EP & ALBUMS
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EP & ALBUMS —
A campfire flickers on the prairie while the city votes to forget—rrunnerrss, the eponymous debut by the Austin-born band rrunnerrss led by award-winning songwriter and composer Michael Zapruder, arrives as both shelter and flare…
A good record behaves like weather: it arrives, it lingers, and it quietly teaches you what to wear. Sloe Paul — Searching / Finding is exactly that kind of climate—nine days of pop-weather calibrated for the slow slide into autumn…
There’s a superstition that moths trust the porch light more than the moon; Meredith Adelaide’s “To Believe I’m the Sun” wonders what happens when that porch light is your own chest, humming. Across eight pieces of Indie Folk and Soft Pop parsimony…
Every scar keeps time like a metronome; on Chris Rusin’s Songs From A Secret Room, that pulse becomes melody—ten pieces of Indie Folk/Americana rendered with candlelight patience and front-porch candor. The Colorado songwriter, now three years…
There’s an old kitchen proverb that warm bread heals arguments; Otis Kane’s Love Is Alive arrives with the same oven heat—steam, sweetness, and a patience that softens the room. He tilts Neo-Soul toward sunlight, binding Contemporary R&B sheen to tactile warmth…
Old philosophers say the hardest person to be honest with is your own reflection; on PURE ILLUSION, Jhon Allan basically locks himself in a Stockholm apartment and refuses to look away from the mirror. The Swedish-Peruvian…
Every wardrobe hides one shirt that smells more of memory than detergent; Tastes Like Nostalgia operates exactly like that garment you can’t quite throw away. Under the moniker Daybreaker, singer-songwriter Chelsea Balzer turns…
Lampposts flicker on over New York as if they’re highlighters, and Amy Jay’s MNEMONICS feels like the scribbled notes they suddenly expose. Across ten songs, the indie pop architect pulls threads from rock and folk, weaving a sonic…
Picture a roadside bonfire licking a Pacific dusk—contained, glowing, and just risky enough to feel alive. That’s the temperature of Jake Cassman’s “Idling High,” a debut album that treats malaise like tinder and lights it with a dark, sidelong grin…
Picture a kitchen window at 6 a.m.—steam on the glass, a Buick idling in the driveway, and somebody’s grandmother humming a melody that never learned how to fade…