Follow along this week as singer/songwriter Shamir walks us through notable tracks from his expansive DIY genre-blending discography. Don't miss your chance to meet Shamir in Brooklyn at Full Bloom, our latest food, beverage and music event in collaboration with Strainge Beast Hard Kombucha, on June 25.

"This song isn't one of my personal favorites, but I get why it's a crowd favorite. It's a good practice in all the things people love about pop music, and I found a way to filter it through my DIY sensibilities and cathartic and personal songwriting. Finding strength in solitude is a very hard, but powerful thing!" — Shamir

Quiet power and gentle ferocity—these are the reigning forces in the soundscape of "QADIR," the first release off of Nick Hakim’s upcoming LP, Will This Make Me Good. In addition to being the first release, "QADIR" was also the first song that Hakim wrote for the record. It’s an homage to his late friend who passed away in 2018 and for whom the track is named. Hakim conjures a sacred spirituality on this track by retaining a delicate balance between a heavy bass over a lightly driving beat, replete with acoustic percussion, and a haunting flute weaving in and out of a wide keyboard sound that holds down rich harmonies. Above all this, in a realm all its own, Hakim’s echoing vocals gently whisper truths in the manner of a prophet: “There seems to be a complexity to being kind / to your space to your temple / to your neighbors / who’ve seen the changes / We all feel change / Some of us wear masks / To hide the pain.” He is calling upon us to choose kindness and community. Surrounded by haunting background vocals on the chorus, Hakim draws us into an ethereal world that finally comes together in a mess of phantasmic voices, calling us from every side before fading slowly out into nothingness.

Paging everyone in pop music: if you don’t know singer/songwriter and escapist Syd Silvair yet, you will feel her enchantment soon. As a skilled tarot reader by day, Silvair is endlessly inspired by the deck. On her latest single, “The Moth,” she conjures up a world of swirling disco and art-pop while reflecting on the aspects of The Magician tarot. “I find that my own feminine nature tends to attract people who are looking to take advantage of it,” mentions Silvair, “I’ve connected deeply with The Magician tarot card in an effort to take the power back, to nurture on my own terms.” And keep her power she will, as “The Moth” is Silvair’s own omen of empowerment to remind us that for every bit of tenderness there is an equally potent fierceness. Inspired by the feminine mysticism of Stevie Nicks, her songwriting is unsparing, bold and centered. Silvair’s velvety voice calls out messages of the rich visuals that inspire her, shimmering atop lush and groovy rhythms. Her melodies are undeniably catchy, like a golden spell. Syd Silvair invites you to step into her sphere as her upcoming tarot-inspired EP Reverie makes its way into our realm and emboldens our inner realities with the spirit of her music.

Genevieve Stokes’s newest single “Running Away” is a dreamy rumination on the intensity of new love. The singer-songwriter’s dynamic crooning vocals cut through the simple production of piano and sparse harmonies as she sings, “couldn’t see you coming / I was always running away / you hit me out of nowhere / will you stay?” Stokes explores the uncertainty of young love and how terrifying admitting your feelings can be. Drawing from her longtime inspiration Regina Spektor, the 18-year-old from Portland, Maine perfectly expresses the emotional turmoil of adolescence without falling into melodrama. She details the continuous loss of innocence as we grow older with precision, “And I'm nothin' but the things that I tell myself / Lie and think I'm / special just like everybody else / But somethin' in the water has been tempting me.” “Running Away” is the newest single off of Stokes’s upcoming debut EP out this summer.

Andrew Bird has been a leading voice in the folk/bluegrass realm for over two decades. Like the best songwriters of the genre, he has a compelling ability to stir the mind and heart towards a feeling while exhibiting strong mastery of an instrument (the violin in his case). "Capital Crimes," albeit on-the-nose, is a closer view of capital punishment and the plunge of human compassion. His latest full-length album, My Finest Work Yet, is heralded as one of his best records (staying true to the title) in part because of his tasteful command of political commentary and soft folk musicianship. His latest single,"Capital Crimes," is a faithful echo of My Finest Work Yet. The track passionately incriminates a broken system that has no "sense of shame" in its method of determining who lives and who dies. This 6 minute, 30-second song raises a heavy hand in aggressive musicality, breaking from lyricism altogether around minute 4. The exaggerated pizzicato for the last 2 minutes of this track makes it an unmistakable Andrew Bird listen. Check out "Capital Crimes" wherever you stream.

