"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. 

After five years’ time, My Morning Jacket has freely given the kin-songs of their album The Waterfall with the release of The Waterfall II. Included in this release is a track called “Beautiful Love (Wasn’t Enough)” which draws on the notion that even when someone gives their all in love, it is not always liable to fulfill in the way that love is often promised to do. Starting off with a romantic and celestial piano solo, the track exemplifies what it feels like to drop into the mystery of love with another person. However, it takes on a new shape once the vocals come in. Things become heavier as the notion of not feeling the same way settles into the bones of the track.

A gem from her debut EP, Melanie Faye’s “Jump” is a minimalist tune that sits in the space between labels, aching in longing while looking for a way out. Co-written by Natalia Kills and Cautious Clay, the simplicity of her rhymes meld into a yearning guitar-driven melody. "Awkwardly timin', my nodding and smilin' / Don't say too much, don't make you run," she sings coyly, before she becomes the one who gets away: "I'll jump, jump, jump, jump, jump." The extended instrumental outro showcases her guitar prowess as her repeated falsetto “jump” bounces in the distance like a farewell kiss blown to a lover before a free fall. Having gained traction with more than a few masterful collaborations under her belt, the Melanie Faye EP follows singles like “It’s A Moot Point” and “Eternally 12” with Mac Demarco, quietly asserting her presence in today's neo-soul scene.

Swedish-Greek singer-songwriter and producer, Plási tells a story of passionate self-discovery on "Where I Belong." Channeling a yearning that is universally relatable, Plási takes the listener through his search of finding his place in the world—in old passions and new—with his signature folk riffs. The accompanying video is nostalgic (if not dream-like) in nature, making us long for home, whatever that means for each of us.

After the sun goes down,

and all that's left is the dried salt on your skin,

you choose your words more carefully. 

They linger now, 

like sea glass in the sand where a wave once stood.

Together, and all at once, you come to understand:

the castles you built will be here, still,

even if the fragments return back to the tide,

even if you stay.

Half-Filipina vocalist, songwriter and self-proclaimed shapeshifter, Lianna Vanicelli concocts ethereal tracks with a tropical twist. It’s a little Grimes, a lot Beach House. Xelli Island paints us familiar scenes from a normal day, presumably February 20, 2020. Hustling downtown on the train to make a shift, racing to someone else’s door. The beat is well-paced to a sense of urgency. “Try not to think about it, what could go wrong,” she sings, as if trying to prevent an endless feedback loop of anxieties and pressure that accompany being young and trying to make it in a city. The glitchy feedback that disrupts the pre-chorus is a nice touch. According to Vanicelli, the synth-heavy track is about experiencing serendipity, and “thinking about the millions of little things that have to work properly in order for anything to happen.” Stay tuned for an EP dropping later this year.

One thing about Sufjan Stevens is that there is basically no telling what his new music will sound like. This has been true now for two full decades. Sure, there are some elements you can predict pretty safely. It’s pretty likely that the song will contain earnest and somewhat poetic lyrics scattered with Christian mythological imagery. It will almost certainly feature his iconic sandpapery vocals, and it could very well be anchored by its interesting rhythmic patterns. Other than that, part of the joy of a Sufjan release is the lead-up to inevitable surprise. Where will the new release lie in the field of artistic breadth that he has always tended to so methodically? Will the track break down into unpleasant screeching guitar after a 9-minute chant? Or will it plod on with pleasant banjo or piano for two minutes and call it quits? Will it sound basically acoustic with sneaky subtle electronic effects? Or will it bleep and bloop all over the place like a robot fever dream?

