Written by Jax Figarola One should always listen to a trance album with an open mind, open heart, and an open area to move freely and dance. D Waviee’s ‘Epitome’ reads less like an album than a carefully staged rite of passage. Rite of passage (detachment, liminality, incorporation) in a way that the album stages a formal emotional transition for its listeners. Only at first, it might seem like a collection of tracks produced over time by D Waviee and simply arranged for the release of her sophomore album, but the first few tracks already interrupt the flow of mundane daily sounds. As an independent producer, she fashions her sets into ecstatic incantations; on record she does the same and invites listeners to a manufactured liminality of a dissolving material world. Yet, the texture of music, as an art form, remains in this world. The opening title track performs this perfectly: voices layered like organ lines, a fractal cascade, and a wind that seems to hug and lift you, until you register that you are not dancing alone, but part of a constructed sociocultural matrix that accepts music as cathartic like the rave scene. “Blizzard,” a techno-trance wink at Far East Movement’s “Like A G6,” and the light “Moody,” steer the album to a Jersey-club glitch vogue realness, which feels like walking into liminal geography. And if rave culture has always flirted with ritual, the album makes that flirtation explicit. There’s a temporary suspension (or detachment) of the social selves that makes it possible to enjoy yourself with a new sense of belonging. Therefore, midway through, ‘Epitome’ sharpens into a focused body of art. “Put It Down – Femme Queen Edit” in its Jersey-club, explicitly queer choreography, and vogue-ish punctures pivots into her most dangerous and most thrilling track “Electric Erotica,” which as a track feels like being fucked in all holes by a bionic octopus. Here, the body transforms into a site of ambiguous desire. The track is not sexual, but it is sexualized in a way that feels intentionally destabilizing, suggesting that the body in trance is neither wholly male nor female, but a porous, androgynous surface for electronic music to latch on. That interface is programmed to give temporary liberation, just as the track is programmed to put you into a sexual-psychedelic trance. Thus, the concept coheres from the fifth track to the eleventh. D Waviee’s techno flip of Pette Shabu’s “COA” starts the sequence to the project’s most successful continuity exercises. “Shot Para Igat” is libidinal and kinetic with all the moaning sounds and it feels like reaching the climax. However, the record jolts toward an awkward “Green Light (Extended Mix),” almost like an interstitial pop serenade in the middle of a ritual, as “818” and the ending “Bleach & Tone” tilt the project toward memory work. The latter, with its dusted PS2-era textures and pre-rendered nostalgia, performs the incorporation phase: the collective spirit, after its temporary detachment, returns altered to the world and carries a residue of the night as memory. There is a delicate, enchanted quality here — an insistence that communal dance can rewrite how we relate to technological and cultural memory, as if those PS2 textures remind us of the manufactured nostalgia’s power to anchor us back into our own living reality. The project may occasionally feel disembodied, and it’s a part of its strategy as much as its weakness. This made the opening songs read more like experiments. Further, sounds and the self become more fidgety, and the records become very danceable. In this sense, ‘Epitome’ is less about individual tracks, but about what the listener performs for themselves. The album becomes a mirror for how one carries the energy to a liminal space that they enjoy. Like any other dance album, it’s a highly participatory work. D Waviee’s performance ethos posits that euphoric dance is something made, not merely found. Raves’ socially unrestrained atmosphere already captures the spirit of trance music. It is through the act of assigning memory to her music that the listening experience shifts into something more joyous and sustaining than simply dancing. Lastly, there is a sense of alchemy in how D Waviee, as a producer, turns influences of different genres (Jersey club, acid trance, techno) into tools for communities to use to map the sounds that reconfigure social intimacy. If trance is a practice of temporary unmaking, D Waviee’s ‘Epitome’ is the night’s manual. It needs you to surrender your social script, to accept a shared illusion, and to step back into the world with a new, quieter devotion to your body, to the people who moved beside you, and to whatever tenderness the music carved through your night. D Waviee was able to turn sexiness into cathartic communal love for electronic dance music. It’s the reason why trans is a near-homophone of trance. SUPPORT THE ART AND THE ARTIST: Epitome by D Waviee
