Music Video

Video of The Day: Lande Hekt – Lucky Now

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Lande Hekt’s Lucky Now arrives like a confession scribbled on the back of a tour flyer in the time right before the sun rises after a long, long night of no good, lipstick-smudged, coffee-stained, and vibrating with the kind of nervous honesty that makes you wonder whether pop music still remembers how to bleed. This is not an album that kicks the door in; it slips through the crack, sits on the edge of the bed, and starts telling you uncomfortable truths about wanting, about settling, about the strange arithmetic we do when we decide that this—this life, this love, this version of ourselves—is “enough.” And that, right there, is its quiet miracle.

Hekt has always had a knack for making emotional vulnerability sound like a strength rather than a plea, but Lucky Now sharpens that instinct into something almost surgical. These songs shimmer with indie-pop polish, sure, but beneath the gloss is a constant low-grade anxiety: the fear that happiness is temporary, that luck is borrowed, that joy might evaporate the moment you name it. It’s pop music that knows better than to trust pop music’s old lies.

What makes Lucky Now hum instead of collapse under its own sensitivity is Hekt’s voice—not just the literal instrument, though that’s lovely in a windswept, half-smiling way—but the narrative voice, the persona who sings like she’s talking herself through decisions she’s already made and regrets she hasn’t fully admitted yet. This is adult pop in the truest sense: not about growing up, but about realizing you already did and you’re still not sure you like the furniture.

Musically, the record flirts with brightness while refusing to fully commit. The melodies are catchy in that sneaky way—hooks that don’t announce themselves so much as move into your head and rearrange the place. Synths glimmer, guitars jangle politely, and the production keeps things buoyant enough that the emotional weight doesn’t drag the songs into dour introspection. This is where Hekt is smarter than a lot of her peers: she understands that sadness hits harder when it’s wearing a smile.

There’s something almost punk about that restraint. Not punk as in distortion and safety pins, but punk as in refusal—the refusal to oversell, to dramatize, to scream when a whisper will do more damage. Lucky Now feels like a record made by someone who’s seen the emotional theatrics of pop romance and decided to opt out, replacing grand declarations with small, cutting observations. The result is intimacy without exhibitionism, confession without spectacle.

And yet, don’t mistake this for background music. The cumulative effect of these songs is quietly devastating. By the time you reach the later tracks, you realize you’ve been lured into a meditation on luck itself—how we use it as a shield, how we say “I’m lucky” when what we really mean is “I’m afraid to ask for more.” Hekt isn’t romanticizing compromise; she’s interrogating it, holding it up to the light to see where it cracks.

If Lester Bangs taught us anything, it’s that great pop records are X-rays of their cultural moment, and Lucky Now feels like an X-ray of millennial adulthood: stable but restless, grateful but suspicious, emotionally literate yet still haunted by the suspicion that something essential got lost along the way. This is music for people who have learned the language of self-care and are still figuring out how to live with the self they’ve so carefully curated.

Lucky Now doesn’t shout for your attention. It doesn’t need to. It waits. And then, one day, halfway through the chorus of a song you thought you already understood, it guts you. That’s luck, maybe. Or maybe it’s just honesty, finally landing where it’s supposed to be all along.

Video of The Day: Mike Bankhead – Something That I can’t Explain

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Mike Bankhead’s “Something That I Can’t Explain” doesn’t so much begin as it leaks out of the speakers, a humid, half-remembered confession that carries a feeling from basements, barroom carpets, and the ghost of every rehearsal space Dayton ever forced into existence. You don’t listen to this song so much as you wander into it, like opening the wrong door in a familiar house and finding a room you forgot was there. That’s Bankhead’s trick: he makes the local feel mythic and the mythic feel like it’s leaning against a busted amp, waiting for the others to arrive.

