Chicago-hailing Chase Walsh, popularly known as Worry Club, waltzes back into the scene with an impactful new release, “Bleach." The song welcomes listeners with a languid guitar that appears to hypnotize into a state of dubious bemusement, setting the tone for this reflective piece. The track attests to growing pains, bringing to life those overwhelming urges to transform one's identity in the midst of undergoing a whirlwind of issues. On the track itself, Walsh shared: “I really wanted to capture the nostalgia associated with a fleeting childhood. The idea of growing up has always scared the shit out of me.” In his plight to unearthing deeply-rooted childish nostalgia, Worry Club manages to create a single capable of tapping into one’s past while taking a contemplative eye to the current reality.

I love writing about music: the chance to sit and grapple with someone’s art, the chance to share what it means to you. But sometimes it feels intimidating and humbling. Such is the case with Priya Ragu’s "Good Love 2.0," a remarkable song so creative and sure of itself, it feels hard to do it any justice with mere words. Wasting no time, it opens with a Kaytranada-esque funky groove. The bass rings while Ragu dazzles with smooth vocals. After dancing our way through the chorus, the second verse showcases Ragu’s range. She reappears, rapping her way through with confidence and composure. Few can float so effortlessly across styles and genres all in the course of one song. Just shy of the two-minute mark the tune takes a wild new turn, exploring something entirely different. Ragu pulls from South Asian influences, cultivating a moment that demands your attention — a fresh take on a more typical trap structure. The intensity subsides as mesmerizing waves of vocals emerge, at the same time soothing and breathtaking. And although the end of the song is nearly unrecognizable from the start, each moment, each choice, feels purposeful and earned. "Good Love 2.0" is a song that stands on its own and earns your trust along the way, and it's just a taste of Ragu’s promise. 

Creature Comfort’s "Woke Up Drunk" begins as a simple, feel-good indie folk track. Lighthearted, tuneful arpeggiations twinkle like the stars just before dawn. The lyrics balance deliberate rhyme schemes and stream-of-consciousness quips. Strung together, the words tend to wander down unmarked trails as much as they sit ruminating. Harmonies swirl around the central image of the song: taking a hike to process all the thoughts dripping through your brain, slightly hungover and itching to move. They’re not all bad thoughts, but they’re not all good ones. You’re holding love and resentment in your chest and hoping it’s just a matter of sweating it out. It almost is — but then the bridge hints that you end up letting in as many emotions as you release. After a few listens on repeat, you notice the seeds that build to that final climax. Drums that nudge the tempo ever-so-slightly forward. Vocal chorus harmonies that dip into suspended resolutions. The introduction of an electric lead guitar that slowly becomes more distorted, coiling around a violin melody until they become intertwined. It’s a divine texture shift that’s surprising and perfectly foreshadowed.

Syrup's "Turn" is a throwback to the dance pop rhythms that ignited spirits and hushed boredom back in the 1980s. The vocal is melodramatic enough to invoke some kind of contemplation mid-twirl-or-boogie out there on the dance floor. The song is ultimately about finding some comfort in moving at a pace fit for you and you alone. If you're in need of a song to be as forgiving as your most understanding friend, "Turn" by Syrup is exactly what the doctor ordered. "Turn away... take a break... you can take your time..."

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I was ready to leave the ice skating rink when "Turn" by Syrup came on. I almost broke my neck looking at the DJ who in turn flashed me two thumbs up and smiled wide enough to make me smile in return. Her teeth were whiter than the ice's central rotating disco ball's inner, glowing light. I said fuck it and put my skates back on and hit the rink just to feel the cold air press against my green Nike windbreaker. The DJ started dancing behind the booth to "Turn." Everyone was smiling. Nothing hurt. After I made it around the rink five times, I felt okay about taking the night from studying and socializing to unwind here in the rink.

Sydney, Australia's merci, mercy is a budding act defined by edgy pizazz, emotional vulnerability and intuitive writing that acknowledges the high stakes of bad romantic and social habits. After kicking off with a haunting confession, an infectious groove takes over to carry a dialogue on the importance of self-affirmation and authenticity. For the empath, there’s no greater threat than the pull to fix a loved one at all costs, yet “Something You Like” presents the heartbreak of letting go as an almost enticing experience. The instrumental momentum gives listeners a sense of excitement for the future while validating the clingy, cumbersome needs of the old self at the heart of the story. This is a much needed reminder to commit to love that feels like swimming together, not drowning together. 

“Something You Like” is merci, mercy's third release of 2020 and will appear on her debut EP, no thank you, no thanks, which is out tomorrow, Oct 16. Photo by She Is Aphrodite.

Fresh-pressed from the likes of Nashville, Riley Moore is a bonafide man, in his lyrics as well as his life. “Mansion” is the pure and earnest result of Moore’s meeting a young woman while performing a show in her quaint Pennsylvania living room. The track is a tip-toe through the ruminations of Moore’s mind while he wandered through the streets of Boulder, Colorado with little money and the yearning for a girl he thought he may never meet again. Sewn into the fabric of this track are nods to early 2000's indie folk pop band, Page France, with glistening chimes and whimsy as plain as a pikestaff. “Mansion” is the introduction to Moore’s EP, sweet boy, which will be released in March 2021.

The track tells a charming story, Moore shares: “This is a song about me buying a t-shirt with a drawing of an anteater eating some ants for a girl I had a deep crush on, and longing for the day I may see her again to deliver the shirt. From the moment that I met her I became more and more enthralled, drifting further and further down the avenue of enchantment — a street with no turns and no outlet.” Photo by Lauren Lundy.

“Debris”, off of Brooklyn-based Iris Lune’s 2020 album lovelosslove, immersively rolls into your ears, softly drawing you into its contemplative mood. Her lyrics are tactile, singing of “shiver(s) slipping down my spine, your mouth pressing gently to mine, and the waves beneath us crashed”; these words are perfectly paired with production elements like the plucky guitar line, whose attack with each note is just as physical to the listener as the pictures Lune paints. She leans into the bittersweetness and the melancholy with this single, and it’s a tone perfectly suited for her voice — there’s just a hint of Björk here in Lune’s earnest, soft vocal, and in the expert balancing of the mix itself, which takes care never to overpower her performance. It’s a gorgeous track that goes naturally with the fall season, which carries with it a bit heavier of a sense of loss than usual; as we catch ourselves wading into memories of more metaphorically "spring-like" days, or of pre-COVID days, like Lune sings, “it’s okay to let ‘em hold you, hold you down.” Brighter days will come, and ‘til then, we’ll put on “Debris,” and feel a little less alone in our yearning. Photo by Julia Barrett-Mitchell.