Category: ALBUMS
ALBUM REVIEW: zayALLCAPS – art Pop * pop Art
Written by Faye Allego If the very peak days of MYX were still around, zayALLCAPS would take that television channel by storm with his musical endeavors, but in this era of DIY, the listening experience of ‘art Pop * pop Art’ is more than enough. In his third studio album, zayALLCAPS seems fun but careful; It’s camp, it’s arbitrary, and it isn’t indulging in the Y2K music nostalgia for the solemn sake of doing so. Zay couldn’t be more clearer: It’s art, and it’s pop. Simple as that. On shuffle, ‘art Pop * pop Art’ is as if your ears are tuning in on different circles of people whom you’ll find at a gig with an hour-long DJ set: “MTV’s Pimp My Ride” is playing when guys in loose jersey shirts are rolling their bodies near the turntable, presumably having the time of their lives. In tracks like “PROCESS,” multiple rhythmic melodies come in like a triple threat – the threat being that Zay stays true to his Instagram username, “Swagalog101”. Dare I say, he has the full potential to bring back the term “Jeproks/Jeprox” through his amalgamation of Jodeci influences in his more sensual sounds. zayALLCAPS pays no cap on that production. Who knew aggressive autotune that sounds like a talk box blended with smooth harmonies into a foamy mic could sound so orgasmic? The thing is, autotune discourse is so overtly tired, but tracks like SATURN (ft. Anto The Wayward) bring plus points to those who simply don’t care about the “correct” usage of autotune. Zay oscillates between tracks through the velvety theatrics of autotune without sounding too hazy or, for lack of a better word, monotone. It’s not a watermark that defines his artistry; however, through the funky textures of “rWm”, this track proves that autotune can be an extension of his persona, bringing prismatic bursts into the listener’s ears without drowning in reverb or harmonies that sound like a repeated Coca-Cola burp. The only downside is that lyrically, Zay keeps it rather dull; “Friendz U Can Kiss” (ft. Frizzy) tries to juxtapose well with the sharp engineering of the album’s seductive yet upbeat production, but the rhythms from the rhymes that match the melody seem to be its only saving grace. In tracks like “Love In U,” lyrics like “Minimizing my synonyms I incentivize a new beginning/Who said I couldn’t? Regrouped I’m super in it/I run the ship like a troop and I’m the new lieutenant/ Had to switch it up staged a coup that’s how I reinvented” bring that campiness element to the song and the album because visually, it seems impossible to mentally illustrate these lyrics in a more retrospective sense, since the synths already provide the fun, lighthearted atmosphere. Nevertheless, the lexis and rhythm bring out the colors within its blues. At its best, ‘art Pop * pop Art’ is a kaleidoscope and a rotating disco ball where sparkly theatrics cast a bright reflection and bursts zayALLCAPS’ sheer personality. The recycling of nostalgia doesn’t exist in any part of his art and succeeds at making art very pop. SUPPORT THE ART AND THE ARTIST: art Pop * pop Art by zayALLCAPS
ALBUM REVIEW: Dark Horse – Spirituals
Written by Nikolai Dineros There is this inherent pressure for concept albums to be atemporal. Perhaps rooted in misinterpretation, the idea of a concept album being similar to that of an odyssey revealing gospel truths of whatever musings its creator has willed into existence. What follows usually is a prophetic candor reaching apocalyptic scales. Dark Horse’s debut album ‘Spirituals’ challenged my idea of a concept album. Behind ‘Spirituals’ is an ensemble from two major players in the underground — and I don’t mean any local music scene. Renowned author and alternative culture connoisseur Karl De Mesa and Ronnel Vivo of the Vivo Brothers fame (known for Basalt Shrine, Dagtum, Sound Carpentry Records, atbp.), among others, join forces to create this brooding experimental doom folk project. The production of ‘Spirituals’ showcases the duo’s mastery of dread. Despite his proclivities and inclination for heavy sounds that demand your full attention, Vivo’s presence in ‘Spirituals’ is more understated than in his previous projects. This time, he plays a complementary role, taking charge in creating the needed ambience that gives De Mesa’s performance the urgency and biblical breadth fitting for an album that is more prose than a technical display of musical proficiency. The name Karl De Mesa is one linked to horror, more so the banality of it in the life of the everyday Filipino. Anyone