Dayton has always been one of America’s great under-credited noise factories, and yup, I am ready to die on that hill. We gave the world funk, post-punk, industrial weirdness, and enough basement-bred genius to stock a dozen glossy documentaries that will never get made. Mike Bankhead sits right in the middle of that lineage—not as a tourist or a revivalist, but as a lifer. He’s one of those musicians who doesn’t just play in a scene; he is part of its circulatory system, hauling gear, showing up for other people’s gigs, recording, mixing, encouraging, needling, and generally making sure the whole messy organism keeps breathing. Every scene needs someone like Mike, part fan, part musician, part reminder of the reasons people do this.

“Something That I Can’t Explain” sounds like it was written by someone who’s been around long enough to know that the best songs aren’t about clarity; they’re about staying with the confusion. Sometimes the grey area matters more than the easy answers. The melody lurches forward like it’s got something urgent to tell you and then second-guesses itself halfway through the sentence. The vocals don’t demand your attention—they sidle up to it, muttering truths they’re not totally sure they’re allowed to say. This is not stadium rock. This is backroom metaphysics.

What makes Bankhead essential to Dayton isn’t just that he writes songs like this; it’s that he’s helped create the conditions where songs like this can exist at all. Scenes don’t survive on big breaks. They survive on people who show up. Bankhead has been one of those gravitational figures who make it easier for others, strangers, and the less confident artists to take the leap. When someone tells you, “Yeah, Mike’s involved,” you know it means things will actually happen—records will get finished, shows will get booked, weird ideas will be taken seriously instead of laughed out of the room.

There’s a Dayton-specific emotional weather system in “Something That I Can’t Explain.” It’s in the way the song refuses to resolve cleanly, the way it keeps circling a feeling instead of pinning it down. Dayton’s a town that’s been promised a lot and delivered just enough to keep hoping. Bankhead understands that tension, and he doesn’t try to smooth it over. He lets it hum, like feedback you don’t quite know how to kill without losing the song.

Lester Bangs used to say that the best rock and roll made you feel less alone in your own weirdness. Bankhead does that, but he does it with a Dayton accent—gritty, affectionate, slightly suspicious of success, deeply loyal to the people who were there before anyone else cared. “Something That I Can’t Explain” isn’t just a song; it’s a little flare shot up from a city that keeps reinventing itself in basements and back rooms. And Mike Bankhead, bless him, keeps striking the matches.

MTV Signs Off in 2025 With the Song That Started It All

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On December 31, 2025, a landmark moment in music and television history quietly unfolded: MTV’s dedicated 24-hour music video channels ended their broadcast run by playing the very same music video they debuted with 44 years earlier—The Buggles’ “Video Killed the Radio Star.”  

This poetic symmetry, beginning and ending with the same song, is more than a nostalgic shrug. It reflects the arc of MTV’s influence on music, media, and popular culture, while offering a symbolic close to the era of television as a primary gateway for music discovery, as I discussed yesterday.

A Revolution Begins: MTV’s 1981 Launch

When MTV (Music Television) went on the air at 12:01 a.m. on August 1, 1981, its format was radical: a channel devoted exclusively to music videos playing around the clock. The first video ever broadcast was “Video Killed the Radio Star” by the British new wave band The Buggles.  

The choice was as fitting as it was prophetic. Released in 1979 under Island Records, the song was itself a commentary on technological change in media—the rise of recorded music, video and digital production threatening the primacy of radio. Written by Trevor Horn, Geoff Downes and Bruce Woolley, and propelled by its synth-pop sound, it topped charts in many countries and became synonymous with the dawn of a new musical era.  

For MTV, the video was more than a catchy tune—it was an emblem. By placing a visual experience at the forefront of music consumption, MTV helped redefine how generations discovered artists, songs and styles.

MTV’s Golden Age: Cultural Force and Industry Shaper

Throughout the 1980s and early 1990s, MTV’s influence spread far beyond the small number of U.S. homes that could first receive its signal. Shows like Headbangers Ball, Yo! MTV Raps and 120 Minutes brought genres from indie to heavy metal to hip-hop into living rooms worldwide. Music videos became central to an artist’s identity and success.

