Losses of any sort can make happy homes seemingly crumble into empty sanctuaries. The homes, although boisterous with life and new beginnings, become a catalyst for the occupants’ aching nostalgia over the person or thing they’re now devoid of. With every sorrow-driven piano key and powerfully executed vibrato, Jovan Perez explores the boundless aches of lamentation in his latest release “feel again.” Guided by a melancholic piano that sends shivers down the spine, the track takes listeners through the painful ups and downs of reminiscing on a past connection. There’s a story-like structure to the song that aids in the evocation of fervent emotion portrayed by Perez both lyrically and vocally that is unique to the young artist’s sound. The 20-year-old carries with him a revivifying soulfulness that is youthful in delivery, yet timeless in essence. Despite the track portraying the heart-wrenching perspective of an individual trapped within their own nostalgia, Perez has share that he wants listeners to “let this song serve as a reminder that these feelings are normal, and to try to find happiness and purpose in the present you’ve been gifted with.”

“Feel again” is Perez's third officially released track, and his second this year. The New York-based singer, songwriter and producer has already garnished the attention of fans via his covers on YouTube and is continuing to build his own empire within the music industry.

Cat Clyde combines her honest and sharp lyrics with a memorable melody to deliver an anthem to days spent wandering or wallowing. "Toaster” comes from Clyde’s new album Good Bones, which contains new tracks as well as reworked acoustic versions of songs from her previous two EPs. The choice to focus on simpler acoustic arrangements works beautifully on this track, allowing her clever writing and emotive vocal delivery to take center stage. Clyde expertly communicates the relatable and paradoxical balance of feeling both overstimulated and underwhelmed, too active and too static. The protagonist spends her day walking in the rain and double-checking the freezer for whiskey, yet laments that “there’s no time to wash my clothes, but it don’t matter ‘cause they all smell like smoke”. “Toaster” has the type of melody that sinks in right away and hangs around like a new companion; it’s unique but somehow feels familiar. I think it unlikely that someone could hear this tune, and not find themselves humming it later in the day.

Teetering between genres and occupying a space somewhere in between fantasy and reality, Godford’s “Better Place” blooms with intermediacy. This multifaceted track alludes to both 80s dance music and modern electronica with its heavy basslines, exaggerated melodies, and vocal repetition. While some may mistake the limited lyrics of “Better Place” as a creative flaw, the exact opposite is true; this highly conceptual track employs sonic replication in order to create a distinct atmosphere that is mystifying and ephemeral. The refrain: “I saw you alone / I’ll make a better place for you” echoes like a mantra and, as the song progresses, it becomes beautifully unclear whether the speaker is promising to make a situation better for themself or for someone else.

In “Who Do I Turn To?,” Joy Oladokun takes deep-rooted pain and pushes it to the surface, creating a poignant tune with only her voice alongside a piano. However, it’s not a simple song at all—hearing her meditate on repeated, unanswered questions is like hearing an echo in an empty home, only finding security in the fact that you are present, yet completely alone. 

“I’m tired of turning on the news / And wondering why it happened again,” she sings, expressing her exhaustion. In a society where systemic racism is only now becoming prevalent for the comfortable majority, Oladokun asks her listeners: “Tell me who’s gonna make it right / When the good ones are to blame.” Her words are not masked by any intense instrumentation, but rather come fully exposed: “If I can’t turn to God / And I can’t turn to you / Who do I turn to?” A portion of her publishing royalties will be going to Launchpad Nashville, a shelter that LGBTQ youth can turn to in times of need.

Just as a poured pail of cold water shocks the body, pale and wintry daylight wakes Genevieve from what is hardly a good night's sleep. Every breath she takes in the morning is slow and light. The song "Weak" by Freddie starts to materialize and piece itself together within the fractal a.m. mood. It's a warm dark here, something Genevieve daydreams about. Awake, she doesn't immediately jump into her life. She's content on her back, counting the number of cycles the ceiling fan completes, eyeing the birds chirping outside her window.

I don't see her again until I'm expected to have children. Dragged to a wedding by my brother, knowing, perhaps secretly hoping I may see her. The off-chance I run into her grasps my conscience, causing me to lose sleep. It couldn't have happened any smoother. I'm at the open bar, attempting to drown the night in warm liquor, and my eyes fall on hers, heart pounding like a fucking EDM rave.

Of course, she walks over, and you guessed it. She's doing excellent. She never used to say that word. I look at her thoroughly now, trying to find something. She's changed her hair up, she talks just a little faster, her nail polish glitters, and she's seen this airy, light persona through and stuck with it. She must feel like she's floating, I think. But, to me, she's still the same. I know it when we lock eyes from across the room, at different tables. I know it when I spot a single, silent tear roll down her cheek as she claps. I know it when she pulls me to her when the lights are off, catches me at the door, tells me how the song "Weak" by Freddie makes so much sense it hurts, asks what I'm doing tomorrow, forecasts the gloriously warm and sunny weather, dreams of a day spent outdoors sauntering down city sidewalks, scratches the itch I hold inside of my palm that is hardly different from the love I hold inside of my heart.

Women are incredible. One should never be surprised at their feats, so please hide your shock when you learn that pronoun is a one-woman band, the musical project of Brooklyn-based singer-songwriter Alyse Vellturo. In past releases, pronoun has exemplified tight melodies measured by fast rhythm, and it has worked incredibly well. For her latest release, “Song Number 1.5,” however, pronoun slows and strips things down slightly. As always with pronoun, there are many layers of complementary sound at play, though here the result is a bit mellower, her voice a bit lower. The soft guitar loops throughout as vocals, percussion, and synth come and go, and a seemingly distant voice chimes in with an echoing “Babe, you are love,” a line which both begins and ends the song. 

On “Song Number 1.5,” Vellturo sings of missing, of longing, of dreaming of doing all of the things so many young lovers and city dwellers fantasize about doing, even if we know deep down that they are—at least for now—a fantasy. “We could have a couple kids / I could quit my job by June / We could move out to the suburbs / Maybe we would have some more room.” Released on her own label, Sleep Well Records, the song shows an added depth to the spectrum of emotions pronoun is willing and able to tackle in her songwriting. We hope to hear more from pronoun soon, but in the meantime, her full-length album i’ll show you stronger (Rhyme and Reason Records, 2019) is more than worth a listen.

Photo credit: Bella Peterson