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.

As Half Waif, Nandi Rose-Plunkett crafts jolting, whirring, emotionally adept sonic sketches of day to day life. Her latest offering is “Ordinary Talk,” a finely crafted window into the creative process. Over a distinctly Half Waif-ian wave of synth pads so lush they feel colored with a dark shade of purple, Plunkett delivers a deeply intuitive assertion, “I’ve got places in my mind that I’ll never find / if you’re holding my hand like you always do,” a sentiment that shape-shifts into another striking phrase just a few moments later—“I know myself well / when I’m in this hell / it’s part of the process / it doesn’t scare me.” Once you’ve caught your breath, Plunkett draws a narrative of small moments that cumulatively become watershed over a sparkling wash of static and warmth—“walking to the lake / getting in my car / folding up the laundry / taking it too hard,” then noting how loud and exhilarating small joys can be “singing at the stars / fumbling for my light / laughing at the TV / doing alright.” It’s hard to measure progress as one navigates the complexities of one’s inner world, but on “Ordinary Talk,” Plunkett has asserted herself as a quietly confident, empathic, and intuitive creative with an extraordinary capacity to take it all in stride and turn both the shadow and dappled sunlight into something breathtakingly cathartic. Her new record, The Caretaker, is out March 27.

Okay Kaya's fresh release, Watch This Liquid Pour Itself, is a breath of cold air. "Asexual Wellbeing," the second to last single off the project, feels like every tear you've dropped on the dance floor. Kaya Wilkins' lyrics tell a story of a push and pull relationship while narrating all the non-sexual ways that relationship becomes intimate. The visuals for the song were directed by Wilkins herself and recorded in Denmark. They strengthen the meaning of the song by representing growth and transformation, deepened by routine, rituals and the magic of connection. Watch This Liquid Pour Itself is Wilkin's second full-length album under the name Okay Kaya, following her 2018 debut, Both. The Norwegian-born, BK-based singer is set to play several shows in the US and Europe for the next few months.

From the moment he appeared on streaming services seemingly out of thin air early last year, Kent-based singer-songwriter Havelock has been releasing a slow drip of genre-defying singles. His most recent, “LIBERTY," is his attempt at addressing his difficulties kicking an unwanted cigarette habit. While the topic is anything but lighthearted, you wouldn’t get that impression just listening to the instrumental. Hip-hop inspired 808s and a driving, funk-inflected bassline combine to make this the kind of track that you find yourself involuntarily bobbing your head to after a few listens. The groove drops out entirely during the chorus, and this is where Havelock’s clever lyricism and satiny voice really get the space to shine. His self-deprecating outro refrain—“Patched up lookin’ stupid, am I sure I wanna do this, girl?”—paints a vivid picture of a smoker on Nicorette, desperately conjuring a reason to pick up another pack instead of starting to kick the habit. With his debut EP, TRY B4U BUY, due in the coming months, Havelock is looking to close his first year as an artist in triumphant fashion.

Many musicians have plied their trade within the well-worn realm of sparsely-accompanied, heartfelt balladry. “Parakeet”, the recently released track by the Italian-born Birthh, is the latest proof that even the most frequently trodden paths can seem like an overgrown trail full of unseen delights in the right hands. Birthh sings forlornly about childhood memories over somewhat lo-fi guitar chords and fluttering, angelic piano notes, her melody perfectly exhibiting her vocal range and yearning delivery. Just when the song seems like it has settled into its soundscape, the final chorus is imbued with plucky strings, subdued horns and some surprisingly upbeat clapping, adding an almost exultant sheen to her words. When it all suddenly drops out at the track’s conclusion, it becomes difficult to coalesce the song’s bright ending with its slow, nostalgia-tinged first couple of minutes. It’s a little confusing when taken in its totality. The only way to ascertain your feelings on "Parakeet," really, is to spin it again—and therein lies its genius.

Philadelphia-based Maya Bon, frontwoman of Babehoven, released her first musical delicacy of the new year with “Only So”. Bon carries pain like a wounded songbird, making beauty out of the despondency of life. Crooning vulnerabilities such as, “There’s only so much I can take of this destruction," Bon invites her listeners into a sacred space of learning exactly how much she can take, and how much she will no longer allow to be set upon her. Clothed in a simple instrumental accompaniment, her lyrics are the apex of the track, pointing all attention toward them. On February 7, Babehoven will be releasing an EP called Demonstrating Visible Difference of Height.