The phrase “I want my MTV,” popularized in early marketing campaigns, became shorthand for youthful aspiration and cultural currency. The network propelled personalities such as Daisy Fuentes, Andy Dick and Kenneth “Babyface” Edmonds into stardom, and helped launch the careers of artists from Madonna to Nirvana.  

MTV did more than broadcast music; it shaped how music was made. Record labels invested heavily in video production, and artists began approaching videos as art and narrative: from Michael Jackson’s cinematic Thriller to Peter Gabriel’s innovative visuals. These were not mere promotional tools—they were cultural events.

Shifting Tastes and the Digital Era

But the very forces that made MTV as indispensable in the 1980s, technology and shifting media consumption, also contributed to its decline as a music video destination. As cable expanded and then fragmented into dozens of channels, MTV began incorporating non-music programming like The Real World, Jersey Shore, and Ridiculousness as ratings drivers.

By the early 2000s, the rotation of music videos on MTV substantially diminished in the United States. Viewers found new ways to access music videos online through platforms like YouTube, Vevo, and later social media apps, eroding the unique value proposition that MTV once held.  

MTV’s decision to shift toward reality and entertainment formats, while commercially sensible, signaled a transformation of its brand identity. Instead of music television, it became a hub for youth-oriented pop culture broadly defined.

2025: The Last Music Videos Go Dark

The decision in 2025 to discontinue MTV’s 24-hour music video channels (including MTV Music, MTV 80s, MTV 90s, and MTV Live) marks the end of an era. While the core MTV channel remains on the air in some regions, focusing on reality programming, the dedicated music video channels that once defined the brand’s global footprint went dark as of December 31, 2025.  

In the U.K., Ireland, France, Germany, Poland, Australia and Brazil, MTV’s music video stations signed off in a series of final broadcasts that referenced the channel’s own history. Most poignantly, MTV Music’s final transmission featured “Video Killed the Radio Star”—the very track that launched MTV in 1981.  

This choice was deeply symbolic. It acknowledged MTV’s roots while also recognizing a cultural moment in which traditional broadcast television has largely ceded music video discovery to the internet and mobile platforms. The channels’ sign-off was not a quiet disappearance into obscurity but a deliberate nod to the entire arc—from analogue radio and early cable to the digital screens of today.

Why This Matters Beyond Nostalgia

MTV’s lifecycle mirrors broader shifts in media: from centralized broadcasting to decentralized, on-demand digital networks. In its heyday, MTV was both a curator and creator of popular culture; it influenced fashion, language, and musical trends globally. The end of its music video channels underscores how much control over media audiences and creators now wield through algorithms and digital distribution.

Yet, the enduring relevance of “Video Killed the Radio Star” is telling. The song’s narrative, about innovation displacing older forms of media, remains the story of MTV itself. MTV didn’t just broadcast music videos; it embodied a shift in how people engage with music as a multisensory, visual, and social experience.

The song’s symbolic role at both MTV’s inception and sign-off offers a poignant bookend: a reminder that media landscapes evolve, often in ways that creators and audiences could hardly predict.

A Cultural Footprint That Endures

As MTV’s music video channels sign off forever, the network’s legacy lives on. It reshaped the music business, redefined television programming, and helped forge the visual vernacular of contemporary pop culture. Its final act—playing the same iconic music video that introduced the network in 1981—celebrates a remarkable 44-year journey.

In closing with “Video Killed the Radio Star,” MTV did not signal an end to music videos or visual creativity; rather, it acknowledged that the battleground for such creativity has moved. Music videos now thrive on digital platforms, created by artists and audiences alike. Yet the memory of MTV’s rise, and its graceful farewell, reminds us of a time when a single song could announce not just a broadcast, but a cultural revolution.

