By Val Hernández
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Love songs often get stuck on the butterflies. The dizzy spark of a first kiss, the adrenaline of “forever and always,” the cinematic swell of strings when everything is still brand new. Colombian singer Laura Kalop takes a different route on her latest single '6 Vidas.' This isn’t about falling in love — it’s about choosing to stay in it. Again, and again, and again.

Kalop wrote the song for her husband Jairo, celebrating their ninth wedding anniversary, and that intimacy is written into every note. The lyrics read like vows being renewed: “En cada vida yo te buscaría, en cada vida nos elegiría” (“In every life I would search for you, in every life I would choose you”). But it isn’t a fairy-tale gloss. She’s honest about distance, crises, and routines: “Ya no me recibes con flores, ni corres al verme llegar” hits like a gut punch at first, until you realise she’s reframing it. Flowers aren’t needed anymore. They’ve reinvented themselves and grown into a quieter, more resilient love.
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What makes '6 Vidas' shine is how Kalop taps into Colombian tradition while still sounding fresh. The track is sort of steeped in vallenato, a folk genre from the Caribbean coast built around storytelling lyrics and the accordion. Traditionally, vallenato is about heartbreak, nostalgia, and longing — but Kalop flips it, turning those sounds into a promise of endurance. With Alexander “Don Alex” González on accordion and Manuel Valdez on guitar and co-production, she crafts something vallenato-ish: not strict folklore, but romantic, melodic, and recognisable to Colombian ears while sleek enough for global listeners.

If you’ve never heard vallenato, imagine the intimacy of a singer-songwriter ballad, the weight of country storytelling, and the accordion as its heartbeat. Then add subtle pop production, bass, and harmonies. That’s where “6 Vidas” lives. At moments, it echoes tropipop from the 2000s — think early Fonseca or a softer Carlos Vives — though Kalop’s delivery is gentler, less stadium anthem and more whispered confession.

Vocally, it’s very her. Kalop is a trained soprano, often belting with dazzling musical-theatre precision, but here she dials it back. The song leans on warmth and storytelling more than vocal acrobatics. For listeners with hearing sensitivities, that restraint makes the track more accessible too — no piercing high notes, just a laid-back, singable melody that lets the emotion do the heavy lifting.
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The title metaphor is pure magical realism — very García Márquez energy. The idea of multiple lives evokes a love so strong it spills over across time and universes. Why six specifically? Kalop hasn’t said, but fun fact: her father, piano master Raúl Castaño, has had the number six follow him everywhere. Knowing that, the choice feels less random and more like a winking coincidence — cute, intentional or not.

Still, “six lives” works as metaphor: if the universe gave infinite chances, she’d still choose the same person. That’s a sentiment anyone who’s found their person can relate to. Or, in my case, it’s the kind of love I hope to find someday. (Although I do hope my partner never stops bringing me flowers — I’m holding onto that one, thanks.)

Is '6 Vidas' built for international charts? Maybe not. Kalop remains a small independent artist, and this probably won’t storm Colombian radio either. But among her listeners, this feels destined to be a fan favourite. It’s tender without being corny, traditional without being dated, personal yet universal. And honestly, even if you don’t speak Spanish, the sincerity in her delivery cuts through. With subtitles or a quick lyric translation, this could resonate anywhere.

Think of it this way: if Belly and Conrad from The Summer I Turned Pretty had a Colombian soundtrack moment, this would fit right in.

The song already has a music video, keeping things close to home. Just Kalop and her husband, coffee mugs in hand, walking through a house together — a visual reflection of love that’s less fireworks, more everyday tenderness. I also got to hear it live earlier this year at Cumbia House in Bogotá, where it landed even more powerfully. Stripped of studio polish, it felt like an intimate promise sung directly to us.

'6 Vidas' is a love song for the long haul. Not about the spark, but the afterglow. Not about fantasy, but the everyday choice to remain. In a pop landscape obsessed with breakups and make-ups, Kalop offers something radical: the beauty of staying.
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Anyway, let me go text the person I’d still choose in all my six lives.

Following her debut EP Untie My Tongue, multiple headline shows, festival appearances, and another recent single, Asha Banks is undoubtedly the gift that just keeps on giving. Her steady growth within the industry is unquestionably due to her talent and dedication to her craft. Each song she releases tells a story or strikes a chord, leaving not one person untouched by her work. ‘Mascara Tears’ is one that has touched many of her fans long before it was even released. There’s no Asha Banks live shows without her singing a few unreleased songs, and ‘Mascara Tears’ was a steady constant.

Rooted in what seems to be Banks’ personal experiences, she adopts a deeply introspective tone throughout the entire song, reflecting on her conflicting feelings and emotions. Banks’ relationship is dwindling and she wants to end it, but the idea of doing so fills her with guilt. She questions if she’s allowed to hurt when she knows that she is hurting her partner, and the guilt throughout the song is such a poignant theme that I’m sure many listeners can relate to. This isn’t a song that demands a break up, or celebrates her freedom now that she’s ending her relationship. She isn’t winning in this break up – nobody is.

