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There’s something magnetic about Koalra’s latest release, “In a Weird Way”, which landed on March 1, 2025. It doesn’t clamor for attention—it lures you in, quietly, like a half-remembered daydream set to the pulse of a drum machine. Rooted in the DNA of ‘90s alt-rock and post-punk, the track feels both deeply nostalgic and strikingly new.

The Portland trio continues to defy easy categorization. Here, they weave together swells of distortion, layered guitar textures, and propulsive percussion into a sound that’s immersive
without being overwhelming. There’s a woozy beauty to it—melancholic, yes, but also strangely comforting.

From the opening riff, the mood is unmistakable: slightly off-kilter, slightly euphoric. The sonic references are there—Sonic Youth’s abrasive elegance, The Cure’s brooding introspection—but
Koalra isn’t mimicking anyone. They’re chasing a feeling, and they find it in the tension between clarity and chaos.

Lyrically, “In a Weird Way” resists easy interpretation. The words feel personal but elusive, like scribbles in the margins of a dream journal. It’s music meant to be felt as much as understood—more about atmosphere than answers.

This isn’t just another entry in Koalra’s discography. It’s a reminder that evolution doesn’t have to mean departure. With “In a Weird Way”, they’re still pushing forward—just deeper into their own unique haze.

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My Turning Point’s latest track, “The Eulogy,” doesn’t ask for your attention—it quietly takes it.

Written and recorded in the stillness of early morning, the song carries the weight of something personal, almost too personal. Leon Evans, the sole mind behind the project, captures the ache of memory with a stark, stripped-down honesty. Born from a dream and shaped in the late hours of insomnia, this is less a song and more a sonic confessional.

It begins unassumingly: tentative piano notes and a low, humming bass create a delicate frame, immediately setting a tone that’s intimate and unguarded. Evans, not a pianist by trade, leans into that unfamiliarity. His playing feels hesitant, human—each note carrying the weight of someone searching for the right way to speak their grief. An acoustic guitar threads through the track like a steady heartbeat, adding warmth to the otherwise ghostly atmosphere.

The emotional gravity of “The Eulogy” rests in Evans’ voice—unpolished, exposed, and deeply affecting. There are moments where the pain is tangible, the vulnerability not masked by studio sheen but left intact. The lyrics feel carved out of lived experience: raw reflections on a lost friendship, heavy with history and shared scars. Lines like “trying to breathe but I’m choking on your name” don’t just paint a picture—they wound.

Rather than building to a grand crescendo, the song stays low to the ground, whispering its truths. The sparse production leaves room for silence, for breath, for whatever memories the listener brings with them. It’s in that quiet that the song finds its power.

“The Eulogy” doesn’t strive to impress. It aims to connect. And it does so not through perfection, but through presence—honest, aching, and unforgettable.

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Tatum Treffeisen’s “Running” doesn’t chase your attention—it lingers in the periphery, slowly unfolding like a memory you didn’t realize still mattered.

The track opens with a guitar line that’s neither showy nor subdued—just present, like the sound of thoughts settling into place. As the rhythm section gradually joins in, there’s a sense of movement, but it’s not a sprint. It’s more like walking through fog with a map you only half remember. The build is subtle, intentional—each layer arriving with quiet purpose.

There’s a stillness beneath the motion, a vulnerability threaded through the song’s structure. The drums and bass don’t drive the track—they support it, breathing underneath like a pulse. That restraint gives Tatum’s voice the space it needs to exist fully: open, clear, and unguarded. She doesn’t lean into theatrics. She doesn’t have to.

Lyrically, “Running” balances dualities: momentum and stagnation, surface strength and hidden weight. It’s about moving forward not because everything’s okay, but because stopping feels more dangerous. The juxtaposition of bright, almost breezy instrumentation with introspective lyrics is striking—like a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

What makes this track resonate is its quiet honesty. It doesn’t declare itself a confessional, but that’s what it becomes. There’s beauty in the restraint, in how much it chooses to leave unsaid.

“Running” is for the moments between breakdowns, for the people who keep going even when their hearts are heavier than they admit. Tatum Treffeisen captures that internal contradiction with grace—and lets it breathe.

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There’s no slow build here, no preamble. The track launches straight into motion, all jangly urgency and tightly wound frustration. The guitars are angular and alive, dancing between melodic hooks and sonic disarray, like they’re on the verge of unraveling—but never quite do. It’s chaos with purpose.

The rhythm section keeps things anchored. Drums snap and surge with a kind of restless discipline, giving the track its momentum without stealing focus. Everything feels lean, like there’s no room for excess. That tension becomes part of the song’s DNA—always moving, always pushing.

Vocally, there’s a refreshing lack of polish. No theatrical flair, no performative angst—just a voice that sounds like it’s been through a few long weeks and finally had enough. It’s that quiet, familiar kind of emotional fatigue, the one you don’t notice until it spills out mid-conversation or, in this case, mid-chorus. The delivery carries weight not because it’s loud, but because it’s lived-in.

Lyrically, “Replay” avoids overstatement. It trusts the listener to fill in the blanks. That’s the beauty of it—nothing’s forced. It’s a track that captures the emotional grind of monotony without turning it into melodrama.

In just a few minutes, Poison Oak manages to bottle up a very specific kind of burnout and let it explode in a way that feels strangely cathartic. “Replay” isn’t trying to be an anthem—it just is. And that’s what makes it stick.

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