ANNAHSTASIA, TETHER

There’s something quietly defiant about Tether, the debut album from Los Angeles artist Annahstasia. It’s not built for attention or noise. It moves slowly, deliberately, and asks to be heard on its own terms.

That intention, it turns out, is no accident. In a recent conversation with Forbes, Annahstasia reflected on her resistance to the demands of the music industry and the digital age. “I never felt comfortable drawing attention to myself for no reason,” she said. Instead, she sees her music, and her presence, as something that invites rather than commands. Like someone in the corner of a party, waiting for real connection. “I’m going to just perform this at my volume, at my pace,” she said, “let everybody crouch to listen.”

Tether reflects that same honesty. Annahstasia writes to heal, for herself and for those who struggle to name what they feel. The songs are tender, vulnerable, and unguarded, what she calls “a baby bird with a broken wing.” What unfolds across the album is a quiet reflection on identity, forgiveness, and the slow work of coming home to yourself.

Tether is simply a beautiful album about finding steadiness within. It’s subtle and tender and lit by a kind of inner glow, and in this moment, that’s exactly what makes it so moving.

ART d'ECCO, SERENE DEMON

For Serene Demon, his fourth album, Canadian artist Art d’Ecco stepped into the streets of New York to chase something unfiltered and human. The result is a cinematic, glam-tinged art rock record that thrives on contradiction: playful yet brooding, structured yet abstract, existential yet driven by groove. For Art it's not just a sonic shift, it’s a philosophical one.

Influenced by Albert Camus, film noir, soul legend Curtis Mayfield, and jazz greats like Miles Davis and George Gershwin, Art uses the album to explore life’s central contradictions; freedom vs. fate, belief vs. doubt, good vs. evil. The title track itself is a long-form dialogue between a believer and an existentialist, built not just as a song but as a scene. Rather than offering answers, it invites the listener to sit with uncertainty. As Art puts it, Serene Demon is a story about the demons we carry and the strange beauty of questioning everything.

Sonically, Serene Demon draws from the DNA of art rock and glam pioneers like David Bowie, T. Rex, Roxy Music, and Japan, each leaving a distinct mark on its sound and style. Echoes of Bowie’s Station to Station shape the album’s noir-inflected grandeur, while the swagger recalls T. Rex and the sleek, art-pop detachment nods to Roxy Music. Japan’s synth-laced melancholy threads through its more restrained moments. Together, these influences provide a framework for Art’s own evolving vision.

Serene Demon is a master class in how an artist channels his view of the world, hazy, layered, and unpredictable, and transforms it into a distinct musical space that’s entirely his own. The result is a record that’s vivid, theatrical, and totally cool.

JESSE DANIEL, SON OF THE SAN LORENZO

When Jesse Daniel talks about Son of the San Lorenzo, there’s a quiet certainty in his voice. He produced the record himself, wrote and arranged each track with intention, and mapped out the arc like a story, starting with “Child Is Born” and ending with “The End.” It’s not just his fifth album. It’s a pivot point.

The title track first appeared back in 2020 on Rollin’ On, but this time around, it hits differently, slower, more reflective, and more rooted in identity. “A lot of people started calling me the ‘Son of the San Lorenzo,’” he says. “It stuck, and it gave me a sense of pride.” The nickname became the album’s title and, in many ways, its statement of purpose. This was the story he needed to tell before he could move forward.

Daniel's story runs deep. He's been clean since 2017, after years of addiction, jail, and recovery. Songs like “Crankster” and “One’s Too Many (And A Thousand Ain’t Enough)” speak plainly about that history. “He” takes a more reflective turn, written as a message to his younger self, built from the kind of hard-won advice he once got in recovery. “It helps me,” he says, “but I’m also trying to help other people.” Then there’s “Jodi,” a simple love song for his partner and longtime collaborator, Jodi Lyford. It covers a lot, addiction, loss, near-death experiences, but says it plainly. “It wasn’t easy to write,” he admits, “but it needed to be written.”

Sonically, the record pulls from the sounds that shaped him early on. “These are the deepest, most personal songs I’ve ever written,” Daniel says. “I wanted to get back to my roots, and a lot of the things I grew up on were country rock, classic rock, Southern rock, and a lot of country- and folk-influenced things.” The Byrds, the Eagles, the Flying Burrito Brothers, Led Zeppelin, the Allman Brothers, the Stones, they’re all in there. It all feeds into the way this record feels, less polished, more direct, more him.

At 32, Daniel is focused on telling his story in an open, honest way. Son of the San Lorenzo balances lived experience with bigger questions, how to use time well, how to keep creating, how to move forward without forgetting where you’re from. It’s personal, grounded, and sharp in its storytelling, a record about place, recovery, and clarity. It’s a story he needed to tell and was ready to tell it. And it couldn’t have been told better.

LITTLE SIMZ, LOTUS

From her early mixtapes and teenage freestyles to the Mercury-winning Sometimes I Might Be Introvert, Little Simz has always carved her own path. She avoided trends, favored complexity over simplicity, and stayed true to her voice. But at 31, the North London artist hit a wall. The spark that once drove her had faded, and for the first time, she questioned whether she had anything left to say. Self-doubt crept in, quietly and gradually, and left her uncertain. 

That loss of momentum was tied to the breakdown of her relationship with longtime producer and childhood friend Inflo. What had once been a close, creative partnership turned into silence, and eventually, legal conflict. The damage wasn’t just professional. It was personal, and it left Simz shaken. 

Still, she returned to the one place that had always made sense to her, the studio 

Simz’s sound has always blended blended elements of nu-soul, orchestral jazz, and alternative hip-hop. On Lotus, her sixth album, that foundation remains, but her voice feels sharper, more open, and more vulnerable. This record didn’t come from confidence. It came from fracture. 

“This album is the most exposed I’ve ever felt,” she said. “Literally, here’s my diary.” Unlike earlier records that carried a sense of control, Lotus feels like release. The songs don’t cover the wounds, they show them. But there’s strength in that. She may have been hurt, but she isn’t hiding. The album leans into contrast and contradiction, and in that space, something honest takes shape. 

Named after the flower that grows in muddy waters, Lotus is an album about rebirth. Its strength lies not just in its candor or rage, but in Simz’s quiet decision to stay, to create, and to grow through loss. It’s a risk born of hope, and what she offers now isn’t just personal. It’s powerful.