Laura Marling surprised everyone earlier this month when she announced her new album, Song for Our Daughter, was coming out much earlier than expected, and she dropped the first single, “Held Down,” right away. Lyrically, the song deals with a disappointing communication breakdown between two people that are healing at different speeds: just as one is finally ready to be held down, the other runs away (and, in this case, leaves only a short letter). “And I just meant to tell you that I don’t want to let you down,” Marling sings in response to the letter, massaging the regret of her own inaction with cool vibrato. But for a song about separation, the emotional impression of “Held Down” is one of measured optimism by the end. Maybe it’s that we can tell Marling has learned a lesson from her misfortune (“Seen or unseen, say what you mean”), and that the loose confidence in her vocals and guitar work tells us she is going to be okay. But I suspect the real comfort comes from the solidarity and empathy in Marling’s all-lady backup chorus, who by echoing Marling’s words throughout seem to say, “You’re good, you’re okay; we got you.”

In her whimsical single "By Myself," singer-songwriter Maya Hawke crafts a dreamland as a means for self-reflection. Hawke sings of "honey that ran out of me," of playing "caliban in bed" and talking "in rings," nonsensical to the naked ear, meant only for her to understand. These surreal images make up "a secret message to myself, that I hope I'll receive someday soon," says Hawke. "It's about projecting ideas you have about yourself onto other people." Through the song, she suggests that the real answers can be found by simply looking in the mirror. Accompanying the track is an equally as eccentric music video that stars Hawke as a cowboy angel floating through space, dusted with vintage headshot charm. With Grammy winner Jesse Harris putting music to her lyrics, you can expect her record to be brimming with leisurely folk-pop and world music elements. Blush will be released on June 19 via Mom+Pop.

In 2018 The Beths, a New Zealand quartet largely unknown to American audiences, released what was simply one of the strongest debut albums from an indie rock band in recent memory with charmingly little fanfare. Slowly but surely, audiences’ ears perked up as they toured dutifully. Slated to open for the gargantuan tour featuring Green Day, Weezer, and Fall Out Boy, expectations for the pop-punk torchbearers were high, lest they fall victim to the seemingly inevitable sophomore slump after such an impressive debut. “Dying To Believe” mitigates any doubts, however, slotting right into place with Future Me Hates Me but still refreshingly energetic. The opening guitar riff could soundtrack the title sequence of the next installment of Power Rangers, and bandmates pop out to deliver their signature call-and-response backup vocals like Muppets peeking out from behind a curtain. Dynamic while staying composed and loud without ever being in your face, The Beths’ application of jazz school perfectionism to the melodic earworms of bubblegum-pop-punk implies a nearly endless well of absolute bangers.

Perhaps to mitigate the anxieties of the current moment, I find myself once again captivated by musicians who create poetry in motion. That’s artists like the Argentine folk trio Fémina and Candance Camacho, a 23-year-old singer from Queens who releases music under the name duendita. Camacho, who is Puerto Rican-American and Afro-Latinx, created her stage name from the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca’s concept of duende: the wondrous feelings art evokes within us that linger just beyond our ability to describe them. “Rolling up over I'm open to learning again / Lovely, so lucky thank God, ’cause they made me your friend,” Camacho sings above a sparse guitar track, cueing up the warm, soulful track that is “Let Me Live.” The words don’t do it justice; play the track and let it crawl inside your mind.

This past month has been the strangest that many of us have ever experienced in our lives. Confined inside the walls of our homes, we strive to find comfort and pleasure in any available form. For me, I found it by digging out the record player and stack of inherited vinyl records and dancing in my living room. I took a journey through several decades and genres, reveling in the richness of sound that can’t usually be achieved with digital streaming. Christian Lee Hutson’s “Talk” is an exception. This Phoebe Bridgers-produced track evokes the same feeling as listening to an old song on vinyl. Hutson’s vocal delivery and smooth timbre recall the classic singer-songwriters of the 1970s. While the acoustic production is simple: guitar, bass, restrained drum parts and a string section, the composite sound is every bit as rich as your favorite vintage record. Hutson’s subject matter reaches way down deep, too. He’s convinced himself—to the point of saying it out loud—that he will be a better parent than the one who raised him. He quickly realizes that’s easier said than done, especially when still reconciling with old scars. “It's no use denyin' / You belong to the dyin' / And I couldn't care less / Life's just a real slow death / Yep, that's what I was taught / Okay, so I care a lot.” Huston effectively delivers the pang of a painful childhood while never once raising his vocal intensity. This suggests a mastery on par with the great musical storytellers of generations past.