Tarric Confronts the Quiet Collapse on “Lying With You”

It’s easy to talk about love when everything is going right. Tarric ’s new single “Lying With You” is about what happens when it all quietly falls apart—and you stay anyway.

Built on glimmering synth textures and hollowed-out percussion, the track is emotionally raw but musically composed, like a breakup conversation in a perfectly curated gallery space. Tarric doesn’t scream through the pain—he whispers it with precision. “You make me say things I would not do / Cause I’ve been lying with you,” he sings, peeling back the layers of emotional self-distortion that creep into relationships like mold under wallpaper.

This isn’t a revenge song or a dramatic farewell. It’s a self-inventory. A reckoning.

That kind of maturity isn’t new to Tarric, but it’s more distilled than ever. While his debut album Lovesick danced through infatuation and its collapse, Method seems like the inevitable chapter two: disillusionment, clarity, survival. “Lying With You” sets that tone like a cracked mirror—beautiful, fractured, and reflective.

Raised on a diet of The Smiths and Depeche Mode in the American Midwest, Tarric’s taste for melodic melancholy has always been clear. But it’s his ability to adapt those influences into something relevant—and resonant—that sets him apart from his contemporaries. After moving to Los Angeles with barely enough to survive, he built his world from scratch: working behind the scenes at NBC and Fox by day, sculpting his sonic identity by night.

The visual strength of his work, evidenced in videos that landed on MTV, isn't just a bonus. It's a core part of the equation. Tarric makes music that feels like film—romantic, atmospheric, precise.

“Lying With You” carries all that cinematic weight, but without ever feeling overproduced. It feels lonely in the right ways. Uncomfortable in the real ways. And in a world of over-engineered indie pop, Tarric has carved out a lane where vulnerability is the flex.

Tino Kamal’s ‘Switch’ Is Style, Struggle, and Survival in Six Tracks

Tino Kamal isn’t experimenting—he’s living out loud. On Switch, the London-born shape-shifter throws six tracks into the fire and watches what survives. What comes out is a record that feels like a moodboard of his life: unpredictable, raw, and completely his own.

This isn’t music made for clean playlists or genre tags. Switch is an instinctual response to living in a world that demands clarity from someone who finds power in chaos. It’s loud and layered—“Rodeo Ranger” sounds like a punk club and a warehouse rave had a baby. “24365” plays the other side of that coin, opening a window into the grind, the quiet collapse, the emotional static that’s harder to name.

But what makes this EP hit different is that every track feels lived-in. “Curry Goat Riddim” isn’t just a banger—it’s a reflection of heritage, swagger, and the tension between cultural pride and creative freedom. Tino Kamal doesn’t spell it out, but you can feel the weight behind it. “Girl Better Know” carries that same duality—part love song, part confession booth.

What he’s doing here isn’t genre-blending for the aesthetic. It’s survival. It’s a document of someone making space for all versions of themselves—loud, soft, defiant, vulnerable.

Switch just dares to be honest.

Kara Major’s “Can’t Control Me” Sparks a Powerful Burn of Purpose

When Kara Major punches in, she doesn’t clock out until she’s dismantled a system. In her new single “Can’t Control Me,” she doesn’t just offer another dance track to sweat through—she launches a full-bodied challenge to addiction, energetic manipulation, and conformity culture, wrapped in the volatility of EDM.

“Can’t Control Me” demands full presence. Produced by Grammy-winning Vinny Venditto, the track opens with a lean, tightly wound build, teetering on the edge of restraint before erupting into a serrated drop.

And that’s where Kara’s vocals land—front and center, unbothered and raw. It’s that confident, spoken edge that pulls from both rap and club traditions, but refuses to be boxed in by either. She’s here to remind you who’s running the room—and more importantly, who’s running herself.

The most striking part of “Can’t Control Me” is the shift in perspective Kara Major employs. She doesn’t just tell her story of growth and recovery from the outside in—she voices the chaos, the seduction of the forces that once had her under. There’s a quiet brilliance in that choice. It gives the song a kind of possession; not just thematic, but rhythmic. The result is a piece that plays like a spiritual confrontation at 128 BPM.

Kara Major’s entire trajectory has resisted simplicity. She is a senior executive and a national boxing champion—credentials that already set her apart in an industry full of familiar backstories. Her turn toward music is the story of a high-performing individual with no tolerance for compromise, finding the only medium vast enough to carry everything she has to say.

