgic love note laced with the bitter back end of a summertime shandy. Jazzy piano tremolos drone beneath a spacey synth while they ponder one simple question: "I just really wanna know what love is about." Despite saying “she took my breath just like asthma,” it’s an undemanding infatuation, mirroring the out-of-body stillness of an endless drive to nowhere. It’s a mellow euphoria, more meditative than manic, as the love “feels like nirvana and you didn’t even try.” “We got the best sunsets,” they say, and you can almost see the pink haze over their native Baton Rouge skyline. "2001*" marks their first single since dropping Altitude in 2019, via BIP Records.

It’s 2020 and by now there is an undeniable Cape Francis sound, a careful simplicity around musical arrangements that allows for big cinematic feeling without ever broaching the realm of dramatic. “Home” is this year’s third single from Kevin Olken Henthorn’s solo project, and it slides easily into place. With the signature finger-picked electric guitar and soft horns lent by The Westerlies, the gentle heartbeat of percussion keeps every element grounded while we, the listeners, are transported to somewhere a little calmer, more reflective of the past and future.

The winds of change are blowing and I’m reminded of the age-old allegory about the two trees weathering a storm, the story that councils us to bend, not break when faced with adversity. "Home" follows a similar idea, acknowledging what can’t be fought and that sometimes it’s best to let yourself be led down the path the universe has chosen for you, regardless if that path is hard and full of unknowns. We’ve all heard it before, it’s about the journey, not the destination, and sometimes that’s how the notion of ‘home’ can be defined as well. Pierced by lyrics like, “Standing out like a lightning rod / still aflame by the burns I’ve got,” it’s important to be mindful that we’re all grappling with our own trauma, and each of us is carrying our own baggage until we get to a place where we can finally put it down.

After many years on the east coast, Cape Francis will become an LA-based project by the beginning of September 2020.

Teaming with hazy and melancholic harmonies, “It Was” from ØZWALD’s latest LP Head Movies is simultaneously haunting and serene. The subject of the song—if one does exist—is impossible to determine given its enigmatic lyrics, yet, the shadow it casts can’t but help to garner the attention of those who listen.

“It Was” employs limited, but purposeful, instrumentation, ensuring that the most central element of the track is the meditative atmosphere it creates through the resurgence of its lingering chorus. The vocals are delicate and airy, yet seeped with unambiguous urgency—encouraging us to question our initial sonic perceptions and insinuating that what we hear is just the tip of a conceptual iceberg.