It was the first time you would see my apartment, but it was my last. All set to move out tomorrow. Already moved most of my things out but kept my bed and my pots and pans to make eggplant parmesan for you and me. How could I be so unsure about our future when we were as emotionally close as we we were physically? I thought of the As Tall As Lions song "I’m Kicking Myself." You were quiet as a writer or a painter at work, but your puppy eyes were thunderous as gunfire or rockets. You would stay the night, and we would wake up here together for the one and only time, and we would either lay our heads together once more somewhere else or part ways. My future with you hung in the balance, and yet my past with you sung in Dallas, and my present with you stung in challenge.

Nathaniel Paul’s “Silence” is the type of song born out of an unexplainable uncertainty; a bizarre and hard-to-shake emotion. The song calls back to the chillwave sounds pioneered by Toro y Moi, but has its own modern influx of drum and synth work. Play this one at the beach and drink coffee to it. 

The latest from Austin-based indie group Sun June is an anthemic offering from their new record, Somewhere. Gradually building over its three-minute run, “Bad with time” continues the band’s streak of somber, lingering tunes to beautiful effect.

The track evokes Yeah Yeah Yeahs—appropriate, considering another cut-off of Somewhere borrows its name from Yeahs’ singer Karen O. A sparse opening and booming drums recall the iconic “Maps,” but the song never loses its identity as being distinctly Sun June. Singer Laura Colwell’s lyrics fill the song with imagery of the desert and southwest, crooning “You’re too cool for LA” over the song’s chorus as twin guitars tangle and build into the conclusion.

The band has described the record as a “prom record,” encapsulating the highs and lows of rushing love. With “Bad with time,” the album opener, the band gets right to the point, setting the tone with a gentle, swaying tune fit for a drive at dusk across the desert, or perhaps someday, pandemic-pending, an actual prom. Photo by Jade Skye Hammer.

Navigating her identity as a young Black woman in a world that actively works to put you down has long permeated Ayoni's music in songs like "Unmoved (A Black Woman Truth)." It's a uniquely transient perspective informing the songwriting of the Barbadian-born performer and producer, who has spent time in both Singapore and Indonesia but now calls California home. And it's with her observations and experiences in the US that Ayoni hits her stride in her newest single "The Patriots," holding nothing back as she denounces institutionalized American white supremacy. Simple acoustic guitar chords and minimal production allow her vocals, oscillating between layers of choral harmonies and powerful belts, to shine as she recounts incidents from the murder of George Floyd to Trump supporters' protests to "stop the count"; "If hate is what's required," she sings, "I don't want to be a patriot." With this anthem, Ayoni rises as a voice we need now more than ever. In a statement, she said, "I felt my ancestors in the room the profound night I wrote this song, and they have guided me since." "The Patriots" is a beautiful protest piece that challenges not only the present-day America she describes as "very bloody, very white and very blue," but generations of trauma and violence that are so deeply woven into the fabric of a colonized world. Photo by Domia Edwards and Caleb Griffin.

A smooth and glittering ambiance encompasses ELIO’s new track off of her second EP, Can You Hear Me Now? However, the dazzlingly produced instrumentals contrast with the longing and loneliness evoked in the lyrics. Through dreamy vocals, Charlotte Grace Victoria intertwines reflection about missing someone with what feels like an online, intimate conversation with that same person. Named after her Instagram handle, “@elio.irl” points at both how incredible and frustrating FaceTime is, and with lyrics like “I hope you think of me tonight / Holding my hand and telling me you’re mine / I miss you so much I wanna die,” she reminds us how hard it is to have someone we love be far away. This of course hits home for most of us in a completely different way, as we navigate the loneliness and uncertainty of a global pandemic. Photo by Kyle Kirkwood.

Miss Grit's "Grow Up To" ignites with a fuzzy distorted guitar slide, somewhere between an alarm and a siren. It’s a wake-up call to something, energizing and restless. Suddenly, you hear a voice, sweet and clear, singing out a message like a radio broadcast: “When I fall dead, I’ll still crave the next place all the same." Not long after, drums and bass state their piece- aggressively percussive, kicking up the drive another notch. There’s a sense of pent-upness that reminds you simultaneously of being nine, seventeen and twenty-three. You want so desperately to be somewhere farther along than you are, even though you have no idea where that is. You’ve outgrown where you are, but all the same, it’s too soon to spread your wings in the way you crave. Just as it becomes almost too much to bear, a new rhythm guitar line gracefully enters, a welcome balm on the building sense of angst. This new layer also turns on a lightbulb; you’re always growing up. You’re an ever-evolving entity, an active agent in your own growth. There will always be growing pains but also the delight of climbing somewhere ever higher and more dangerous. Miss Grit's latest track is a delightfully raucous anthem for embracing the weight and the joy in the ceaseless desire for growth. Photo by Miss Grit.