familiar with his body of work would know his affliction for themes of family and resistance. The album’s single “Comrade Buddha” revisits this common Demesian trope, as explored in his earlier essays found in “Report from the Abyss.” More succinctly, a postmortem reflection of an ideal or a past, more formative self that bore witness to such tumultuous events. Binding spirituality and armed resistance and weaving it into a perturbed hymn is just the cherry on top, further displaying the masterful duo of De Mesa and Vivo. Meanwhile, “I Offer Pslams” finds the author recounting his memories in specific places, paying tribute to his mother in a solemn act of devotion. The album’s denouement, “Airwaves (A New Song of Darkness),” carries an oppressive air that leaves the listener in a claustrophobic state, as supplemented by Vivo’s scornful production work. These are just two examples of how De Mesa reveals himself in his writings; it is no surprise that these characteristics would bleed into his music. And not to mention, “I Offer Psalms” and “Comrade Buddha” are two of the highlights from this album. The other tracks, however, all follow the same pattern: tirades of cataclysmic scales interwoven in layers of cryptic wordplay – some are piercing, some barely scrape the epidermis. With all that being said, ‘Spirituals’ left me with more questions than answers. First, the album did not leave us with a satisfying conclusion to ascertain its connection to De Mesa’s past works, perhaps by design. What does the concept of an album say about the ever-changing state of the artist? Does it hold water when challenged by time and circumstance? ‘Spirituals’ approaches ideas in albums not like the be-all-end-all I may have mistaken them to be. Rather, it takes a larger-than-life concept (that is, De Mesa’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the systemic horrors he grew up with) and shrinks it to the size of a ball — a small yet dense ball. It might take me forever to parse every line, every subtext in Dark Horse’s debut album in connection to what I know of the artists involved in this project, how Vivo interpreted and translated these messages into sound, and how ideas can be tackled and revolved around by artists pursuing such ambitious endeavors. For now, I am satisfied with the knowledge that ideas are temporal. There are no hard-and-fast rules in creating art that stands the test of time — or even if they should. Whether ideas are reflective of the artist’s current state of mind, the connection ends the next time they hold the pen. Support the art and the artist: Spirituals by Dark Horse
ALBUM REVIEW: mako badco – songs from a time
Written by Elijah P. When the buzzing synths mimic analog guitar riffs or a drum machine slices through autotuned wails of teenage yearning, you know you’re inside mako badco’s world. On ‘songs from a time,’ that world feels like an endless internet feed—chaotic, messy, oddly moving. It’s the sound of a keyboard tumbling into infinite melodies, sometimes colliding, sometimes euphoric, always glued together by curiosity and instinct. The project first surfaced in the algorithmic haze of SoundCloud, buried among my recommendations, but what sets it apart is how addictive it becomes once you tune in. mako badco pulls from trance, indietronica, and experimental hip-hop in the vein of Evanora Unlimited, underscores, and deer park, yet reshapes those influences into something less polished but more personal. Across its quick 19 minutes, ‘songs from a time’ offers surprising range within its lo-fi haze. “someone real,” featuring ivy2k, pairs glitchy crooning with a cracked emotional pulse. “offline!” veers toward overt sentimentality, a yearning for connection in a world that never seems to log out. The highlight, “relieve me of…,” leans on low-pass breakbeats and submerged atmospherics, hitting hard without overstaying its welcome. Each track feels like a fragment pulled from an endless scroll, but together they form a snapshot of what it’s like to be young, wired-in, and searching. If the project falters, it’s in its looseness—songs sometimes drift without resolution, melodies threaten to evaporate before fully landing. But the imperfection is part of the charm. In between the buzzing synths and cracked vocals is a clear voice brimming with earnestness and restless ambition. It may not yet be fully formed, but ‘songs from a time’ makes one thing clear: mako badco has potential worth watching, grain, noise, and all. Support the art & the artist:
ALBUM REVIEW: The Braille Flowers – Lilac Dreams of a Second-Degree Non-Conformist