That’s perhaps what separates her from the glut of purpose-branded pop that often lacks teeth. There’s no empty empowerment rhetoric here. Her previous singles—“Win” and “White Collar Gangsta”—make it clear she’s not interested in performing strength for the algorithm. She’s dissecting it, redefining it, and feeding it through a sonic lens that knows exactly how much adrenaline and self-awareness today’s listener can handle.

XTINE Won’t Sugarcoat It: “Nobody Stays” Stings Like the Truth

XTINE doesn’t make music to be liked. She makes it to be felt.

On "Nobody Stays", the Devon-born alt-pop artist rips into the raw nerve of abandonment with surgical precision. There’s no metaphorical padding here, just clean, direct lyricism that lands like a sucker punch: “Will I keep you, or will I end up pushing you?” It’s a question that doesn’t want an answer—it wants blood.

First premiered on May 15, "Nobody Stays" builds itself on a foundation of beautiful contradiction: orchestral strings crash into glitchy electronics; XTINE’s voice floats but never flinches. It’s Björk in the therapy room. It’s Sia with her guard down. It’s the kind of track that doesn’t ask for your attention—it commands it.

More than just a song, "Nobody Stays" functions as a protest—against sanitized emotion, against the silence around mental health, and against the pop industry’s obsession with polish. It’s deeply personal, openly referencing XTINE’s own struggles with borderline personality disorder. But it never asks for pity. Instead, it leans into the chaos with intention and power.

Her decision to anchor the accompanying music video in a bare studio setting—just her, a mic, and her notebook—isn't some lo-fi aesthetic stunt. It's a reminder: production is her instrument, and this is her war room. You believe it when she says she never wants listeners to just hear her music—she wants them to live inside it.

There’s real weight to her ethos, too. Through her collaborations with mental health orgs like Under the Sisterhood and the DMAX Foundation, XTINE blurs the line between artist and advocate. She’s not using mental health as a marketing angle—she’s weaponizing her platform to connect, reflect, and, ultimately, to help.

XTINE’s journey from winning IndabaMusic contests to grabbing a cosign from Sia isn’t some indie fairy tale. It’s grit and vision sharpened into form. On "Nobody Stays", she doesn’t just prove she can hang with alt-pop’s best—she challenges them to be as brave.

Styngray’s “Be Mine” Breaks the Mold: A Love Song With Teeth

Hip-hop isn’t exactly known for wearing its heart on its sleeve—but Styngray is flipping that script. With his latest single “Be Mine,” the Chicago-born, Atlanta-based rapper steps away from tough talk and into something far riskier in today’s climate: emotional honesty. It’s not just a love song—it’s a declaration, delivered with the same clarity and conviction he’s been building his name on.

Produced by hitmaker Mr. Hanky, whose fingerprints are on club anthems like “Wobble,” the track could’ve easily leaned into radio polish. Instead, it threads soulful warmth through Styngray’s gritty cadence, creating something that feels raw, uncalculated, and deeply personal. The beat is plush, melodic—more R&B than trap—but Styngray keeps it anchored in hip-hop with a delivery that’s restrained yet deliberate.

Then there’s Chertrease. Her contribution to the hook is more than a vocal flourish—it’s the emotional center of the song. Her voice trembles, then soars, lifting the track from a simple back-and-forth into something like a dialogue between two real people trying to love each other right. It’s the kind of chemistry you can’t fake, and it’s the reason the track feels more lived-in than lab-grown.

What’s more impressive is how Styngray manages to bring tenderness into his world without softening his edge. This is still the same artist who spit survival bars on “Unbreakable,” but here, he’s swapped armor for honesty. And it’s working. With “Be Mine” sitting at #7 on the Digital Radio Tracker’s global indie chart and breaking into Mediabase’s Top 200, this isn’t just a passion project—it’s a statement.

Styngray is crafting a career. From open mics in Chicago to showcases in Atlanta, he’s been putting in the kind of work that algorithms can’t measure. “Be Mine” is his latest step forward, and it’s a big one.

Stream “Be Mine” through First Kings Entertainment.

New Pop Voice Vini Serves Emotional Truth on “I’m Happy for You”

When your best friend trades late-night talks for date nights with someone who gives you the ick, it stings. Vini knows the feeling and he’s turned it into “I’m Happy for You,” the pop song that perfectly captures being left behind with a forced smile and a broken heart.