The instrumentation of this song is perhaps one of the most outwardly striking features of it. The song opens slow and steady, and almost regretful. Banks immediately sets the tone of the song within the first five seconds. We as listeners know that this isn’t a happy song instantly – it is one of deep wandering and reflection, exploring her own feelings and her hurt. The piano gives it a stripped back feel and is certainly one of the most notable parts. There is a deep vulnerability to the song that seeps through both the instrumentals and the lyrics themselves.

Banks shifts between different vocals – falsetto, belting, hitting the perfect notes to show her desperation and her want to be able to express her feelings despite being so very conflicted about them. Her voice is doubled on occasion and it only adds to her desperation of wanting to be able to “hurt too”, and the fact that she “can’t let it show”. Not only is her lyricism apt in expressing exactly what she’s feeling, but the production of the song itself is so beautifully suited to the lyrics at their core. The entire song is a cohesive and introspective look at the breakdown of her relationship and the guilt she holds over ending it, which consequently impacts how she has been able to process her own emotions.

Banks’ lyricism is, in my humble (and slightly biased) opinion, one of her biggest strengths. She is a storyteller at her core, as evidenced by her debut EP ‘Untie My Tongue’. In ‘Mascara Tears’, she tells the story of her break up and lets us into every single one of her thoughts. We as listeners know that she is struggling with the decision to end this relationship as her conflicting feelings are showcased through her choice of lyrics. Even her choice of the smallest words shows the listeners how conflicted she is – she’s hurting so badly, but feels as though she isn’t allowed to because she’s the one ending things. As an English Literature student, I have a tendency to read deep into lyrics; analysis is in my blood, and I just can’t help it. The lines that particularly struck me when thinking about how brilliant Banks’ writing is has to be the lines, “On my face there's just mascara tears, and my stomach feels quite sick / It's eating me up a bit.” Banks artfully uses words like “quite” and “a bit” in the beginning of the song to almost diminish her own hurt over this situation. She only feels “quite sick” because she is unsure as to whether she is allowed to be sick to her stomach when she is the one ending the relationship, and this entire thing is eating her up only “a bit” because, again, she doesn’t know if she is allowed to “hurt too”.

This is something she revisits throughout the entire song, asking “Can I hurt too?” even though she knows that she hurt the other person in the relationship by ending things. A lyric that perhaps captures this feeling entirely, and has resonated with fans since they first heard it many months ago, is ‘“I know I’m not a villain, but I’m not the hero.” Banks accepts that she isn’t the hero – she has hurt her partner in ignoring this relationship and ultimately ending it. But she isn't a villain for ending a relationship that isn’t working for her any more, even if she knows that her partner still cares. Banks places herself in a grey area between the two, hence why she is struggling to understand if it’s okay for her to grieve this relationship in the way that she so clearly wants – and needs – to.

Making this entire situation all that more heartbreaking, Banks sings that “... my face is still mascara tears, but you wipe them all away.” Despite the fact she is hurting her partner, they still comfort her and it just shows us how they still care for Banks. There’s a visceral evocation of pure heartbreak here – Banks is telling us that this partner is a good person that still cares about her, yet she still wants to leave them. It highlights just how difficult this entire situation is for Banks and the guilt and pain that she is thus carrying as a result of it.

She repeats how she is “feeling helpless, but [she] can’t let it show / ‘Cause this bit is about you / I get I’m the bad guy to just let you go.” in the pre-chorus. Once again, her lyrics are so artful and apt when it comes to expressing every single complicated facet of her thoughts and feelings regarding this break up. She can’t let her hurt show because she knows she is the one doing the hurting. Banks focuses on her partner, reiterating that “this bit is about [them]” and that is why she can’t let her helplessness and her hurt show. Not only is she hurting them, but she is hurting herself too, and yet she feels like she isn’t allowed to feel that way.
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The music quietens down entirely when we reach the bridge, giving Banks’ incredible voice time to shine. Banks almost sounds like she's whispering while singing, her voice pure rawness and vulnerability. The climax of the song is found here, albeit quietly and softly like a realisation, as she asks “How am I supposed to feel as though I’m winning / When losing you is hurting me.” Banks accepts losing her partner hurts her, and she can’t win if it hurts her so badly. There is no winning when it comes to the breakdown of this relationship, both she and her partner are hurt and there isn’t anything that can be done to make it any better.

After the bridge, Banks repeats the chorus once, singing it softly and introspectively but it builds towards the end of it. Her voice grows stronger as she sings “Can I hurt too?” because she is coming to terms with the fact that she is hurting, and the fact that she so desperately wants to allow herself to grieve this relationship despite being the person who put it to bed.

Once again, she repeats the chorus stronger this time, reiterating each and every single word. Her voice is full of desperation, almost as if she needs both listener and partner to understand that this is not a decision she made lightly, and that it has been incredibly difficult to live with since doing so.

Her final words in the song are her asking once again, “Can I hurt too?”, as if asking for permission. Banks leans into this repetition and uses it artistically to highlight her desperation to grieve and hurt despite feeling as though she doesn’t deserve to. She sounds slightly more resigned than just moments ago, as if she has accepted that she is going to feel conflicted for a long time coming over the choices she made and the feelings that have clearly taken over her as a result of them.

The song comes to an end with the instrumentation reduced to simply the piano playing softly and quietly, and then a moment of silence at the end. Even this is complete genius, leaving us as listeners to sit with Banks’ confessional words throughout the song, the same way that she has been left to sit with her emotions and her hurt after the breakdown of her relationship.

Ultimately. ‘Mascara Tears’ is the kind of song you listen to so you don’t feel so alone navigating the maze of conflicting emotions. Banks explores the guilt she feels and puts it out there for listeners to hear and relate to. I’m sure everybody is familiar with the feeling of not being a villain, but not quite being the hero either – knowing that you’re a good person, but sometimes you do things that hurt others, but also yourself. Banks give us space to deliberate and wonder if we’re giving ourselves enough grace, or if we’re far too harsh on ourselves and truly give us time to heal our own wounds rather than only worrying about the ones we inflict on others.

Banks recently announced a North America and UK/Europe tour titled the ‘how real was it?’, after the title of her upcoming sophomore EP titled ‘how real was it?’ due for release on the 14th of November. Tickets have gone on sale already but it’s not too late!
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‘Mascara Tears’ is available on all streaming platforms and I absolutely recommend having a listen to Banks’ discography – you will not be disappointed!

​Asha Banks is an English actress and singer whose career spans stage, screen and music. She made her West End debut as young Éponine in Les Misérables and went on to perform in Annie, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Spring Awakening, and more. She self-released her first single “So Green” and dropped her debut EP Untie My Tongue, which led to her signing with Island/Polydor Records. Banks draws from her deep theatrical roots to bring emotional clarity to her songwriting—she straddles acting and music with conviction rather than choosing one path. 

By Val Hernández
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Love songs are rare in Joshua Bassett’s catalogue, which makes ‘Blue’ feel like a milestone. For the first time in a while, Bassett sounds like someone who’s in love and actually letting himself enjoy it. No heartbreak, no veiled sadness — just a dreamy, soft track that captures the thrill of new joy.

The track itself is stripped-back and intimate, keeping things minimal so the focus lands on Bassett’s voice. His delivery is soft and storytelling, floating easily between chest voice and falsetto. Long-time fans will recognise this side of him immediately, but for anyone hearing him for the first time, it can definitely be a wow moment — he makes vulnerability sound effortless. When he leans into the line “kiss me like you mean it, dear,” it’s the kind of pop-ballad moment that sticks.

Lyrically, ‘Blue’ is classic Josh: simple, heartfelt, and direct. That doesn’t mean it’s shallow. In fact, the chorus phrase “out of the blue” ties back beautifully to the song’s title. I know this is giving “English teacher overanalysing stuff”, but hear me out: the duality of blue is fascinating here. According to HunterLab (2023), this color is linked to calmness, security, and serenity, but, as we all know, also to sadness — hence the phrase “feeling blue.” So here’s where my own take comes in: for years, Bassett’s songs leaned toward the sad side of blue. With this new song, he reclaims it, painting the colour as something loving, dependable, and peaceful.
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Other lyrics highlight that lightness. In the second verse, Bassett sings: “Spillin’ out my secrets now / At a table for two / It’s getting hard to keep it down / When we laugh like we do.” On the surface, it’s kind of a sweet snapshot of a couple being loudly cute, yet I feel that the simplicity of the lyrics also shows a boundary. Everyone can know he’s happy and in love, and he’s not trying to keep it a secret. But the song doesn’t spill the full story either — the details stay just between him and his partner. That balance, where joy is shared but intimacy is protected, gives the track an extra layer of tenderness.

Production-wise, the track stays understated. You can even hear where lines are doubled — not to create harmonies, but simply to give the words extra weight. That rawness makes it feel personal, almost diary-like. The only real shift comes at the bridge, where the arrangement swells and Bassett pushes his vocals harder. It’s not flashy, but it doesn’t need to be. Sometimes simplicity carries the most power.

Emotionally, ‘Blue’ is one of those songs that hits different depending on where you are in life. If you’re in love, it’ll feel like a soundtrack. If you’re heartbroken, it’ll probably sting a little but also remind you that joy is possible again. And if, like me, you’ve never been in love, it still sparks something — a kind of longing for what could be, mixed with fan pride at seeing Josh step into this lighter, more secure version of himself. It feels like a best friend finally getting the love they deserve. Parasocial? Perhaps, but powerful nonetheless.

Of course, not everyone will have it on repeat. Fans will devour it, no doubt. Casual listeners might keep it for certain moods or special playlists — it’s not exactly background noise, it’s too tender for that. It’s a “special occasion” track, the kind you’d send to someone when you actually mean it.
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At its core, ‘Blue’ is everything a pop ballad should be: simple, soothing, and full of love. Bassett doesn’t reinvent the wheel here, but he doesn’t need to. By choosing to tell this story with honesty and restraint, he’s created something timeless.

Joshua Bassett is a singer-songwriter and musician whose career has grown rapidly beyond his breakout role on Disney+. In 2020, he released his debut single 'Common Sense', followed by his self-titled EP in 2021. In 2022, Bassett unveiled the EP Sad Songs in a Hotel Room, demonstrating his range from stripped-back ballads to dynamic pop. His momentum culminated in The Golden Years (2024), his first full-length album, which underscored his development as both a storyteller and multi-instrumentalist. With each release, Bassett has built a catalogue that traces his evolution from rising actor to an established recording artist with a distinctive voice.

Brief note from the author, who also is a fan:
Release "Pretty Please". IYKYK.

From its initial debut at The Vine in Rugeley, to a killer performance at the famous Waterloo Music Bar in Blackpool, the hype has very much been building.

From strong and impressive vocal work from lead singer Eabha, to killer riffs and dive bombs from guitarist Lewis, to quite frankly some of my favourite drumming I've heard from a band from drummer Jack, it's not a release you'll want to miss.

I won't spoil too much, but the live version does not do it justice. Hold Me Down will be on all major streaming platforms soon, I heavily suggest giving it a listen.

By: Val Hernández

Let’s get one thing clear: Bite Me, Reneé Rapp’s sophomore album, is not here to be polite, linear, or tame. It’s bold, messy, cheeky, gut-wrenching — and yes, deeply queer. From its opener Leave Me Alone (reviewed previously) to its final punches of heartbreak and high notes, Reneé gives us a project full of sharp turns, late-night spirals, petty thoughts, big feelings, and even bigger vocals. Whether you’re sobbing into a pillow or dancing half-naked in your room, Bite Me has a track for it. Sometimes both at once.
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In a word? It’s chaos. Glorious, lesbian lighting-style chaos.

There’s no neat little storyline — and that’s kind of the whole vibe. It’s not trying to be some deep concept album with a big moral at the end. It’s just a bunch of moments: raw, messy, a bit all over the place. And honestly? That’s why it hits. Feels real. Feels human. Reneé isn’t trying to convince us she’s healed. She’s just showing us who she is: a little broken, very self-aware, and absolutely done playing it safe.
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Thematically, she covers a lot: heartbreak, betrayal, intense desire, self-confidence, lingering grief, confusion, rage, and sexual agency — all framed through the lens of a proudly queer woman in her twenties figuring it out. Some songs hit like confessionals (‘I Can’t Have You Around Me Anymore’), others like chaotic journal entries (‘At Least I’m Hot’), and some like late-night arguments you win three hours too late (‘That’s So Funny’).

These are my highlights:
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‘MAD’ is pure pop catharsis, with a chorus that explodes in all the right places — and yes, the way she says “mad” at 1:02 should be studied. ‘Why Is She Still Here?’ is bass-heavy and haunting, giving Amy Winehouse energy filtered through sapphic frustration. ‘Sometimes’ is a whispery heartbreak ballad that wraps around you like a memory you weren’t ready for.

​Then there’s ‘Kiss It Kiss It’, which could be the evil, sapphic cousin of ‘Tell Me Something I Don’t Know’ by Selena Gomez. ‘Good Girl’ feels made for a queer coming-of-age film — synthy, dreamy, slightly retro, and affirming in all the right ways. And then there’s “Shy” — a track Reneé’s described as the hardest she’s ever written. You can feel the weight of it: the quiet struggle of trying to accept love while still unlearning past hurt. It’s tender, exposed, and absolutely heartbreaking… all within a danceable, head-bumping instrumental. 

‘I Can't Have You Around Me Anymore’ taps into a similar emotional space, but with a different kind of ache. The intro crackles like an old TV set, setting the mood for a song that never quite says what happened — just leaves us with the tension of something broken. Maybe betrayal, maybe more. It’s all in the silence between the lines. There’s no closure, just that horrible limbo of not knowing. And that’s exactly what makes it hit so hard.
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‘You’d Like That, Wouldn’t You?’ carries that same energy but flips it — full of biting sarcasm and early 2000s pop-rock attitude. The Avril Lavigne/Paramore influence is unmistakable — but it still feels like Reneé, not imitation. Same goes for ‘I Think I Like You Better When You're Gone”, which leans more into R&B ballad territory, showcasing her stunning vocal control and emotional depth.

Vocally, Bite Me is less about showing off and more about feeling it. Reneé’s not out here trying to belt her way into our hearts — she knows she’s got the range. What she gives us instead is pure vocal storytelling: soft falsettos, breathy little verses, explosive choruses, and the odd scream-sing moment that somehow makes you want to sob and throw a fist in the air.
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If there’s one critique, it’s that some lyrics get lost in the mix — especially on the ballads — and listeners with hearing disabilities (or whom English isn't their first language) might need a lyric sheet to catch everything. But that also speaks to the emotional urgency of the album: it’s not overthought. It’s instinctive. Loud. Real. And maybe a bit much for your parents… but who cares?!

What makes Bite Me so powerful to me is that it’s unafraid to live in contradiction. It’s sexy and heartbroken. It’s chaotic and intentional. It’s queer joy and queer grief, all rolled into Rapp’s middle finger to anyone who ever made her feel too much. This isn’t nostalgia as costume — it’s Reneé reclaiming pop through her own unapologetically sapphic lens.

This isn’t just an album. It’s a love letter to every queer person who’s ever felt too dramatic, too clingy, too honest, or too much. With Bite Me, Reneé Rapp says, “you’re not too much, you’re just alive.” 
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And if the world can’t handle that? Bite me.

​Let’s start with the opening: the train pulling in, the squeal of metal on metal, the ambient hum of public transit. It drops you directly into the scene, setting up the metaphor — or maybe not even a metaphor, maybe just a real moment in time. It’s grounded, real, lived-in, like a diary entry that accidentally became a heartbreak anthem.

Chappell’s voice is, unsurprisingly, the star. It’s soft when it needs to be (“wish you thought that we were still soulmates” nearly ended me), but still manages to build into those huge belted notes that she’s known for. What’s wild is that the studio version stays almost identical to the live one — no vocal clean-up, no obvious pitch correction, just raw, emotionally precise performance. In a world where we often assume high notes are layered or digitally polished, hearing her actually deliver that kind of vocal power live first only adds to the shock factor. She’s not just a great performer — she might genuinely be one of the best vocalists of our generation.

The production, by contrast, is stripped down. There’s a lot of reverb, lots of background vocals, and not much else — which is exactly what the song needs. It’s that kind of heartbreak that doesn’t need fireworks; the simplicity lets the storytelling breathe.

​And oh, the storytelling. One of the most anticipated lyric mysteries — and a hot topic across fan circles — was whether Chappell was singing “she got away”, “she’s got away”, or “she’s got a way”. With only live snippets circulating online and no official lyrics to cling to, it became a sort of collective guessing game. Now that the studio version is out, we finally have a clear answer: it’s both. She alternates between them, sometimes in the same breath. First, “she’s got a way” — a soft, admiring observation — and then “she got away” — the devastating truth of the breakup. That switch alone captures the entire emotional arc of the song in two lines, and they both sound more faded out in the studio version, symbolising her letting go and slowly losing her. Chappell is watching someone she once loved become a stranger again, trying to convince herself it’s fine, that this person is now “just another girl on the subway”. But of course she isn’t. There’s no such thing as another girl when you’re still in love. And, fun fact: Saskatchewan has no subways! She wants to move there so she will never have a chance of seeing her again.

There’s also something deeply queer about the way this story is told. Not just in pronouns — though Chappell makes it very clear she’s singing about a woman — but in the cultural cues too. The green hair line? Iconic. Not only is it a real, funny, niche detail, but it also taps into the stereotype of radical queer girls dyeing their hair (which we do, btw). And like, she said it. Out loud. In a song. Lesbian pop is finally being specific, and I love it here.

Back to the subway itself — it’s hard to say whether it’s meant to symbolise anything bigger. Maybe it’s just a location. But I also think the imagery of public transport — constantly moving, full of strangers, impossible to stop — mirrors the emotional turbulence perfectly. The song ends not with closure, but with that sickening feeling of watching someone leave and knowing there’s nothing you can do. You can scream in your head all you want; the train doors will still close.

There’s no bitterness here, which is refreshing. Chappell even says “made you the villain, evil for just moving on” — a line that recognises how easy it is to turn heartbreak into blame, but also how healing begins when we stop doing that. It’s heartbreak without hate. Longing without delusion. Brutal honesty, wrapped in glitter and eyeliner.
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If ‘Pink Pony Club’ was Chappell Roan’s declaration of camp pop stardom, ‘The Subway’ is her reminder that she’s not just fun, but full of feeling. Not just viral, but vital.

In terms of aesthetic, this song demands a New York subway visual: desaturated tones, strangers reading books under flickering lights, soft focus close-ups, maybe even Chappell herself with smeared mascara watching someone disappear into a train car. Honestly, the only colour that needs to stand out is the girl’s green hair — the rest are just details. Did the music video deliver? Absolutely yes. 

The colour grading is muted and moody — think emotionally drained at 3 a.m. in Manhattan — but still unmistakably stylised. Chappell acts out the entire thing, and she’s incredibly good. We’ve seen her perform, we’ve seen her dance, but this is the first time I’ve personally really seen her full-on act, and it’s so PERFECT. The visual identity also finally explains the cryptic hair promo: girly really started the song with “hair” and turned that into the centrepiece of the world she created.

What makes the video iconic, though, is how it balances grief with camp. Chappell walks dramatically inside the subway with a bunch of other people frantically dancing like they’re in a deranged club scene, while she sings the saddest ballad of 2025. It’s absurd, theatrical, heart-wrenching and very, very her. The duality of devastation and performance, sincerity and satire, is something only Chappell Roan could pull off. Music videos are so back. 

