"These Kids We Knew," the latest single from ROSTAM, addresses climate change with an assertive, but hopeful hand. Lushly produced simple strums are a warm background for the contrastingly harrowing subject matter. Written while Rostam was recovering from Covid-19 last March, the song chronicles Gen-Z putting an older generation on metaphorical trial in "sidewalk courts" for the state in which they've left the Earth's climate. We see the lasting effects already with what's going on in Texas as we speak, unprepared for the temperatures they are now withstanding. It's not a far-off future that Rostam conceptualizes in this track, so with young activists like Greta Thunberg and Leah Thomas as key leaders in the climate revolution, change may still be on the horizon. Rostam's hopeful outlook might inspire that generation to believe that it's not too late to hold these harbingers of destruction accountable for their part in causing this crisis. You'd just have to wait for them to get back from Cancún first. Photo by Olivia Bee. 

Tomberlin's "Floor" is a song meant for evening walks, hovering on the cusp of light and dark. It reminds me of a street about half a mile from my duplex. The two lanes are divided by a graciously wide median, which is lined by almost naturally spaced oak trees. The only giveaway of artifice is the vintage style street lamps — one between every two trees, exactly. Straight down the middle of the median, sheltered by the oaks, is a brick path. Once upon a time it was meticulously laid with clean red bricks. Now it’s settled in some places along with the dirt, and in others it’s risen up as the tree roots keep growing underneath. The path isn’t even anymore, and you can tell it hasn’t been for a while. You can still see its sophisticated herringbone pattern though, doubtless voted on by some homeowners' association at some point. Around dusk the street lamps start glowing yellow, washing the path in a soft golden glow. It looks like something out of a fairytale, complete with houses that could be castles keeping watch on either side. It’s the street my feet always wander to when it’s late and I can’t sleep because my mind is racing too fast to stand still. It’s not because it’s well lit, or quiet, or close, or safe-feeling. It’s because I like to walk by the houses and make up stories about the people living inside. I like to wonder what it feels like to take up so much space and how they could possibly fill it all up. I like to think about what I want space for, and who I want space for, and how I’ll make sure there’s always enough to hold them. By the time I get home, I’ve finally found my edges again. I know where I begin, and where I end, and I have a dedicated space to hold whatever is worth holding. That’s exactly the feeling Tomberlin captures in "Floor" — something whimsical and as sad as it is optimistic. Like something out of a fairytale. Photo by Felix Walworth.

Remember being part of a world where rushing from place to place was a common occurrence? NYC duo Fake Dad does. Backed by the guidance of a pulsating drum machine and fueled by the eternal feeling of getting lost in a daydream, "Breakfast In New York" is a love letter to their hometown, and the beauty inspired by the age-old hustle and bustle that is deeply woven into New York's culture.

Fake Dad's ode to the simple pleasure of getting grab-and-go breakfast hits differently in our current era, ruled by a pandemic and an unwavering sense of universal paranoia. "Breakfast In New York" is just as much a loving nudge to ourselves, a reminder to slow down and take stock of those constants we're now inevitably wistfully wishing we never took for granted, especially the often bygone practice of allowing our thoughts to drift into the mundane. Vocalist Andrea de Varona's vocal refrain reminds listeners to remember to take care of ourselves, by remembering to indulge in the pleasure guaranteed to never stop giving: our beloved breakfast. Nothing can bring us back to a dear sense of security and wonder like a bacon, egg and cheese bagel, illustrating what Fake Dad gently reminds us in their Facebook bio: Everything is going to be okay. Photo by Sarah Schecker.

Madeline’s debut single, "Guilty Conscience," brings an empowering fondness and appreciation for a relationship that has come to an end. It’s a song that fits beautifully into, yet sticks out amongst, the current pop landscape, with intimate storytelling draped over relentless production. Madeline manages to perfectly incorporate these colder, almost spacey sounds with a personal and emotional vocal performance. In beautiful, stark contrast to the wobbling synth on the fringes of the verse, Madeline’s voice showcases her power and control. Her confidence comes through in her steady delivery, the vocals staying true even as synths pop in and out across the song, leading us to the chorus. While the verses explore specific and intimate moments, the chorus is a chance to reflect and share wisdom along with a stellar catchy melody. For a song about heartbreak and love lost, it maintains a positivity that you wouldn’t expect, but the chorus’s final line sheds some light, recognizing, “There’s some good in goodbye.” And as a layered guitar solo concludes the journey, we’re thankful we don’t have to say goodbye, with Madeline’s EP slated for an early 2021 release. 

If there's a track to perfectly close the final chapter on a relationship, it’s Dafna’s “it’s u not me.” The dreamy pop ballad is minimalistic in its production, but with vocals so soft, there’s no need for heavy instrumentation. In terms of narrative, the title of the track speaks for itself. The sheer realization of figuring out the one you love will never reciprocate that feeling is painful, and Dafna captures this with striking specificity in the chorus. “And I wasted all this time / With you always on my mind / Now I know that you’ll never feel / The same things I feel.” Towards the end, there’s a string of melodies that sounds like it's signifying the feelings in this relationship being lifted. If you’ve been driving in a dark tunnel, then here you finally see a light in the distance, something bright to look forward to. 

There are a dozen reasons Orla Gartland’s "Pretending" might resonate with you. It might be the closing introverted plea to go home after spending too long at a house party you don’t wanna be at. It might be the disconnect between the face you paint on to catch in a mirror from the one you know best. Or it might be the hook, begging you to admit that you’re pretending too. For me, the line that hit hardest was the final question of the chorus, “Who are you so afraid to be?” It spoke to me for the very simple reason that it’s a question I’ve never thought to ask. I’ve asked why I’m afraid, I’ve asked how not to be. I’ve never bothered to tease out who I am that it feels so uncomfortable to peel back all the layers and expose. I know there’s a dozen facets I could lean into or out of at any given time, almost comfortably. As long as I can remember, I’ve co-existed in a virtually infinite number of spheres — some organic and others forced. However, the person sitting at the center of them all, fluidly weaving them together, is an absolute mystery to me. "Pretending" held up a mirror with a question mark, and it utterly gripped me. The track opens with ethereal harmonies that remind me of the Grouper album that my friend recommended, which I listened to until I understood why he likes it. Next, gentle rhythm math rock guitars layer in, reminding me of the Tessa Violet concert I brought my dad to, where he had so much fun he bought a pin to remember it. The guitar texture morphs into shoegaze that reminds me of the first time I ventured to a living room full of amps, kids and beer. Abruptly the track collapses into itself. Gartland's voice stands alone aside from some empty echoes from pizzicato strings. I’m back in a recital hall with a cello between my knees, my breath matching someone else’s. Suddenly everything returns: bass, drums, guitars, all slam onto the scene. It’s a game changer. From then on, all the pieces effortlessly flow and twist together, only existing completely once they’re all together. It makes sense. It resonates. Photo by Karina Barberis and Greta Isaac.