37d03d, the fledgling Bon Iver-associated label, has put together an eclectic and exciting roster in their short time as an entity, with previous releases spanning everything from art house rap to a self-proclaimed folk supergroup. Their latest release comes courtesy of multi-instrumentalist, producer and arranger CARM, and his self-titled debut album is a meticulously constructed musical soundscape. Album opener “Song of Trouble” is assisted by Sufjan Stevens, and his typically profound and plaintive lyrics are a welcome accompaniment to the deliberately subdued instrumentation that backs him. The icy synths and horns that serve as the track’s foundation are a testament to CARM’s unique approach as a producer, and the triumphant swelling of strings and horns that complement Sufjan's trademark croon towards the end lends a meditative, almost religious quality to the song—and like any good prayer, I have been returning to this track on a daily basis. Photo by Shervin Lainez.

The creative mind behind BOYO, Robert Tilden (they/them), has yet again fashioned tracks that balance uplifting beats and grounding lyrics in their second LP of 2020, Alone Together in Los Angeles. This record further illustrates their sonic development and growth as an artist. Emotionally, this record comes with a much desired brighter feel, a contrast felt to the anxiety, albeit beautiful, that was so prevalent in their first LP of 2020, Where Have All My Friends Gone? which pulled so much from their experience of dealing with the uncertainties of facing a 2017 medical scare.

For Alone Together in Los Angeles, that anxiety seems to have slipped away while still keeping the lyrics that question and comment on the nostalgia and realities of life. In "Analyze This" specifically, a light but stirring chord adds an extra layer of playfulness to the bit of comedic commentary that the lyrics themselves give. Tilden’s interest in social anxieties is felt as they sing on our day-to-day interactions and the way one might look back on moments and scrutinize the minute details – something we all found ourselves doing while stuck in quarantine. “You could laugh, choose to laugh / Analyze this, analyze that,” a reminder that it can all be a joke and a memory unless you let it keep nagging you in the back of your mind until you go mad. 

Tilden has even said they drew from Stephen Malkmus for this song, and it’s an influence that’s easily heard in the pairing of the socially observational lyrics paired with the upbeat and catchy chords reminiscent of Malkmus’ "Juliefuckingette" or "Ballad of a Thin Man." Photo by Tanner Lemoine.

Some people find joy in the electric buzz of city lights at night, pleasant company and the serendipity of figuring out what happens as you go. Others prefer to ride that midnight roller coaster more on special occasions than every weekend. Oftentimes, though, those two people are friends. Or lovers. Or significant others. French Cassettes' "City Kitty" is a slick groove that stands at the precipice of both, weighing the glamorous tug of the nightlife against the equally strong desire to curl up with someone you love on a couch for a nice night in. The track opens with washy guitars and an enigmatic vocal line that’s hard to distinguish under reverb and a fuzzy telephone vocal effect. Soon the bass comes in like a siren coaxing your body into moving with a will almost its own. The lyrics, meanwhile, beg the listener to consider spending a night at home. But how could you, when there is dancing to do and music to groove to? So what if you end the night feeling a little bit too old for this, trading every sunrise for a few hours of sleep? But sung to the right tune, staying in sounds tempting and pleasurable in its own way. After all, you can dance without inhibitions in your living room just as easily as any bar out there—or at least, you can with "City Kitty" on the radio. Photo by Nikki Neumann.

Beloved Brooklyn-based pop-duo Great Good Fine Ok and folk-pop soloist Yoke Lore have collaborated to create an enchanting recognition of the trials which come with the risk of love and trusting someone outside of yourself. Gliding in with a few incandescing synth notes and the atmospheric voice of Great Good Fine Ok vocalist Jon Sandler, what is a melancholy concept becomes that of a balmy and gleaming, yearning of hope. Yoke Lore’s signature, diaphanous banjo plucking dresses this track with a refreshing, subtle folk sound. The honest lyrics of “You Don’t Look at Me the Same” paint a picture of a relationship wherein the love has grown tired and is teetering on the line of moving on or putting in the work to sustain unity, and leaning into the latter. Photo by Shervin Lainez.