Identity is complicated. There are so many facets to it. Some aspects are shaped by fate, others are shaped by yourself. Still others are domino effects of shaping fate that shapes you back. Sometimes these facets help you lock into a community or build kinship with others; however, it’s just as true that no one has ever walked the exact same path you have. Beharie’s "Me and My Lonely" holds that idea in its palm and inspects it from every angle. The first verse explores the isolation of being aware that there are aspects of yourself that might not make sense to anyone else. Narrating your internal existence can be tedious and uncomfortable — especially when you’re used to just existing without having to justify it to anyone else. The second verse questions what the threshold is to be known by someone else, how genuine it is and if it’s worth the effort. After all, no matter how much time you spend with someone, they’ll never spend as much time with you as you do with yourself. Any depth of knowledge compared to that seems shallow, but does that really mean it is? "Me and My Lonely" doesn’t settle on an answer, but it continues to ponder on it against a pensive acoustic guitar backdrop. Each chorus picks up new textures and tries them on for size. They simultaneously fit and don’t. They all sound pleasant together but also each tugs on your sleeve for your attention. There is too much going on to notice and appreciate every facet, but you can fall in love with it for how they fit together. I guess people are like that too.

Austin-based duo dean keeton and singer-songwriter Cole Bauer join forces for “That Sound,” a bedroom R&B tune with a classic touch. Having collaborated twice before on 2018’s “Different Eyes” and this summer’s “Unread,” the trio tap even further into a synced-up late night sensibility and affinity for retro sounds. “Gimme a reason we should keep this on the ground,” they seek, vocals floating higher and higher over an electric jazz piano à la Herbie Hancock. Andi Rella’s sublime guest vocals preserve a sense of soothing warmth over the crisp drums and crooning that characterize their sound, modern R&B production putting a contemporary twist on easy listening. “That Sound” features alongside four other tracks on their upcoming EP of the same name, due out November 20.

Relentless guitar arpeggios fill the room as soon as you hit play on Juni Habel’s new track, "Demons," from her debut album, All Ears — it’s like heart palpitations, excited and nervous all at once. The intro has the spirit of Joni Mitchell’s more traditionally folky moments, but Habel’s melody is more static. It’s almost an ostinato over the undulating guitar. Finally at the end of the first chorus (“When I go to those places, how I stumble,” she wails, her voice cracking), the rest of the ensemble kicks in — a drum kit that resembles a bodhrán, a fiddle, a back up vocal. All come together to haunt us (“that’s when I send the demons out in the night / I forgive myself, I try,” she almost whispers), as much as Habel is clearly haunted by the demons in her mind. She conjures them masterfully for us with a few deliciously dissonant notes that, sort of, resolve. But not quite. Relatable. Photo by E Petersen.

“Comfortable,” the latest single from Quarter-Life Crisis, producer Ryan Hemsworth’s recent project, is a futuristic, slow-burning synth-pop track with a love of collaboration at its core. Built upon a solid foundation of hazy synths, relaxed guitars and the warm voice of Hand Habits’ Meg Duffy, “Comfortable” shows off Hemsworth's ability to craft songs that immediately get stuck in your head. The most recent of three singles, the track follows a structure that is no doubt familiar to Hemsworth; starting by producing carefully crafted, radio-worthy instrumentals, he has then invited some of his favorite artists to do their thing. In the instance of “Comfortable,” Duffy has done just that. Their comforting voice brings the track into a dream-like state. And, like any good dream, “Comfortable” is over before you want it to be, as the instrumental slowly fades. Photo by Colin Medley.

This song’s super chill and laid-back. I’m also a big fan of Omar Apollo and Ruel so it was super cool to hear them on a song together.  — Claire Rosinkranz

Claire Rosinkranz was thrust into the indie spotlight after her song "Backyard Boy," the last song she wrote for this year's debut EP, BeVerly Hills BoYfRiEnd, went viral on TikTok and Spotify. Since then, she has amassed millions of monthly listeners on Spotify and even released a different version of "Backyard Boy" with fellow pop artist Jeremy Zucker.

The first thing I think of to describe “Where Did Summer Go,” Bre Kennedy’s latest single, is tender. The mixing here is absolutely gorgeous; her vocals are a perfect mix of strength and dreamy breath, expertly lifted by a soft, lilting instrumental bed of guitars, subtle piano and stripped down drums. She goes on to lament that summer has passed her by with “nothing to show,” and I don’t know anyone who would hear this in the depths of fall 2020 and not feel a deep heartstring mercilessly pulled for the year that’s almost gone (and did it ever really begin?). Psychology tells us we feel comforted by music because it triggers our feelings of being empathized with; “Where Did Summer Go” is the soft, thoughtful hug we all need right now to feel not so left behind, and to make peace with time’s relentless passage in a year when it seems to have stood still. “Where Did Summer Go” is a welcome emotional gut punch reminiscent of Taylor Swift’s recent creative partnership with The National, and I’ll be listening on repeat for some warmth ‘til spring peeks its head out once again. Photo by Lindsey Patkos.

With budding instrumentation and feathery vocals comes Iska Dhaaf’s “Unheard Choir,” the final track on the Brooklyn-based duo’s latest EP, Up. “Unheard Choir” traces the everlasting remnants of loved ones that have either been lost or separated from: “Even when our bodies disconnect / There’s always something left.” Opening with cradling strings of guitar and weaving piano notes, the track flows into a cascade of reverb and percussion. As the luminescent vocals ensure that “There’s never nothing left,” the track falls into an arrangement of strings sweeping high altitudes. It is an intricate and riveting expression of longing conveyed in a balance of softness and swift cadence.