This 21-year-old Brazilian-Argentinian rising star has been quietly crafting a world of late-night glitter, crying-in-your-room vulnerability, and soft-boy rage—and this track is its perfect entry point. With verses that feel like diary entries and a chorus that swings between "I just hate your boyfriend" and "I swear it’s true, I’m happy for you," the duality is delicious.

What makes Vini stand out is his ability to capture how messy emotions really are. He doesn’t try to be poetic when he’s angry, and he doesn’t apologize for being jealous. And that’s refreshing. This isn’t about toxic love or fake friendships. It’s about what it feels like when your person stops choosing you.

The music video is packed with Easter eggs—stars, glitter, late-night vibes—all symbolic if you know Vini’s story. It reflects the aesthetic of someone who grew up worshipping Disney Channel icons and then turned that sparkle into raw honesty. A total Swiftie move.

Add to that his TikTok roots (over 130k followers), his history of overcoming eating disorders, and his passion for blending pop with rock and alternative, and you’ve got an artist who isn’t just catchy—he’s meaningful. “I’m Happy for You” isn’t just a bop. It’s therapy in disguise.

Longboat’s New “Word Gets Around” is a Must-listen Concept Album

Forget everything you think you know about pop albums. Longboat ’s Word Gets Around isn’t here to soundtrack your breakup or pump you up on the treadmill. It’s here to make you think—then dance a little weirdly while doing it.

The avant-garde composer-slash-pop provocateur has released 32 albums and counting, but Word Gets Around feels like a new chapter in an already wild book. The songs aren’t just songs—they’re micro-fictions, complete with protagonists, unresolved dilemmas, and sonic twists that defy expectation. If you’re used to predictable verse-chorus-verse structures, buckle up: Longboat doesn't play by those rules. In fact, he says rule-breaking is “the only way things get done.”

Tracks like “Euro vs. Disco” blend campy dance tropes with haunting suspense—think Saturday Night Fever scored by Goblin. Word Gets Around is a short story collection, a sonic puzzle, a challenge to lazy listening. And for the casual stumbler who finds Longboat without context? “Welcome! There’s something for you here. Stay as long as you want.”

He’s not just breaking musical boundaries—he’s rebuilding them from scratch. One weird, wonderful, head-spinning record at a time.

Stages of Self: Calyn’s “Better Left Unsaid” Walks the Fine Line Between Vulnerability and Control

Calyn ’s debut EP Better Left Unsaid arrives not with grandiosity but with poise. The Stockton-based artist, whose sound is shaped by the textured minimalism of Alternative R&B, carefully unveils six tracks that read like unsent letters—each one hovering in that liminal space between confession and silence. She doesn’t overreach. Instead, she picks her moments, capturing the kind of quiet pain that rarely makes it into pop.

Rather than pushing for a dramatic arc, Better Left Unsaid unfolds like a diaristic exploration of grief—not in the traditional sense, but grief as it shows up in relationships, identity, and the long, private aftermath of heartbreak. Calyn herself notes the EP mirrors the five stages of grief, and the structure makes that interpretation hard to ignore. But rather than ticking emotional boxes, she lets each song bleed into the next, using restraint as its own form of expression.

The opener, “Eleven 03,” uses lateness as a metaphor for disconnection. There’s nothing explosive about the track, and that’s what gives it weight. The beat is sparse, with space to breathe between lyrics that feel more observed than narrated. Calyn resists the urge to assign blame or solution. That detachment isn’t numbness—it’s recognition that some emotional dynamics are too tangled for clarity.

“What If?” follows with a kind of spiraling internal logic. The song—written during a period of rumination—poses questions but avoids offering closure. This isn’t a narrative with a tidy conclusion; it’s a song that captures what it feels like to lose confidence in your emotional compass. The production is pared down to let her voice guide the tension, which never quite resolves.

The most historically grounded track here is “Sliding Thru The City,” one she reportedly held onto for years. Co-produced with her sister DYLI and Ruwanga, it captures the inertia of a relationship stuck in loops—too messy to stay, too familiar to leave. It’s sleek but unpolished, a choice that serves the song’s themes. Where many artists would chase a bigger hook, Calyn leans into atmosphere, letting the song exist in the space between longing and fatigue.

“Only Me Interlude” is the EP’s emotional pivot. With unprocessed vocals and no attempt at polish, it feels like a moment caught on tape rather than something crafted. That vulnerability doesn’t come across as performative. It feels lived in. In an era where emotional transparency is often monetized, this track feels unguarded by comparison.