Video of The Day: The Beths – Mother, Pray For Me

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“Mother, Pray for Me” finds The Beths doing what they do best: wrapping emotional unease in bright, tensile power-pop. It’s a song that feels instantly familiar if you know their catalog—those interlocking guitar lines, the melodic immediacy, Liz Stokes’ unmistakable vocal clarity—but it also pushes toward something rawer and more pleading than their usual wry self-interrogations.

From its opening measures, the song pulses with a kind of restless confession. Stokes delivers the title phrase not as a dramatic flourish but as a weary admission, a reaching-out from someone who’s been holding it together for too long. The Beths specialize in songs about the gap between who we want to be and who we are on our worst days; here, that gap takes on a spiritual edge. There’s a sense of hitting bottom—not catastrophically, but in the quieter, more believable ways people actually unravel.

The arrangement mirrors that emotional arc. The guitars shimmer and dart; the rhythm section plays with an almost anxious tightness, as if trying to keep the song from slipping out of its own grip. Harmonies, one of The Beths’ signature strengths, arrive like little reinforcements—friends showing up, steadying a shoulder. When the chorus lands, it’s both a release and a recognition: the pop sheen doesn’t lighten the weight of the plea so much as hold it with tenderness.

Lyrically, the song walks that Beths tightrope between self-reproach and self-awareness. The narrator isn’t blaming the world or asking for absolution; they’re simply acknowledging the moments when coping feels like an act of faith. The invocation of a mother’s prayer is less religious than relational—an admission that sometimes we need someone else’s hope to borrow.

“Mother, Pray for Me” ultimately stands out because it expands the band’s emotional vocabulary without abandoning their sonic DNA. It’s catchy, it’s cutting, and it lingers, an anthem for anyone who’s ever felt a little lost and dared to ask for help, even quietly.

Video of The Day: Third of Never – Damage The Pearl

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“Damage the Pearl,” the standout title track from Third of Never’s latest record, is one of those songs that feels instantly lived-in—emotionally weathered, musically tight, and lyrically honest in ways that reward repeat listens. What Third of Never does so well across their catalog, melding melodic rock with angular edges, reflective lyricism, and a sense of drama that never tips into excess, comes into sharper focus here. The song is as much about mood as it is about narrative, and it invites the listener into a world where beauty and fracture sit side-by-side.

From the opening seconds, the track establishes a sonic landscape marked by contrast. Guitars shimmer and bite, building a foundation that feels both urgent and dreamlike. That duality mirrors the song’s thematic tension: “damage” and “pearl” aren’t just opposing concepts; they’re the twin poles around which the emotional arc revolves. The metaphor is simple but resonant—the “pearl” as something precious, hard-won, and vulnerable to harm; the “damage” as both external force and self-inflicted consequence.

Doug McMillen’s vocal performance lends the song much of its emotional depth. His delivery is unhurried but charged, as though he’s carefully excavating each phrase. There’s a rasp at the edges that suggests long nights, regrets, and resilience. He doesn’t dramatize the lyrics so much as inhabit them, giving the impression that the story being told has been carried quietly for a long time before finally being voiced.

Musically, the band strikes an impressive balance between tight arrangement and spacious atmosphere. Steve Potak’s keyboard textures ripple through the mix, adding color without overwhelming the guitars. His playing brings a sense of uplift to the darker corners of the track, hinting that even in the midst of damage, there’s clarity or even transcendence to be found. The rhythm section keeps the song grounded, propulsive without being forceful, allowing the emotional tension to breathe.

Lyrically, “Damage the Pearl” explores the fragile points in relationships—the places where trust is tested, where mistakes leave marks, where people confront the limits of what can be repaired. But the song resists cynicism. Instead, it seems to inhabit that complicated emotional terrain where hope and regret coexist. When the chorus opens up, the sense of release is less cathartic triumph and more a weary, honest exhalation. The band understands that complexity is sometimes more powerful than resolution.

The production enhances this emotional palette. Clean, spacious, and unafraid of subtle imperfections, it allows each instrument to carry its own weight. There’s no sense of overpolishing; the track feels human, textured, and lived-in. That sense of authenticity shapes the listening experience: the song sounds like a confession whispered and then amplified into the open air.