Whether you’re heartbroken or healing, queer or not, ‘The Subway’ will hit something inside you. And maybe that’s the point. We’ve all had that one person we swore we’d forget — and then saw them again, hair dyed, smile unchanged, sitting across from us on a train like they never knew us at all.

So, was it worth not watching the live performances? I like to be surprised, so I’ll say yes because I definitely was.

​To put it simply: Alessi Rose is unabashed in her honesty, and Voyeur showcases this beyond a shadow of a doubt.
 
There's something for everyone: the highly anticipated studio version of ‘Stella’, or the irresistible catchiness of ‘Same Mouth’, or the frustrated yearning of ‘That Could Be Me’. Each song offers something unique, which is why listening to Voyeur feels like a rollercoaster.

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Enjoying all six songs made it incredibly difficult to choose standouts. After listening to the EP on repeat (admittedly more times than is probably healthy), I managed to narrow it down, though not without difficulty.
 
If you’re somebody who finds it particularly difficult to relate to love or break-up songs – whether from a lack of romance, or a lack of heartbreak (lucky you!) – Rose manages to offer what other artists sometimes struggle to do. She isn’t singing about romantic heartbreak; this is platonic heartbreak. ‘Stella’, the fourth track of the EP, stands out beyond belief. While I’ll admit some bias, having anticipated this studio version for a long time, it absolutely meets, and exceeds, all expectations.

‘Stella’ fits perfectly into the EP’s central theme; we, the listeners, become voyeurs to Rose’s innermost thoughts and feelings, including the breakdown of a friendship. This isn’t just a pretty ballad – it’s a poignant exploration of the inherent complexities of female friendships, and the deeply painful heartbreak of having to accept their breakdown.
 
Rose’s choice to open the song with the lyrics “Stella, I never saw you as a liar / We’d laugh ‘til we cried like two houses on fire” immerses us immediately into the core of this fractured friendship. While it was once a blazing bond, it is merely reduced to an image of pure destruction. Referring to her and Stella as “two houses on fire” is complex in itself - it simultaneously highlights both the intensity and destructive potential of their bond. From the very beginning of the song, Rose makes it clear that we aren’t just listeners, but witnesses to this deeply personal and painful loss.
 

​By addressing Stella directly, Rose pulls us into this intimate moment between former friends, almost witnessing the resolution of her hurt in real time. The EP’s title has never felt more appropriate: she speaks without a filter, as if in direct conversation with Stella that we have no right to be part of, yet we can’t turn away.  We’re invited into this raw and candid address of Stella, seeing the depths of Rose’s emotions. There’s no sugarcoating or avoidance – just a direct address of platonic heartbreak. Rose isn’t just recounting her story; the audience becomes complicit in it, cementing us as voyeurs.
 
Each song invites us as voyeuristic consumers of Rose’s thoughts and feelings. In ‘RIP’, she invites us again into the messy and exhausting aftermath of heartbreak, further cementing us as voyeurs that are here to witness her most painful and vulnerable moments. The tone of ‘RIP’ is different to that of ‘Stella’ – rather than a sad ballad, Rose delivers a volatile mix of anger and hurt for us to prey upon as voyeurs. The delivery is harsh and direct; Rose’s frustration means that she isn’t messing around here. Not only that, but the vulnerability beneath the anger seeps through, and the audience sees Rose as not only angry, but as hurt. Again, we’re pulled into the atmosphere, the title of the EP echoing in the back of our minds.

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Rose lays the rawness of her pain bare from the opening line, “I wanna die / When you say you love me”. She shows us her most vulnerable thoughts as she recounts the way that this love is more of a burden than a blessing to her. She dismantles this love and affection in lines like “It’s cloaked in necessity, it’s not what you mean,” and encourages the audience to see the performative nature of this love. We’re forced to witness a messy and painful heartbreak as Rose confronts her ex-lover.
 
Her candid admissions reveal to us the broadness of her suffering and pain that extends beyond this romantic heartbreak and even ventures into platonic heartbreak – “Been hurt the worst by girls who swear that they’re my friend.”  As voyeurs, we’re granted entry to the deepest and darkest corners of her mind and the varying unfiltered emotions that linger. This echoes the fractured friendship that is explored in ‘Stella’, where Rose also exposes the pain and complexities of letting go and saying goodbye. In doing this, she enriches the themes of vulnerability and emotional messiness prevalent throughout the entire EP.

​Voyeur is an unflinching invitation into Alessi Rose’s world, where honesty is unapologetic and vulnerability is considered to be strength. Each song feels more like a conversation or direct address rather than merely lyrics. Rather than shying away from her messy truth, Rose claims her mess back and turns it into something beautiful – music that can resonate profoundly with thousands and thousands of listeners. The EP title aptly describes her audience as we’re made complicit in these conversational songs, unable to look away or stop listening. 

The release of Voyeur is followed by a UK/EU Tour starting in Berlin on September 1st.

By: Val Hernández 

In just under two minutes, Bad Bunny’s latest track ‘ALAMBRE PúA’ is short, suggestive, and — in my very humble opinion — one of his more forgettable singles. If you’re into his flirtier, late-night playlist material, you might have fun with it.

​But if, like me, you prefer when Benito dives into more emotional or political territory, this one probably won’t hit.

​The track opens with a soft, flute-like synth layered over a standard Bad Bunny beat. Production-wise, it’s clean, smooth, and danceable — but not exactly groundbreaking. It doesn’t stray far from Bad Bunny’s usual sonic palette, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but after standout albums like Debí Tirar Más Fotos (DTMF), this just feels… fine. Not a flop, not tragic — just not his peak, y’know?

Lyrically, it holds up. He’s clearly in his feels, missing someone he had a proper deep connection with, and reflecting on what they shared. There’s even a lowkey sweet line — “tú te montas en mi carro y parece un Mercedes Benz” — which paints such a wholesome picture. Like, that vibe where someone’s presence just levels everything up, even if you’re literally sat in a beat-up car. That kind of sentimentality could’ve been the heart of the song… if it didn’t immediately shift gears.

A few lines later, we’re hit with: “Estoy triste que no la grabé, f*ck, no la grabé; pero aún guardo tu foto que me enviaste esnúa.” And here’s where it gets weird and tricky. There’s a clear implication that he’s upset about not filming an intimate moment (with zero mention of consent), followed by a casual statement that he’s still holding onto a nude photo. And if the relationship’s over — as the song seems to suggest — then… Why is he still holding onto that image?

For a lot of listeners — especially those of us growing up in the #MeToo era — lyrics like this raise red flags. Not necessarily because the song is “explicit” (that’s nothing new in reggaeton), but because it reflects a normalisation of blurred boundaries around privacy and consent. There’s a fine line between sensual storytelling and just making people feel a bit ick — and honestly, this lyric tiptoes right up to it.

The tension hits harder when you remember that Bad Bunny’s usually been that guy using his platform for good. He’s spoken out against gender-based violence, backed queer visibility in Latin America, and called out the colonisation of Puerto Rico. So when a lyric feels a bit off, it stands out even more coming from him. So when lyrics like this show up, they clash — not in an “art is complex” way, but in a “wait… is this the same guy?” kind of way. Whether it’s meant to be a bit of storytelling or just a throwaway lyric, it lands a little off-key.

To be fair, reggaeton’s always had space for themes like nightlife and attraction, so it fits the vibe — but it’s still important to remember where the genre actually comes from. While today’s reggaetón is often tied to club anthems and easygoing energy, its origins were much more radical. It came out of Afro-Caribbean and marginalised communities in Panama and Puerto Rico, with early reggaeton — and the underground scene that came before — acting as protest music: bold, unfiltered, and rooted in identity, resistance, and survival.

So when a track like 'ALAMBRE PÚA' leans into the slick, surface-level style without acknowledging that history, it can feel like it’s only brushing against what reggaetón’s really capable of..

Vocally, Bad Bunny sticks to what he knows — a relaxed delivery with that signature tone. But unless the lyrics hit something personal or political, his emotional range tends to stay quite level. Not a complaint, just something to note. He’s built a massive career off being the chill, detached guy who sometimes gets deep — and here, he just doesn’t.

'ALAMBRE PúA' probably wasn’t meant to be a major release - I mean, he didn't even promote it. It doesn’t feel like a career-defining track, nor like a tease of a new musical era. It’s just a quick drop — something for fans, maybe, but not something that’s likely to stick. Compared to the thoughtful structure and lyrical play on DTMF, or even his other deep reggaeton albums, this one feels like a side quest.

That said, every artist has their filler songs, their experiments, their “this one’s for fun” moments. This might be one of those. If you vibe with it, cool. But if you’re left feeling a bit underwhelmed — or raising your eyebrows at the lyrics — you’re not alone.

Personally? It’s a skip. But that doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy it!

By Val Hernández 

Some songs are made to entertain, others to inspire. But ‘Desapareciste’, the haunting new track by Colombian artist Isabella Ruiz, exists to grieve — and to make you grieve with it. Across just under five minutes, Ruiz delivers one of the most emotionally charged ballads in recent memory, using her voice not just as an instrument, but as a vessel of collective pain.

Rooted in the reality of Colombia’s more than 120,000 disappeared since the 70s, the song doesn’t try to explain or dramatise the issue. It simply feels it. Ruiz channels the anguish of the families — especially the mothers — who live every day between hope and despair. The result is not a protest anthem or a chart-ready ballad. It’s a lament, pure and raw, that demands to be felt in full.
​
The instrumentation is minimal, and rightfully so. A sparse combination of piano and guitar (by Ricardo Laverde and Isabella Aguilera, respectively), soft snare (played by Alejandro Peña), and a low, steady bass (courtesy of Margarita Rodriguez) underpins the track. There’s even a subtle gong that echoes like an unanswered knock. But ‘Desapareciste’ is, above all, a vocal-driven experience. Ruiz, alongside background vocalist Sara Cartwright, makes that crystal clear from the first breath.

Her voice is, in a word, devastating. She shifts effortlessly between chest voice, falsetto, whisper, and belt — not to show off, but to carry the emotional weight of the story. It’s not about perfection; it’s about presence. You can feel the grief catching in her throat. The texture of her tone is sad, powerful, and bruised — like it’s been weeping for years.

There are moments in this song that hit so hard they knock the wind out of you. When she sings “por la calle desapareció”, Ruiz harmonises with herself in a way that turns the word "desapareció" into something almost sacred. It doesn’t just mean “disappeared” — it echoes like a name that’s been whispered to the wind over and over again, hoping it might reach whoever’s still out there.

Then comes the ending. And nothing can prepare you for it.

Ruiz repeats the word “desapareciste” — at first as a strong, almost screamed plea, and then as a quiet cry. With each repetition, her voice begins to fragment, like a radio losing signal or a phone call that’s slowly cutting out. It’s one of the most powerful uses of vocal effects I’ve heard in years — a subtle production choice that replicates the horror of suddenly losing contact with someone, of silence becoming permanent.

Lyrically, the song leans into repetition — a deliberate choice that reflects the obsessive, never-ending cycle of grief. Lines like “por la noche no llegó” and “ya no alumbraba ni la luna” land like gut punches. They don’t need metaphors. They are the metaphor. You’re not just hearing the words — you’re sitting in the dark, waiting too.

What makes ‘Desapareciste’ so urgent is that it’s not a historical ballad. It’s painfully current. Disappearances in Colombia didn’t stop with the peace accords. In fact, they’re still happening — often in silence, and with near-total impunity. In just the first quarter of 2025, 1,158 people were reported missing in Colombia — an average of around 12 cases per day. Of that quarterly total, 405 were minors (124 boys and 281 girls), while 733 were adults (577 men and 156 women). Many of us have become desensitised to it, scrolling past the missing posters, muting the protests, treating the violence like background noise. Ruiz’s song shatters that quiet. She’s not here to tell you what to think — she’s here to make you feel what others live with every day. 

And that’s where ‘Desapareciste’ becomes more than just a song. It’s a space for memory, and maybe even a form of resistance. In a country where thousands are still searching — and where many of those in power would rather forget — this track says, clearly and tearfully: we remember. And more importantly: we’re not okay.

Ruiz doesn’t position herself as a spokesperson. She doesn’t claim answers. She gives you grief, straight and undiluted. It’s a brave choice — especially in a music scene that often rewards escapism over discomfort. But ‘Desapareciste’ proves that discomfort is sometimes exactly what we need.

In a just world, this song would go viral. Not for clout or playlist spots, but because every Colombian — and honestly, every Latin American — should be reminded that the crisis of the disappeared is not normal. It never was. And unless we actively remember, it risks becoming just another unspoken wound.

Would this song work in a government campaign? Maybe.
​Would they ever dare use it? Probably not. And that says everything.

Ultimately, ‘Desapareciste’ is not a casual listen. It’s not background music. It’s a five-minute reckoning — a whispered scream for those who were taken, and those who are still waiting. If it doesn’t leave you with a lump in your throat or a pit in your chest, you weren’t really listening.

And honestly, we should all be listening.

Isabella Ruiz Gallardo is a Colombian singer who first gained national attention at age 14 on La Voz Kids Colombia in 2014. She's currently the vocalist of the Banda Filarmónica Juvenil de Bogotá, while also pursuing two college degrees at Universidad Javeriana: music (with an emphasis on vocal jazz) and psychology.

She launched her first solo single, 'Luna,' in 2020, complete with a video on YouTube. Isabella continues building her presence across music platforms —combining a classical foundation in piano (which she began at age 4) with a passion for songwriting and performance .

Isabella also speaks on various causes close to her heart, including LGBTQ+ rights (she also identifies as bisexual), slow fashion, better pay for small artists (she actively boycotts Spotify), among others. 

The album opens with a gentle, contemplative intro and grows in emotional depth with each track. On Therapy Session, for instance, Bieber confronts the weight of emotional self-pressure with raw honesty, singing: “It starts to make me feel like I'm the one with issues and everyone else is perfect.” Later, in Devotion featuring Dijon, he explores emotional commitment with delicate tenderness: “When something's wrong, you can tell me 'bout the whole thing / If you call out to me, I'll swing, leave the door open for me."

​The variety of sounds not only reflects Bieber’s musical evolution, but also his ability to adapt without losing his essence. The collaborations are well-curated and bring nuance to the album’s narrative without ever overshadowing his presence. SWAG feels intimate yet ambitious, minimal yet polished, and it maintains a consistent stylistic cohesion that invites the listener to experience it from start to finish. It’s not an album built around a single viral hit. It’s a complete body of work, designed as an emotional journey — quiet at times, uncomfortable at others, but always honest.

​Bieber now sings to heal, to rebuild, and to share with his audience the nuances of his inner growth. With SWAG, the artist dares to be unapologetically vulnerable, forging a deeper connection with those who have followed him throughout his career. It’s an invitation to see him in a new light — not as the teen idol of a decade ago, but as a human being who has had to rebuild himself from within.