Written by Noelle Alarcon If you’ve ever spent even a fraction of a minute in Manila’s local underground, chances are you’ve already witnessed The Braille Flowers in action. Whether they’re offering stickers as they wade through the crowd, or creating sonic magic with their instruments under neon lights, there’s no doubt that the band’s members are a welcome presence in the tight-knit communities of artists and enthusiasts alike that run within the scene. These nights down under, usually characterized by a selection of beer bottles, sweaty moshpits, and yosi breaks in the cool evening air, breathe life into The Braille Flowers’ debut album: ‘Lilac Dreams of a Second-Degree Non-Conformist.’ Long as the title may be, it’s a name that only begins to make sense when you bask in that specific feeling, punctuated by the haze of the guitar pedals and the album’s constant desire to live in a moment that a pariah of society’s rigid conventions can find solace and romance in. ‘Lilac Dreams…’ is a release that mirrors its scene predecessors; The Braille Flowers’ ability to write about vulnerability in a manner that sounds like small talk about the weather is similar to the air of nihilism that echoes from the lyrics of The Geeks. On the other hand, the way they couple quirky male vocals with jittery, pop rock influenced drums is reminiscent of We Are Imaginary’s captivating, dreamlike musical style. The album’s singles show The Braille Flowers’ strengths; they’ve mastered the art of creating a cohesive album that still shows their variety and flexibility. “Lately” is a sweet train of thought that steadily grows louder as the infatuation continues to blossom. It’s a track that lends its attention to the high of being in love, not shying away from the intensity it brings as kick drum focused-fills gradually escalate the impact of its catchy, sugary guitar riff. “The Magician Was Shot Dead (Scarlet Rivers),” on the other hand, peeks out from the band’s “popgaze” box. The raspier vocals and whispers that accompany its palm-muted rise to the climax complement each other well. The sharper edge of ‘Lilac Dreams…’ contributes to its ability to invoke nostalgia, a callback to the preference of 2010s alternative music for squeaky clean, sharp production that’s tied altogether with the bow of a powerful rhythm section. The Braille Flowers’ debut is self-expression at its best; the concept even shines through in the serene instrumentals that serve as interludes for the next sessions of reflection and rumination. Perhaps it’s a release that focuses on the peace brought by honesty. But as a record that banks on the intimacy of being understood, it could probably flesh out the euphoria brought by such an experience through a wider range of sounds and expressions. At the end of the day, maybe the utilization of such a specific sound is what makes ‘Lilac Dreams of a Second-Degree Non-Conformist’ the record that it is-–a lush, fuzz-filled dream that everyone can hold up a mirror to. It’s a blueprint for every other non-conformist’s personal manifesto, ready to accompany you when you get feelings too difficult to put into words. Support the art & the artist:
ALBUM REVIEW: agatka – BLACK SPRING
Written by Lex Celera After a feature in Fax Gang and Parannoul’s collaborative album, and an appearance in Sining Shelter’s 2024 compilation tunes for a true home, Texas-based agatka’s sophomore album Black Spring arrives in the wake of what can be described as a tumultuous time for the artist. Presented as a “true documentary of all the things I’ve felt in the past year and a half” by agatka, Black Spring is a pulverizing blood rush straight to the dome when considered in its entirety. Across each track, the project warps in different tonal and sonic shifts and constantly dips itself into abrasion balanced out by tracks that allow you to catch your breath. “PISTOL ROUND,” “ROLL THE DICE, I LOSE AGAIN,” and “DOORDASH THERAPY” (in what appears to be in the same arrangement heard in tunes for a true home) barge in guns ablazing, simmer down, then pick up again at five tracks down; trap 808s, beheaded producer tags, Vocaloid sample flips, gutteral echoes, and high-energy grooves, deftly find their respective places in the album, alongside its shoutouts including Fax Gang, Andy Milonakis, and Counter Strike. In this regard, agatka falls in line alongside their contemporaries in placemaking their discography with internet artifacts, which serve as not just sonic decoration but also as referential material for the extremely online. Not only that, but framed within America’s sociopolitical landscape, Black Spring is also a direct response to and a first-person observation of America’s many failings, especially under its current administration, from a first-generation Filipino immigrant. “I FEEL FANTASTIC” depicts scenarios of violence against the far-right and a