“Damage the Pearl” ultimately succeeds because it serves as both a strong standalone track and a thematic touchstone for the album bearing its name. It captures Third of Never’s ability to marry craft and feeling—to write rock music that is polished but soulful, introspective but accessible. It lingers after it ends, like a bruise you only notice when you press on it, and like a pearl that gleams all the more for having survived pressure.

Video of The Day: Tamar Berk – Chicago

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“CHICAGO” OR: HOW TAMAR BERK FOUND A MIRAGE IN THE MIDDLE OF A DYING DREAM

So there I was, chin-deep in a bowl of Frosted Flakes, when “Chicago” dropped through the ceiling like a sigh you forgot you were holding for thirty years. I was reviewing music and videos for YTAA when Tamar Berk, that sparkle-voiced assassin of suburban malaise, spins up something here that’s not quite a love letter, not quite a breakup note, sort of a tear stained note to her hometown. Or perhaps it is something more like a sonic postcard from the corner of hope and loss.

The song opens with this gauzy, aching shimmer—guitars jangling like they’re trying to remember what joy used to feel like. And Berk’s voice—wow, that voice—it floats in like an old Polaroid burned around the edges. It’s part Liz Phair, part Aimee Mann, and all that unnamable ache you get when you realize your childhood bedroom is now a guestroom with beige walls.

“Chicago” is about the place, sure, but also not. It’s about your Chicago—whatever town you left and keep returning to in your heart. Tamar doesn’t sing to the city as much as she sings through it, like she’s tunneling under Wicker Park and digging up old mixtapes and unread diaries. There’s a part where she sings, “It’s not that bad, it’s just sometimes I get so sad,” and if that doesn’t make you want to cry into your last CTA transfer, you’re probably already lost to us.

And the video! God. It’s a melancholic fever dream dipped in filters, grainy and glorious. We see Tamar playing the song, but the video also wanders through neighborhoods, streets, and venues that used to be the places she played in the past. Those places have a hold on us, a feverish dream of what was and isn’t where we are now, but has become inescapably a part of our identity. She doesn’t posture, doesn’t play cute—she just exists, like a memory you can’t delete, even though the file’s corrupted. There’s a stoic poetry to it all, like she’s auditioning for a role in the past and already knows she’s gonna get the part.

What Berk manages to do here—somehow, miraculously—is take nostalgia, which is usually just a cheap phony thought, and make it ache honest. “Chicago” is not some gimmick about going home; it’s a reckoning. It’s the realization that going back doesn’t fix anything, but you keep doing it anyway because sometimes ghosts are better company than strangers.

In the end, this song isn’t about Chicago. It’s about you. Me. All of us who traded in magic for rent payments, who look at our hometown skylines and see a mausoleum instead of a monument. Tamar Berk nailed that feeling to the wall like a love letter returned unopened. And for that, I thank her.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go cry in a parking lot outside a now-defunct Denny’s.

Video of The Day: The Laughing Chimes – High Beams

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“The Laughing Chimes” song “High Beams” is a rich, atmospheric piece that blends wistful nostalgia with electrifying, almost cinematic soundscapes. As with much of The Laughing Chimes’ writing, this track has a sense of profound intimacy—a delicate balance between the personal and the universal. “High Beams” is a meditation on the tension between light and shadow, love and loss, the known and the unknown. The song pulses with a kind of nervous energy, like the flicker of headlights on a quiet street, beckoning toward a horizon that feels both alluring and frightening. (WARNING: This video may potentially trigger seizures for people with photosensitive epilepsy. Viewer discretion is advised.)

When talking about The Laughing Chimes you often focus on the emotional undercurrents of a song, examining the way music captures moments of quiet yet potent self-reflection. “High Beams” encapsulates this sensibility in its jangly yet lush, layered production. The track doesn’t rely on grandiose gestures but instead leans into subtle, almost fleeting melodies that stir something deep within the listener. Its lyrics, steeped in metaphor and imagery, invite listeners to interpret the meaning for themselves, to fold themselves into the spaces between the words, much like the way a soft beam of light might slip through the cracks of an old window, revealing glimpses of a life just out of reach.

The song’s lyrical content, rich in symbolism, evokes feelings of longing and unspoken connection, themes that many musicians explore. In “High Beams,” there is an almost cinematic quality to the way the story unfolds, similar to a film where a character is on the cusp of something important but hesitates, unsure whether to step forward or stay in the shadows. The metaphor of high beams is both literal and figurative, suggesting not only a physical presence but also the feeling of being observed, of vulnerability in the midst of something bigger and uncontrollable.

Sonically, “High Beams” leans heavily into a blend of jangly indie rock, synth, and dream-pop, not unlike the work of other artists who explore the liminal space between genres. The track swells with a bouncy reverb and compelling arrangements that create an almost enveloping atmosphere. Yet, there’s a grounding quality in the rhythm section that pulls the song back to earth, like the steady heartbeat that underlies all of our most intense emotional experiences.

In true rock and roll fashion, “High Beams” is both a journey and a destination, a portrait of the tender, precarious act of living fully in the present moment while gazing forward with both hope and trepidation. This is a song that demands repeated listening, each time uncovering a new layer, a new emotional note to be explored.

Video of the Day: The Pinkerton Raid – A Long December

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All too often critics apply a sharp, snarky perspective on music, and approach covers with a detached cold perspective. And sometimes that separation would truly miss the point. The Pinkerton Raid’s cover of Counting Crows’ A Long December needs recognition of both the emotional core and the transformation of the song. A good review would highlight the poignant ways in which the cover reimagines the original, focusing on the evolving resonance of the song in the hands of a different band, and the way the passage of time deepens its meaning.

The original A Long December, with its aching melancholy and sense of yearning for resolution, comes from Counting Crows’ Recovering the Satellites, a record defined by its bittersweet reflection on personal pain and recovery. Adam Duritz’s vocal performance, simultaneously raw and hopeful, narrates a painful yet comforting nostalgia. However, when the Pinkerton Raid takes on this track, they strip it down, peeling back the layers of polished production, leaving space for vulnerability in their own rendition.

A critic would likely notice how the Pinkerton Raid, often associated with a more stripped-down Americana sound, injects new textures into the song. Their version transforms the hopeful melancholy of the original into something a little more haunting, a little more restrained, while the song is given room to breathe the emotional release feels suffocating — it is literally breathtaking. The arrangement, grounded in folk instrumentation, slows the pace, allowing the lyrics to move, perhaps breathe, and resonate in a way that invites even deeper introspection than the original, and that is saying something. The spaciousness of the arrangement highlights the sense of emotional isolation, with each guitar strum and piano/organ note echoing a quiet sense of longing.

How covers interact with their originals is a common discussion among critics. These critics would also note how this version of A Long December recontextualizes the meaning of the song for listeners in the 2020s, giving the track a new sense of grief. In a time when shared emotional experience is often overshadowed by fragmentation, the Pinkerton Raid’s version of A Long December offers a gentle, bittersweet reminder that despite everything, we still carry the weight of our pasts with us. You can pre-save or pre-add the studio version on APPLE, SPOTIFY or DEEZER, download it on BANDCAMP, or order the physical CD or vinyl.

Video of The Day: Tamar Berk – That’s Not a Lie

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Tamar Berk’s latest song, “That’s Not a Lie,” from her recent excellent album Good Times for a Change, dives deep and explores the critical themes of honesty and vulnerability within relationships (and in an expansive canvas not simply romantic connections) and addresses a central question about how ready are we for the vulnerability that all relationships require. Consider how much are we willing to risk? Are we prepared for rejection? For appearing to be the fool — or foolish — in the face of striving to say what we feel directly and honestly.

The song is front and center on the uncomfortable truths people often face, exploring the complexity of admitting past mistakes and accepting one’s limits and flaws. Because we all have flaws even when we do not want to accept them. They stay with us, with every breath, every moment. Set against a rock and roll dynamic soundscape of driving electric guitar and drums, Berk’s emotive vocals convey and evoke both rawness, presence, and nostalgia, adding to the song’s emotional depth from the first note that she sings. This track carries an introspective tone, as Berk reflects on personal accountability, the challenges of openness, and the power of self-acceptance within partnerships.

The music video complements these themes by adopting a playful retro, almost interrogative visual style that feels present around us. It’s as though Berk is confronting herself, embodying the intense self-reflection that characterizes the song — she is doing the work. In her lyrics, she addresses a tension between the desire for honesty and the fear of vulnerability, a feeling that resonates across the album. Vulnerability is a recurring theme in her work reaching back to Starball, tying into her broader artistic exploration of personal growth and relationships. Berk wants to make music that means something and while this is not an after-school special kind of false sentimentality but a real discussion on the heart and the challenge of being gentle and risky with one’s heart. Precarity is a necessary condition of any connection.

We are fans of Berk’s earlier music and notice her brilliant mix of introspection and compelling indie-rock, dare we say ‘wall of sound.’ The song’s production style easily draws comparisons to ’90s rock influences, with a pitch pure effective blend of rock authenticity and modern polish. Ultimately, “That’s Not a Lie” stands out as a powerful statement within Berk’s ever-expanding and captivating discography, capturing her unique ability to weave personal narratives into relatable and engaging music​ that matters.

Video of The Day – The Nautical Theme – Different Lines

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The Nautical Theme is a musical duo based in Dayton, Ohio, consisting of singer-songwriters Matt Shetler and Tesia Mallory. Known for their melodic, harmonious approach to folk and indie rock, the band combines Mallory’s bright, captivating vocals with Shetler’s rich, grounding tone, creating a deeply moving vocal interplay. Formed in 2016 from their previous project – Good Luck Year, The Nautical Theme emerged from Dayton’s vibrant indie scene, bringing their introspective, emotionally resonant music to local stages and steadily expanding their fanbase.

Their sound often features acoustic instrumentation that leans into folk sensibilities, with varying soft and propulsive piano, guitar, and occasionally percussive elements, allowing the raw storytelling and emotional intensity of their lyrics to shine through. They are adept at conveying themes of love, loss, and personal growth, providing listeners with an authentic experience that resonates on a deeply personal level. Their music is described as both soothing and thought-provoking, marked by a sensitivity that reflects the depth of their songwriting.

In 2018, they released their debut album Float an introspective collection of tracks highlighting the duo’s harmonies and storytelling prowess. The album was well-received, gaining attention for its vulnerability and sincerity, showcasing the depth of their collaborative process. Since then, The Nautical Theme has continued to release music that delves into universal human experiences with a nuanced, reflective perspective.

In March of 2020, the duo released Lows and Highs, an album that encapsulates the rollercoaster of emotions encountered during challenging times. This release demonstrated a maturation in their songwriting and production, expanding on their signature sound with more complex arrangements while still preserving the simplicity that makes their music so accessible. Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed was released in 2021 which like the title suggests shows the dynamic musical duo playing an older song, a new composition, and a cover.

Roughly four years later, the duo released, Do Something which included two impressive EPs, Do Something and Get Somewhere (released in 2023) that showed their musical adventurism. Their most recent single expands on the adventure and the sonic palette that Matt and Tesia usually carry in their music. To say that we are excited by the broadening of the soundscapes that normally are explored by The Nautical Theme is an understatement.

Video of The Day: MJ Lenderman – She’s Leaving You

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MJ Lenderman’s “She’s Leaving You” is a poignant exploration of heartbreak and longing, delivered with an authenticity that resonates deeply. You feel it in your soul. The track seamlessly blends indie rock with elements of folk, creating a sound that feels both fresh and nostalgic. Lenderman’s voice is raw yet soothing, capturing the emotional weight of the lyrics with a delicate balance of vulnerability and resilience.

Lyrically, the song delves into the complexities of love and loss, painting a vivid picture of a relationship on the brink of collapse or is that in the final stages of failure? Lines filled with longing and regret evoke a sense of bittersweet nostalgia, making it relatable for anyone who has faced similar heartache. The imagery he uses is strikingly accessible almost laconic, allowing listeners to visualize the moments that lead to the inevitable separation. It’s this lyrical depth that sets Lenderman apart, inviting listeners to reflect on their own experiences while immersed in the music.

Musically, “She’s Leaving You” is anchored by a melodic guitar riff that is both catchy and melancholic, driving the emotional narrative forward. The production is polished yet retains a not too perfect intimate quality, as if Lenderman is sharing his story directly with each listener over beers at the bar. The instrumentation builds subtly, allowing the vocals to take center stage, and creating a sense of crescendo that mirrors the emotional climax of the narrative.

Overall, MJ Lenderman’s “She’s Leaving You” is a standout track that showcases his talent as a songwriter and musician. It’s a heartfelt anthem for those grappling with the pain of separation, delivered with a sincerity that lingers long after the song ends. This track cements Lenderman’s place in the indie scene, making listeners eager to see what he’ll create next.

Video of The Day: Knotts – Good Morning

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Knotts, a dynamic artistic band hailing from Cincinnati, Ohio, has captivated audiences with their innovative approach to musical art. Comprising vocalist and multi-instrumentalist Adalia Powell-Boehne, Keyboardist Antoine Franklin, guitarist Jordan Wilson and drummer Isaiah Cook, KNOTTS has carved a niche for itself in the contemporary music scene through their catchy collaborative melodic weaving of rock, soul, loops, electronic and boundary-pushing sonic creations. Together, the band creates immersive moving personal musical experiences that challenge conventional notions of identity, connection and perception.

One of Knotts‘ most captivating and haunting songs is “Good Morning,” a large-scale sonic architecture that explores the interconnectedness of humanity, kindness and the irreplaceable act of uniting and building a relationship. Adalia’s powerful, plaintive, and emotional voice feels like the embrace of a long lost friend. The spark, heck the joy in the song springs from her incredible voice. The Song feels as if it comprises thousands of intricately woven musical threads suspended from the heart, forming a dense canopy that envelops listeners as they navigate the powerful act of deciding to spend a life together. Each thread of the song represents a human connection, symbolizing the invisible ties that bind individuals together in a shared experience of living.

As listeners move through the song (and the dare I say happy and vibrant accompanying video), they become acutely aware of their presence within this web of connections, prompting introspection and contemplation of their relationships with others. But this is not a heavy drowning question, it is has color and energy — saying yes to being with someone is supposed to be magical, mysterious and fun. Would you stay with someone while your face — and you — slowly age as demonstrated with the coming of lines on your face? The immersive and joyful bounce in the song allows for a deeply personal engagement with the music , transcending the boundaries of the all too often casual love song. “Good Morning” expresses the contentment and adventure of being with someone when you want to be there.

Knotts‘ work is characterized by a sense of fluidity and transformation, with many of their songs evolving over time in response to the questions of connection, identity, and being entangled within one another. By layering lyrical images and a sweep of keyboards, guitars and drums, they create a composition that challenge listeners to confront the realities of would they make the same decision to stay.

In a world increasingly characterized by division and isolation, Knotts offers a beacon of hope and connectivity through their music. By challenging listeners to reconsider their relationships with themselves and others, they inspire a renewed sense of empathy and understanding in an ever-changing world. As they continue to push the boundaries of artistic expression of love and connection in their music, KNOTTS remains a vital voice in the local music scene, reminding us of the transformative power of creativity and collaboration.

Knotts are playing tonight — Friday, March 1st at 7pm — with the powerhouse Heather Redman & The Reputation at The Oregon Express. Go Go Go!