The closer, “make u miss me,” reframes the narrative arc. It doesn’t carry triumph or vengeance—it’s about withdrawal. The production is more refined here, but the emotional register is still muted. She’s not looking back, and she’s not asking for recognition. She’s stepping out, without noise.

Kush K’s “Winning”: The New Sound of Resilience and Rising Ambition in Australian Hip-Hop

Australian hip-hop is a scene that often demands grit, authenticity, and a relentless work ethic, and Kush K embodies all three. Rising through the ranks with an unwavering hustle and sharp lyrical edge, Kush K’s latest single, “Winning,” is a statement. Following the momentum of his previous hits like “Making Moves” and “The Bigger Picture,” this new release captures the essence of triumph over adversity, a theme that Kush K knows intimately.

“Winning” arrives as a natural evolution of Kush K’s narrative, moving from struggle and growth to a confident celebration of success. He says plainly, “I’ve dealt with losses, hardships, and struggles, and I’ve seen the lows... There’s no time for nonsense, no time for fake friends, and no time to let life take control over me. There’s only time for me to win!” That candidness cuts through any pretense, making the track an anthem for anyone tired of obstacles and ready to claim their moment.

Musically, Kush K keeps close to the sonic territory that has defined him, working with his vocal engineer @mixedbydaniel to perfect a sound that balances grit and polish. The video, shot before the final audio was locked, shaped the track’s final vibe—an unconventional but inspired approach that reflects Kush K’s hands-on creative process. The visuals aren’t just an accompaniment; they’re an integral part of the song’s energy and message.

What stands out most about “Winning” isn’t just the swagger of the chorus but the vulnerability in the opening bars of the verse, where Kush K revisits the harder times that preceded his rise. It’s this blend of raw honesty and confident flexing that makes the track resonate on multiple levels.

Behind the music, Kush K is a multifaceted force. Balancing the creative and business sides of his career—running The HotBox Studio and co-managing Type Shit Records—he navigates a demanding music industry landscape with a focus that few can sustain. His advice from industry peers rings true: don’t overdo it, and never quit. This ethos permeates his work and fuels his ambition to cement his place in the Australian hip-hop scene.

Kush K also reveals an appreciation for the often-overlooked art of beat making, a skill he honed long before stepping into the spotlight as an artist. For him, the foundation of any track is the beat, and recognizing the craft behind it is essential.

Outside the studio, Kush K finds inspiration in fashion and city life, drawing creative energy from style and moments of personal downtime. His admiration for visionaries like Virgil Abloh speaks to a broader artistic sensibility that informs his music and visual presentation.

Looking ahead, Kush K is open to exploring new sounds, especially Afrobeats, dancehall, and even pop-rock infused with live instruments—a promising hint at an evolving sound that might surprise fans.

How Nini Iris Is Redefining Indie Pop With Her New Single “Release Me”

Nini Iris 's new single, “Release Me,” is not designed for passive listening. It demands your full attention—and then it breaks your heart in real time. This is not heartbreak diluted for mass consumption. This is heartbreak rendered in its purest form: intimate, angry, poetic, and unfiltered.

From the opening lines—“You left a hole in my precious soul / After trying to make my heart whole”— Iris sets the tone for what becomes a relentless emotional excavation. These aren’t just lyrics. They’re raw nerve endings set to music.

What separates “Release Me” from the typical breakup ballad is the language itself. There’s no filler here. No lyrical autopilot. Every word feels like it’s been pulled from a real place, sharpened by pain and delivered with an almost spiritual urgency. In “Made me feel lost, lost and unknown / When I finally found who I truly was,” you hear not only heartbreak but the psychic dislocation that comes from having your identity dismantled by someone you trusted.

And then there’s the line that hits like a gut punch: “While I write this song / My countless tears you caused / Wet the journal of my oath / Just like you it’s eternally gone.” That’s not crafted to be catchy. It’s crafted to be remembered. To sit with you at 2 a.m. long after the song ends. It’s the kind of line that makes you stop whatever you’re doing and just feel.

The chorus, too, carries more than melody—it carries resolve: “I won’t let you break me no more.”
It’s not a hook. It’s a declaration. A reclamation of power, delivered not with pop gloss but with trembling conviction.

Nini Iris, who first stunned audiences on The Voice with her dramatic vocal range and fearless song choices, proves with “Release Me” that she’s more than a great voice—she’s a writer. A truth-teller. A lyrical force.