distrust of the system at play. Stitched by its commitment to verisimilitude, agatka has created a body of work that not only appears coherent in its accumulation of unapologetic angst and trauma across the span of it being produced, but condenses it into a vision that lands. I find myself returning to a number of tracks after initial full album listens: “CAMERON COUNTY COWBOYZ” emerges as a standout in its juxtaposition; wrapped around a silky smooth sample, stream-of-consciousness confessional lyrics end in a crescendo that pierces right through: “I can’t let go / I haunt myself / just like a ghost.” Meanwhile, “LORD FORGIVE ME” and its ruminations on existential and spiritual crises are on top of a thumping club rhythm, which comes across as catharsis in its three-minute runtime. Beyond these categorizations, Black Spring emerges as a body of work that could stand beyond its fixation on the present. Recorded across different locations in the United States over almost a year, the fifteen-track album comes across as an assemblage of raw moods and textures that carry the weight of its lyrics from the moment it was written down, distilled into a form that persists as something almost universal. Almost all of the lyrics of each track are written in the present tense, creating a sense of immediacy that, when addled with heavy production or laid bare, transports you to the same room where each track is made. Political statements and world-weary confessionals are rendered in the same way; one that can be seen as both tactile and tactless. Devoid of any need for metaphors, agatka’s “BLACK SPRING” serves as a teller of their own unfiltered truths. SUPPORT THE ART & THE ARTIST:
ALBUM REVIEW: unikko ijo – kung ipagdaramot ang nadarama, saan ba tayo pupunta?
Written by JK Caray With worn-out confessions scattered across his discography, unikko ijo’s brand of writing has earned him a special place among yearners who cover his songs on a dying digicam or create intricate lyric art that gets passed around their timeline. But after half a decade of writing unrequited ballads, the solo artist seems to have hit a checkpoint. His latest album entitled “kung ipagdaramot ang nadarama, saan ba tayo mapupunta?” shows a different resolve from the same artist who understands a little more about what it means to love. “malayo sa lupa ang bituin” starts the album at its lowest point, thematically. The blaring electronic pianos set an alluring backdrop alongside his defeated quips as unikko ijo contemplates whether it’s worth it to keep loving. Amidst its catchy melody that predates virality, the song also asks the most important question yet, “itatago nalang ba ang nadarama sa iyo?”. Throughout the album, he gradually builds up his answer. Halfway, songs like “kakaiba,” “matiwasay,” and “sapat nang hindi ka magsalita” fluffs up that familiar melding of Manila sound and lo-fi bedroom pop unikko ijo’s known for. The production is much more polished while retaining those intimate imperfections that drive home the sincerity in his words. As always, the solo artist is effective at building choruses that plant themselves in your eardrums. The simple song structure in the form of drum loops and hooky guitar riffs serves not only as a vessel but as the driving force for his talent at infiltrating your emotions with his intimacy and relatability. In “Hiwaga”, we get unikko ijo’s answer in the form of a question that bears the name of the album. “kung ipagdaramot ang nadarama, saan ba tayo pupunta?” shares the sentiment that fruitless longing gets us nowhere. Those unspoken words, stolen looks, and hidden letters all turn to rot on their own. In hoarding your feelings and creating your own stories, you’ve built an inescapable tower, becoming a reminder that self-contained devotion can be selfish. What good does our silent pining do if it’s not to be seen? To be felt? To be transformed into another thing? Where do these intense emotions linger if not become the catalyst of our self-destruction? It may sound harsh for some and inspiring for others, but this is a truth that most of us have forgotten. After all, what use does love have if not shared? The key to all this seems obvious. A line in “malayo sa lupa ang bituin” goes “babaguhin ko ang sarili ko”, a phrase that explains how the singer-songwriter sees the shift in his perspective that led to this album. At a glance, unikko ijo may seem like the type of artist who only has one gimmick, but this release reveals how he is capable of pushing the envelopes of his niche. “kung ipagdaramot” is the kind of album that emerges when an artist becomes aware of the clichés that surround his music and evolves along with it. SUPPORT THE ART & THE ARTIST:
ALBUM REVIEW: He Forgot He Died – I’ll Be Fine, I Guess