In my estimation, “Video Game” is the farthest Stevens has gone down the rabbit hole of melodic electronic music since his 2010 album, Age of Adz. And, in the iconic words of Bernie Sanders, let me be very clear: I am super here for it. Although I was originally hooked as a teen by the lush and folksy orchestration in albums like Michigan, I’ve always held a special place in my heart for electro-Sufjan. In fact, it is my suspicion that the world of electronics is where Stevens feels most comfortable, most able to invent. In the case of “Video Game,” the effect is something like "faux futuristic,” and the “faux" feels intentional to me. Maybe that’s because the lyrics are also focused on fakeness—specifically, renouncing repeatedly all the fake value of celebrity. In a statement about the song, Stevens says, “I think we should all be doing our best work without looking for accolades or seeking reward.” That genuinely sounds really nice, and I think there is truth in it. But also, Sufjan, if you’re reading this: I really, really like your new song. Will you sign my t-shirt?

As "Missouri Boy" opens, the urgent fingerpicking and open-ended wails create an instant tension. It’s almost as though the instruments are pulling time in different directions while the kick keeps us grounded. A fitting feeling for a song whose lyrics mirror the same balance. A reflection on a past relationship, trying to move beyond it while still thinking about what could have been. As City Dress repeats “I try” over and over, the lyric seems to struggle with the same. Across the verse gentle, gorgeous harmonies add depth to an intimate vocal. The bass and piano arrive, a beautiful pair that gives the song even more heft. The chorus's release into “See Me” is so pure, so authentic, such a visceral emotional release. You can feel her ask, “Is that too much to want?”—still swept up in this struggle between righting wrongs and moving on. It’s the first time the band is in concert, a powerful moment that elevates her plea even further. The bridge leans into the song’s most vulnerable side, a swaying softness, almost like a leaf drifting down to the ground, a story that winds up sad but lands easy. City Dress comes full circle leaving the song as she returns to the “I try” refrain, this time, beyond the tension, she continues to move forward. City Dress continues to impress with vulnerable and human stories shared over thoughtful guitar-led instrumentals.

Summer was almost over, and there wasn’t a lot to do in the city except call up Halo and sit by the waters on the piers and watch the tinier boats and jet skis shoot ripples into the lapis ocean. Cordless phone to my ear, I pulled a couple blinds down with my left index finger as I eyed the sun. It was ready to set. Halo picked up on the third ring. She sounded happy. She had just recorded a song called “f l a w l e s s,” and I picked her up so she could show it to me in person, near the water because she wanted me to hear it with the sound of the waves in the background. Once we parked and settled in on the pier, she started to play the song off her phone.

"f l a w l e s s" is the latest from LA indie-pop singer/songwriter Halo Kitsch. Halo, of course, is not just a homage to Beyoncé’s hit, but the word for the crown that adorns the heads of angels. Kitsch is any art, object, or design considered to be in poor taste because of excessive garishness or sentimentality, but sometimes appreciated in an ironic or knowing way. Her song is all about denying her flawlessness and instead embracing her flaws. She makes her subject see her for who she really is. Maybe that’s real love.

You can write it on a cake, spell it in M&Ms on a pizza, hire a plane to skywrite it—or, you can say it in a heartfelt song. Hovvdy’s latest, “I’m Sorry,” is their second single (following July’s “Runner”) since their glistening 2019 album Heavy Lifter. In this era of quarantine releases, Hovvdy has honed their use of syncopated beats and percussive touches that feel as light and casual as tapping your thigh along to a song on the radio. While the group’s signature lo-fi vocals are still baked into their home base bedroom-rock atmosphere, they’ve employed some new tricks, including an addictive, near trip-hop bassline and moments of auto-tuned vocals. The track feels as fuzzy as memories of night drives amid high school heartbreak, while managing to recall the blazing orange-pink sunsets of summer as it wanes to fall. Hovvdy seems to know what so many of us do; it’s easy to know when we should apologize, but sometimes our hurt and words unsaid get in the way (“Give me one good reason / To say what I should / And I need a real one / You can tell I would”). It inspired me to revisit the other side of the coin, where we can place our pride aside and look truth in the eyes: 

more than anything

i would like to reach the

atrophy of ego

the place where 

soul and shine splice

how i think i’d like to get

to the root of it all, buried

under the field where 

you first met me

i’d like to get the heart of it; 

to one true, glowing thing.