REVIEWS

NASTEA’s “Never Come Back” is a rock ballad that refuses to play it safe. The song begins with an intimate softness, letting space and melody set the stage for what feels like a raw conversation. The band’s blend of rock, pop, and soul is present in every moment, with warm undertones giving way to sharper textures as the track progresses. This slow build mirrors the process of walking away from something toxic, starting from hesitation and ending with decisive strength.

The instrumentation drives the emotional arc forward. Guitars cut through with a crisp edge, moving between reflective lines in the verses and fuller, heavier strikes in the chorus. The rhythm section provides a steady foundation, rising in power when the song’s message demands it most. Each element feels carefully placed, creating a layered arrangement that supports the story without overwhelming it.

At the heart of the track is Anastasiia Nerutsa’s commanding vocal. Her delivery shifts fluidly between fragility and defiance, embodying the emotional duality of heartbreak and liberation. When she reaches the refrain of “never come back,” it lands not just as a lyric but as a declaration, carrying the sting of past wounds alongside the relief of letting go.

What makes the song stand out is the honesty in its composition. Nothing feels forced; instead, it channels personal experience into universal resonance. “Never Come Back” captures the strength required to break away, balancing pain with empowerment. NASTEA has crafted a song that is musically engaging and emotionally piercing, setting a confident tone for what lies ahead in their debut album journey.

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Transgalactica’s Marginal Music opens in a way that immediately draws attention to its reflective message. The meditative introduction feels persuasive and deliberate, giving listeners time to settle into the central idea of how music is consumed in today’s digital age. The calm textures mirror the theme of abundance, where access is easy but artistic value is diminished. It sets the stage for something deeper, where every note seems to carry the weight of critique.

As the track develops, the composition becomes more layered. The apocalyptic middle section arrives with heavy guitars and explosive percussion that shift the song’s mood dramatically. This contrast between calm verses and the catastrophic bridge feels purposeful, embodying the divide between meaningful music and disposable noise. The progressive metal edge brings urgency, as though the band is sonically warning listeners about the risks of devaluing art.

Lyrically, the song strikes a balance between critique and satire. The warning that those who spend life listening to “trashy music” may be stuck with it eternally is presented with a pseudo-scientific humor, but the meaning is sharp. It questions how taste and culture shape the musical landscape, while highlighting the struggles of ambitious musicians.

Live, the energy of Marginal Music could feel even more intense. The meditative introduction would draw the crowd in, only for the progressive explosion to shake the space with raw force. Transgalactica manages to blend intellectual commentary with an engaging musical experience, proving that their art is not only about sound but about sparking thought.

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Ferdinand Rennie’s remake of Someone to Remember Me shows how a song can evolve alongside the artist who carries it. First recorded in 2010, the track returns in 2025 with a refreshed arrangement, guided once again by longtime producer Alan Vukelic. What makes this version stand apart is not only the updated production but also the maturity in Rennie’s voice that brings a deeper emotional weight to the ballad.

The song opens gently, with soft instrumentation that eases the listener into its atmosphere. Layers of strings and piano move gradually beneath Rennie’s vocal, which remains the undeniable centerpiece. His delivery feels lived-in, each phrase carrying subtle shifts between strength and fragility. It is the kind of performance that reveals its depth slowly, rewarding those who sit with it rather than rushing past.

As the arrangement builds, subtle percussion and swelling harmonies give the track a sense of movement, lifting it without overwhelming the intimacy at its core. The dynamics between quiet reflection and soaring crescendos mirror the song’s message of memory, longing, and the hope of being carried forward in the minds of others.

Written by Wayne Hector and Steve Robson, the lyrics themselves are simple yet powerful, speaking to the universal desire for remembrance. In Rennie’s hands, the words become personal, as though he is not only interpreting the story but also leaving part of his own behind.

Ultimately, this version of Someone to Remember Me feels like both a tribute to his past and a statement of where he stands today. It balances polish with sincerity, offering a timeless ballad that lingers long after the final note.

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With Now I’m Wiser, John Smyths delivers a single that feels reflective without being heavy-handed. The track opens with warm guitar tones and a steady rhythm, establishing a sound that leans into vintage country while hinting at the grit of rock that shaped his early influences. This balance gives the music a timeless appeal, one that feels equally suited to a quiet bar or an open mic stage.

The instrumentation is uncluttered but effective. Guitar lines carry the melody with ease, while gentle percussion and subtle harmonies provide depth without taking attention away from the core. Everything is placed with intention, allowing the song to breathe. It is this simplicity that allows the listener to focus on the voice, which stands as the centerpiece.

Smyths’ vocals are warm and unpretentious. There is strength in the delivery, but also a vulnerability that keeps it human. His phrasing reflects someone who has lived through the lessons he sings about, making the performance resonate with sincerity. It is not polished to perfection, and that is part of its charm—it feels like a direct expression rather than a manufactured product.

The message is straightforward: wisdom comes from time, mistakes, and the courage to acknowledge them. By keeping the lyrics accessible, Smyths ensures the story is one listeners can connect with easily. The track’s mood is calm and reassuring, offering reflection while hinting at new beginnings.

As an introduction to John Smyths’ artistry, Now I’m Wiser sets a strong foundation. It captures both his roots and his individuality, showing that sincerity and craft can create a song that lingers well after it ends.

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Mark Masguro’s latest single “Whispers” unfolds with an atmosphere that immediately draws the listener into its orbit. The opening textures are delicate yet full of intention, creating a space that feels both intimate and expansive. When experienced through headphones, the production reveals its depth, with layers that move like slow waves, wrapping the sound around you in a way that feels physical. It is an opening that sets the stage for something hypnotic and purposeful.

As the track develops, the beat enters with an anchoring force. Its low resonance pulses almost like a heartbeat, grounding the ethereal textures that surround it. This balance between floating ambiance and heavy rhythm is what gives “Whispers” its captivating duality. The sound design is carefully engineered to feel immersive but never overwhelming, leaving room for each element to be appreciated on its own. Masguro’s ability to shape dynamics and space within the track highlights both his technical precision and his creative sensitivity.

The arrival of the vocals adds another dimension entirely. Instead of simply carrying melody, the voice becomes part of the rhythm, almost chant-like in its delivery. It shifts the song into something ceremonial, where every phrase feels intentional and every harmony builds on the sense of atmosphere. The lyrics, with their lullaby-like quality, deepen the meaning of the piece, hinting at themes of comfort, rest, and emotional release.

What makes “Whispers” stand out is its ability to reimagine a familiar form. It functions like a modern lullaby, soothing in its tone yet invigorating in its arrangement. Through this fusion of nostalgia and innovation, Mark Masguro crafts a song that feels timeless while pushing boundaries. It is not only a track to be heard but one to be felt, both in sound and in spirit.

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Reetoxa’s “Humbug” is a rock single that blends raw energy with heartfelt storytelling. From the start, the song bursts with a raucous sound reminiscent of the 70s, carried by a riff that was born out of a mistake but ended up shaping the entire track. That spontaneity gives the music a sense of authenticity, as if it captured a fleeting spark in real time. The guitars blaze with distortion and character, while the bass and drums tie everything together with a steady pulse, creating a foundation that lets the vocals shine.

As the song unfolds, Jason McKee’s voice delivers the lyrics with grit and vulnerability. He sings about the frustration of modern dating, the disappointment of unanswered feelings, and the lingering hope that love could still work out. The words reflect his own story of developing a crush on a fellow musician who did not return his affection. Instead of holding back, McKee channels those emotions into lyrics that feel both deeply personal and widely relatable, offering a mix of longing, rejection, and resilience.

What makes “Humbug” stand out is the way it combines an old-school rock aesthetic with a very modern theme. The track captures the chaos and confusion of today’s dating culture while grounding it in a sound that feels timeless. Guitarist James Ryan takes the central riff and pushes it further, soaring into space before crashing back down to earth with powerful solos that keep the track alive and dynamic.

At its core, “Humbug” is more than a love song. It is a confession about missed chances and human vulnerability, transformed into a rock anthem that demands to be heard loud. It carries both the pain of rejection and the spark of hope, making it a track that resonates long after it ends.

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Reetoxa’s “Call” is a ballad that lingers with its understated beauty and emotional honesty. The arrangement begins with gentle guitar work that shimmers like a distant memory, supported by a subtle bassline that warms the space without ever overpowering it. The percussion is minimal yet purposeful, offering just enough rhythm to guide the listener through the story without breaking the fragile mood. This stripped-back instrumentation allows the voice to become the heart of the track, carrying both intimacy and weight.

As the song progresses, it reveals itself as more than just a quiet closer to an album. The lyrics tell the story of a chance reunion with a former lover, an encounter filled with warmth and fleeting joy that ends abruptly. At its core, “Call” speaks of waiting for a message or phone call that will never come, embodying the ache of wanting to reconnect with someone who has already slipped away. Each line feels suspended in that moment of silence after goodbye, echoing the tension between hope and inevitability.

The vocals deliver this narrative with haunting vulnerability. Reetoxa sings not as if performing for a crowd, but as if confiding in the listener, sharing a private moment of longing. There is sadness, but also acceptance, captured in the quiet delivery of each phrase. The song’s strength lies in how it captures universal feelings of loss and unanswered expectation, transforming one personal experience into something many can relate to.

By combining reflective lyrics with carefully restrained instrumentation, “Call” becomes more than a single release. It is a meditation on memory, missed chances, and the silence that follows when closure never arrives.

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“AYIWCTP” is a ferocious modern metal single that grabs your attention from the first riff. It combines aggressive, djenty guitar tones and muscular rhythm with poetic lyricism, producing a track that is both heavy and reflective. The layering of guitars creates an intricate sonic texture that shifts between groove metal punch and progressive metal complexity.

Vocally, the performance is intense and urgent, capturing the raw emotional weight of the song without tipping into overblown theatrics. The vocals and instrumentation work together in tight synchrony, allowing moments of release and tension to alternate in ways that keep the listener engaged and slightly off balance in the best possible way.

Lyrically, the song leans into irony and social commentary. The title, an acronym of “And Yet I Will Continue To Procreate,” reflects a critical examination of society’s state and perhaps an acknowledgement that persistence can be both hopeful and absurd. The lyrics probe themes that feel rooted in current global instability and social fatigue, but presented with a sense of dark wit. This complexity adds layers to the track and gives it more than just aesthetic weight; it gives it purpose and an unspoken challenge to think as you headbang.

Instrumentally, the musicianship is tight and technically adept. The riffs are groovy yet precise, and the progressive leanings mean there are rhythmic variations and shifts that offer unpredictability without losing the core heaviness. There is a sense that the artist is both critiquing and participating in the noise of modern existence.

Overall, “AYIWCTP” stands out because it balances aggression with thoughtfulness. It is not just a metal track built for energy and impact; it is a piece that reaches beyond to ask questions, provoke reflection, and offer a message while delivering a headbanging experience.

Steve Lieberman’s latest album Cheap Japanese Bass Opus 236 1st Aria is the kind of release that makes you stop and reexamine what music can be when stripped of convention. Known to many as the Gangsta Rabbi, Lieberman has never been interested in blending into the musical landscape. His work has always been about resistance and raw energy, and this album, one of his longest projects to date, is no exception.

The album’s title itself points to its unusual character, signaling both Lieberman’s humor and his experimental spirit. Across the record, the cheap bass becomes the central force, shaping each track with its distorted rumble. Rather than seeking clarity, Lieberman leans into the grit, using layers of noise, horns, and percussion to create a wall of sound that is as unsettling as it is captivating. The compositions often stretch far beyond what most listeners might expect, deliberately challenging the idea of what a song should be.

What stands out most is the way the album captures a sense of urgency. Lieberman’s vocals are rough, at times almost shouted, yet they carry a conviction that makes them unforgettable. Themes of survival, defiance, and pushing back against limitation run throughout, and while the lyrics are not always easy to parse, their emotional weight is undeniable. The clash between abrasive instrumentation and relentless delivery creates a sense of constant tension, which keeps the listener hooked.

Another important dimension of the record is the story behind it. Lieberman has been living with leukemia for years, and this context makes his unyielding creativity even more striking. Instead of retreating, he channels his circumstances into his music, turning pain and struggle into something powerful. The album feels less like entertainment and more like testimony, a declaration that the artist refuses to fade quietly.

The experience of listening to Cheap Japanese Bass Opus 236 1st Aria is not meant to be easy. It is meant to challenge, to provoke, and to open doors to sounds that fall outside the norm. While mainstream audiences may struggle with its abrasive edge, those who step into its world will discover music that thrives on honesty. The imperfections are not flaws but deliberate choices, part of a vision that rejects polish in favor of truth.

Ultimately, the record is both deeply personal and unapologetically experimental. It proves that Lieberman’s voice, though unconventional, continues to resonate with urgency and meaning. The Cheap Japanese Bass Opus 236 1st Aria is more than just an album. It is a manifesto of endurance, individuality, and creative freedom.

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From its opening moments, “Good and True” draws the listener in with vocals that seem to glow with sincerity. Mary Beth Orr’s delivery is gentle yet assured, creating a connection that feels immediate and heartfelt. The clarity in her voice captures emotion without exaggeration, letting the words breathe naturally. It is the kind of introduction that promises both beauty and depth, and the song delivers on that promise throughout.

The pairing of French horn and guitar is at the core of the track’s character. The horn’s warm, resonant tones weave effortlessly around the guitar’s delicate patterns, each instrument enhancing the other. There is a graceful balance between the two, neither overshadowing the other, but instead blending into a soundscape that feels as organic as it is carefully crafted. Every note carries intention, and the result is music that feels deeply personal.

Rooted in the birthing song of the Dagara Tribe, as shared by Sobonfu Somé, the piece carries a sense of cultural heritage that enriches its personal themes. By weaving reflections on motherhood, love, and grief into this inspiration, the song feels grounded in both tradition and lived experience. It speaks to the universal human condition while honoring its source with respect.

By the time the final note fades, “Good and True” leaves the listener in quiet contemplation. It does not need dramatic swells or heavy instrumentation to make an impact. Instead, it offers a space for reflection, carrying its meaning through simplicity, sincerity, and a timeless sense of connection.

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