Written by Noelle Alarcon Surrender to the sound. That’s what He Forgot He Died, also known as Tadako, wants you to do. Proudly bearing the title of slowcore, the artist embraces the qualities confined within the genre. It takes from the definitions and descriptions, but “I’ll Be Fine, I Guess” is far from inauthentic. Running a little over 40 minutes, his musings find shelter and comfort in the classifications of his music. Like most songs under the slowcore umbrella, those that make up “I’ll Be Fine, I Guess” accompany and encourage introspection; the discovery of your innermost self. Tadako utilizes the thicker strings of the guitar to echo the weight of vulnerability. This release is as raw as it gets. In “night,” the fourth track of the album, his fingers sliding up and down the frets accompany his somber singing; slightly grating, yet comfortably a sign of his humanity. In “2:34 am,” the crickets and raindrops whisper along the sound of contemplation that drones on. The album’s greatest strength is its candidness; it’s like a friend confiding in you and opening up so you can confide in them too. Though most of the work consists of wandering, with wistful emotions speaking for themselves along the strings of the guitar, it has its moments of upbeatness. They do not reflect vibrance in the traditional sense, though. When there are drums, the ride cymbal and the kick drum are most audibly prominent. They sound more like a heartbeat drumming up during uncertainty; like how the artist admits he doesn’t know where to start in “time.” It’s a skill derived from noticing the littlest details that he’s able to communicate shared anxieties through sound itself. Tadako’s subdued vocals capture the intimacy of his work. His words are simple and read like diary entries; these thoughts don’t rise above the mix, like how vocals usually would. They float through the weighted soundscapes like thoughts at the most quiet hours of dawn; fleeting and indecipherable, honest and filled with regrets. “I’ll Be Fine I Guess” is so undeniably human that it’s heartbreaking, moving, to face the depths of life head on – ”tell mom I’m sorry,” he sings. “I’ll Be Fine, I Guess” explores what there is to do and who to become. It’s an album that knows what it is supposed to be by an artist who loyally sticks to the sound he wants to pursue. In a fast-paced world, people discourage staying in their own comfort zones. This album is a comfort zone worth revisiting and relistening to when things get heavy, especially for fellow advocates of the slowcore genre. The trademark simplicity it carries makes it a sonic shoulder to cry on; an effective set of tunes ready to serve as company. SUPPORT THE ART & THE ARTIST:
ALBUM REVIEW: Supafly — GRA GRA GC10SHEEP
Written by Elijah P. Greenhouse Records has never been short on rappers—the kind who call themselves “young stunnas” with a straight face, or the ones who treat head-to-toe blue as a genuine lifestyle rather than a fashion choice. Some are punchlines, others are bullet magnets, but Supafly? He’s built differently. Or at least that’s the idea. His latest album, GRA GRA GC10SHEEP, positions itself as a victory lap following 2022’s BAKASAKALI and his collaboration album with Because, but three years is a long time in rap, and Greenhouse’s rise—marked by block parties, barangay SK gigs, and a UP Fair slot—hasn’t necessarily sharpened Supafly’s edge. If anything, it’s left him leaning on a crew that’s more crutch than cavalry. Tracks like “LOOT” (featuring Hellmerry) and “Batista Bomb” stand out precisely because they’re among the few where Supafly doesn’t drown in guest verses. There’s a swagger here that doesn’t require a posse to prop it up—no filler, no dead space. But those moments are rare. Too often, GRA GRA GC10SHEEP feels like a relay race where nobody drops the baton, but nobody really sprints either. The album’s midsection is a revolving door of Greenhouse’s usual suspects: Gat Putch, Buddahbeads, Lexus, and Sica. Their verses don’t elevate each other; they congest the tracklisting from start to finish. On “AUTOFLY,” a hook that could’ve hit hard instead lands like an afterthought, buried under a testosterone pile-up. Worse, the production leans on references so blatant they border on parody. “SIZZURP” rides a Memphis bounce that’s less homage and more hand-me-down, while “BATISTA BOMB” nicks the skeletal menace of Travis Scott and Playboi Carti’s “FE!N” without adding anything new. When the album works, it’s despite itself. “LOOT,” “BALAGBAGAN,” and “DGHR” are chaotic in the best way; the kind of tracks where the energy feels live-wired, unpredictable, and hard-hitting production-wise. But this is supposed to be Supafly’s show, and GRA GRA GC10SHEEP rarely lets him own it. For a rapper who’s spent years carving out a name, this album oddly insists he’s just another face in the crowd. The irony? Greenhouse’s rise might’ve given him a bigger stage, but here, he’s still playing backup. Support the art and the artist:
ALBUM REVIEW: Michael Seyer – Boylife
Written by Faye Allego During the peak years of the Bedroom music era, Michael Seyer was indeed in his bedroom and making music described as “Beachy Stoner Rock,” Alternative Dreampop, and even Hypnagogic Pop. However, his body of work is far from your typical bedroom sound: his debut album, Ugly Boy, is like that one SB-129 episode from SpongeBob in the way that existential longing and loneliness are its primary themes; in “Bad Bonez”, Seyer reconstructs a warm, aching sorrow that would be heard instead of being seen in an Edvard Munch painting; and in A Good Fool, a newer, heavier wave of tenderness that was slightly hinted in his Nostalgia EP tugs your heartstrings with more depth than any of his previous work. In Boylife, Michael Seyer doesn’t offer a coming-of-age bedroom pop anthem or a grand expedition on the epic highs and lows of navigating masculinity in the Fil-Am diaspora. Released under his brand new, independent DIY label Seyerland, the new album shares the same warm, subtle hues from his previous work through his persistent use of slow-moving percussion, delay effects, a mushy vignette of white and brown noises, and his loosely subdued vocals — only that this time, Seyer’s lair of creativity sheds layers of existential tensions and packs in horizons of growth, reflection, and endless love. Taking inspiration from John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band where Lennon randomly adds a Cookie Monster adlib in “Hold On” to make the song more fun, personal, and maybe even hint an inside joke that the listener can’t understand, Seyer surely reflects on these quirks: forming his own knicks and bolts to create an effect in a dozen tracks of pure sound and soul that is 100% his own unique story. It’s a risky yet intimate act of connection between the songwriter and the listener when the former writes music for their own reflections only. We see Seyer take that risk in Boylife, dissecting boyhood through the overarching theme of his art: nostalgia. His unfiltered essence then transforms into shared emotion, where tracks like “Folktales,” “Taylor,” and “I Want To Be Your Dog” become hymns, choruses, and letters that come from understanding and experiencing. The first three songs off of Boylife are a Dolly-effect zoom into where Michael Seyer is in his mind: he’s everywhere. The album begins as a sensory experience — it unfolds less like repetitive songs and more like a grounding technique for a young man realising that he has a place in this world, and now questions himself: “Is there something a man is supposed to become?” and even takes a jag at God to realise what love could mean in “Fiend,” where he sings “I need God, God’s not back.” With each passing track, being worried about Michael Seyer is a non-negotiable. “Don’t Worry” uses a descending melody as Seyer descends into a full-fledged crash-out– an honest yet cannon event for most people. Followed by a messy drum sequence in “Manlife,” the listener is then whiplashed at the very end as a nearly inaudible, muffled voice that is Seyer’s Father reaching out to him: “Hey Migs, it’s Dad, call me.” Perhaps it’s safe to say that sometimes, all it takes is a voice call from a loved one to snap back into the real world, or to look through a lens that isn’t so clouded with grain and distortion. Speaking of distortion, the latter end of Boylife shies away from the loudness and upbeat songs about growing pains and stays loyal to the Lennon-esque demos and outtakes approach, where the primary instrument is an acoustic guitar that is paired with timeless serenades of love poems and reassurances. The lines “We can be ghosts together/And we’ll disappear/ We can be ghosts together/ When there’s no one near” conclude and showcase Seyer’s most deeply quiet yet distilled form. He isn’t trying to resolve the chaos of Boyhood, he instead embraces it. He embraces the liminality, the softness, the ache. Michael Seyer gifts a scrapbook of memories through ambient noise, whispered admissions, squeaky yet steady vocals, certainly a Stratocaster of sorts, likely a second-hand synthesiser from the Glam Rock era, and lovesick lullabies that feel so intimate yet so profoundly universal. Michael Seyer doesn’t gift a resolution but more a revelation to himself: the revelation of becoming. Becoming a son, a boy, a man, an artist, a lover, a person, and all the feelings that come with that. Support the art and the artist: