With “Ghost Notes,” Preacher Boy Blends Tradition and Innovation Across 18 Unflinching Tracks

With Ghost Notes, Preacher Boy delivers a powerful, expansive record that draws from the raw emotional wellspring of country blues, the poetic sensibilities of American folk, and the experimental edge of alt-Americana. This 18-track album isn’t simply a return—it’s a career-defining statement, executed with clarity, confidence, and a deep reverence for the storytelling traditions that inform his work.

From the first track, Ghost Notes strikes with purpose. The arrangements are stark yet evocative, with slide guitar, gravel-toned vocals, and minimalist percussion forming the backbone of a sonic landscape that feels both rooted and restless. The instrumentation is never excessive; instead, it’s sculpted—crafted to serve the song rather than distract from it. Each note feels lived in, each lyric a fragment from a longer, untold story.

Preacher Boy has long operated at the intersection of form and innovation. While his work is unmistakably grounded in the blues, Ghost Notes stretches the genre’s boundaries. Songs like “New Red Cedar Blues” and “Chop Wood, Carry Water” are rhythmically assertive, marked by subtle shifts in phrasing and structure that keep the listener just off balance. Meanwhile, tracks such as “Light a Candle” and “Slow Crossing” lean into a more meditative space, allowing silence and restraint to speak as loudly as any chord.

Lyrically, the album is deeply introspective. Preacher Boy’s writing is mature and unflinching, weaving together themes of disillusionment, longing, endurance, and spiritual questioning. These are songs born from experience, not imitation. The narratives are fragmented and nonlinear—less traditional storytelling and more impressionistic sketches of a life shaped by movement and friction.

Perhaps what’s most striking about Ghost Notes is its refusal to conform. The album’s structure resists commercial formatting, its sound remains unpolished in all the right ways, and its thematic ambitions are unafraid to dwell in ambiguity. Tracks like “Don’t Know What to Think Anymore” and “Scene of the Crime” occupy a space between confession and confrontation. There’s no resolution, only a deepening inquiry.

This sense of defiance is reinforced by the production choices. The record sounds warm, but not overly refined—capturing the grit and grain of analog textures and acoustic imperfections. Vocals sit close to the ear, guitar strings rattle, room tone lingers. It’s an intimate listening experience that feels closer to a live performance than a studio product, as if the songs were captured in the moment rather than meticulously assembled.

As a body of work, Ghost Notes balances cohesiveness with breadth. Despite the number of tracks, the album never feels bloated. Each song adds something new to the emotional arc, whether it’s the swagger of “Bounce,” the elegiac mood of “No Rivers to Cross,” or the simmering tension in “Dashboard Dial.” This is a record that invites repeated listening—each return revealing a deeper texture, a missed detail, a previously buried truth.

In a musical landscape often dominated by trends and algorithms, Ghost Notes stands apart. It’s an album guided not by marketability, but by personal urgency and artistic integrity. Preacher Boy continues to push against the boundaries of what blues and Americana can be, without ever losing sight of where it all began. This isn’t just a career milestone—it’s a portrait of an artist still evolving, still questioning, and still carving his own path through the noise.

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George Collins Pushes Forward with Electrified Grit on “New Way”

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George Collins doesn’t just wear his influences on his sleeve. He very much channels them like a man with something urgent to get off his chest.

His new single “New Way” is a blistering, hook-heavy declaration of discontent and renewal. It opens with a fuzz-drenched guitar riff that’s instantly memorable.

Collins, who is a Washington D.C. born, Prague-based singer-songwriter with an unconventional path to music, knows how to get to the point. And in “New Way” the point is clear. Essentially, the world is a mess both culturally, politically, spiritually, and the time to shake things up has arrived.

It’s time for a new way – ’cause I know that something’s wrong

It’s time for a new way – it’s been going on too long

Tired of waiting. No more hesitating. Future’s unwritten – not set in stone.

What gives the track its bite though is not so much the urgency of its message, but the way it blends grit with melody. Anchored with tight drums and layered vocals that recall the energy of an early Costello, the tension of “The Rising” era Springsteen, and the swing for the rafters bravado of classic Stones. But it is all filtered through Collins’ own lens – that of a man who has spent decades in high finance before returning to music with a fresh dynamic and perspective and zero interest in any pretense.

Collins says:

The tune was indirectly inspired by Stanley Kubrick’s classic dystopian film, “A Clockwork Orange.”

Early in the movie, Georgie (no relation!) attempts to wrest control of the ultra-violent gang of Droogs led by Alex (played by Malcolm MacDowell), telling him repeatedly that “It’s part of the new way.”

This line has always stuck with me, and ever since my student days, whenever I decided it was time to turn over a new leaf and start afresh, I would tell myself (in my best Droogie accent), “It’s part of the new way!”

With this phrase in mind, I set out to write the song last year, based on my views of the current scene and a killer guitar riff that had been kicking around in my head for years.  

The song starts out dark and uncertain but finishes on an optimistic and hopeful note with a positive message I hope will resonate far and wide.

Lyrically, “New Way” doesn’t overreach with metaphors — instead, it speaks plainly and directly, like a letter from someone who’s been watching the chaos unfold for years and is finally ready to shout over the noise. There’s frustration, yes, but also a glimmer of optimism and a belief that change is still possible if we’re willing to meet it halfway.

One of the more intriguing inspirations behind the song comes from Stanley Kubrick’s 1970’s film “A Clockwork Orange“. Musically and thematically, “New Way” does indeed set the tone for Collins’s upcoming album entitled “New Ways of Getting Old”, a collection which he has described as his very own attempt at a sprawling, genre spanning work à la Revolver or The White Album.

And “New Way” also proves that you do not need to be young to raise your voice – you just need to have something to say. Lucky for us, George Collins has that in very good measure.

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Keep up with George Collins Band on his Website

Brooks John Martin Steps into the Light on His Most Personal Album Yet

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There’s a quiet kind of confidence in Brooks John Martin’s self-titled album. This is a gentle culmination of stories, years and identities and it is all laid out in this richly textured and deeply personal collection.

Listen in here:

After years of recording under names like Toast and Frank Hansen, Martin drops the masks. He is not hiding behind a character anymore. What we get instead is a record that’s stripped down emotionally, even as the music swells with orchestral grandeur and noir-folk atmosphere.

The opening track “Tide Will Carry Me Away” is the perfect opener, with rich textures and a chorus that feels dreamy and distant.

“Clear Blue Waters” captures the tension further. It’s soaked in longing, built on stacked harmonies that drift somewhere between the Beach Boys and a heatwave hallucination. Inspired by a cold winter night and a dream of Malibu, this song is escapist in spirit but haunted by real-world context – the fires that have since scarred the coast where its video was filmed.

Throughout the album, Martin brings a sound palette that is both nostalgic and cinematic. You can hear echoes of The National’s emotional weight, Radiohead’s spacious intensity and the stylized drama of Bowie’s later work – but it never feels derivative. This is a record with its own internal weather system, slow-moving and thunderous.

The haunting “Straight Over Me” plunges into brooding, noir-lit depths with its hypnotic chord progression and mournful strings echoing the album’s overarching themes of introspection and reckoning.

“Millions” hits especially hard – equal parts weary and anthemic, it is like someone trying to remember what hope feels like. And the orchestration across the board? Lush, deliberate and gorgeously produced, thanks to the production at Martin’s own Catamount Recording studio.

What makes this albums stick though is the feeling that this may be Martin’s final musical statement. There is a gravity to that, and also a freedom. These are not songs written to chase trends but they are here because they had to be. Because Brooks John Martin needed to say them, finally, in his own name.

Whether this is truly the end or just the end of a chapter, Brooks John Martin is definitely a record that lingers. It is not trying to impress, but just trying to be understood. And it is!

About Brooks John Martin

Brooks John Martin is a singer-songwriter and multi-instrumentalist based in Cedar Falls, Iowa, whose work blends cinematic folk, abstract lyricism with lush orchestration. With a deep baritone voice and a stream-of-consciousness writing style, Martin writes emotionally resonant songs that feel both timeless and otherworldly.

After years of performing under various monikers – Toast, The Blue Danes, and Frank Hansen – Martin sheds all aliases on his fifth and most personal album to date, “Brooks John Martin.”

Raised in a musically rich household and trained on piano and guitar from a young age, he combines a lifelong passion for melody with the maturity of lived experience. The result is an album steeped in Brian Wilson-like grandeur and grounded in folk tradition, with nods to Leonard Cohen, Neil Young and the atmospheric stylings of Radiohead and The National.

Now the owner of Catamount Recording, Martin brings a producer’s ear and a poet’s heart to his music, favoring analog imperfection over digital polish. His latest album is more a statement of his art, a moment of artistic unmasking and, possibly, a final chapter. Honest, unfiltered and wholly himself.

Keep up to date with Brooks John Martin on his Website.

Stream music on Spotify, Apple Music and YouTube Music.

Ben Neill Channels Sheldrake’s Radical Science into a Living, Breathing Soundscape on “Morphic Resonance”

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Ben Neill’s “Morphic Resonance” is not just a piece of music, but is a philosophical gesture rendered in sound.

Released as a dual version single and marking the final chapter of his forthcoming album “Amalgam Sphere”, the work is deeply informed by the theories of Rupert Sheldrake, the British biologist whose controversial concept of morphic resonance proposes that memory and learning are not confined to the brain but embedded in nature itself.

That Neill chooses to explore this idea not in a lecture hall, but in a dense, immersive soundscape says a great deal about his own creative philosophy. And, the growing porousness between art, science and technology.

Listen in here:

Neill, who is perhaps best known as the inventor of the Mutantrumpet, a fantastic shape-shifting hybrid electro-acoustic instrument, has built a decades-long career on this kind of boundary-blurring.

Across thirteen albums released on labels like Astralwerks, Six Degrees and Universal’s Verve imprint, Neill’s work has embraced minimalism, ambient electronica, interactive art and jazz, often in the same breath. But Morphic Resonance feels like something new. It is more of a culmination, a synthesis and a provocation.

Central to the track’s construction is Sheldrake’s voice, which Neill doesn’t just sample but transforms into a kind of metaphysical presence. It is at once narrator, texture and spirit guide. Fragments of Sheldrake’s speech drift in and out of the mix, sometimes intelligible, often distorted beyond recognition, suggesting that memory is not a fixed archive but is a vaporous, shape shifting force. The haunt the piece like neural echoes or half remembered dreams.

The sound world that Neill creates around this voice is astonishing in its detail. The original version of the track opens with a delictae interplay of processed trumpet tones and low, glowing drones. Gradually, the sound field thickens, enriched with granulr textures, harmonic overtones, and subtle rhythmic pulses. Rather than moving in a linear arc, the track seems to unfold in spirals and circles back in on itself, expanding and contracting like a breathing organism.

This is music that does not simply develop, but it evolves.

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Much of this fluidity comes from the way Neill engages with the Mutantrumpet. With its multiple bells, integrated electronics and gestural control system, it allows for real-time sampling and transformation. The instrument itself is sensitive, reactive and alive. Neill’s use of it here is not virtuosic in the traditional sense; instead, he plays with restraint, allowing the textures and resonances to accumulate organically. The trumpet doesn’t lead so much as it listens.

In a particularly elegant twist, Neill maps the letters in the title “Morphic Resonance” to musical pitches, creating the harmonic and melodic material from linguistic structure itself.

It’s a subtle but profound move, echoing Sheldrake’s ideas about the resonance of forms and habits. Language becomes sound. Sound becomes structure. Structure becomes memory. It’s a recursive loop, and Neill navigates it with remarkable sensitivity.

The “Bifurcated Mix” is the second version included in the release, fracturing this dreamlike world with glitchy percussive interventions and sharper electronic edges. If the original mix is memory as mist or sediment, the Bifurcated version is memory under pressure. The introduction of rhythm here turns it into a shifting terrain of broken patterns and flickering signals. It’s less meditative, and more hallucinatory.

This dual presentation is not just a clever production choice—it reflects the underlying philosophy of the piece. For Sheldrake, morphic resonance is about pattern transmission through time: the idea that habits of nature are inherited non-genetically, through fields of information. Neill’s music channels this idea not by describing it, but by embodying it. Patterns are set and then mutated, phrases recur in altered forms, motifs dissolve and are reborn.

“Morphic Resonance” also acts as a sound companion to Neill’s recent book “Diffusing Music: Trajectories of Sonic Democratization”, in which he considers how emerging technologies from AI to algorithmic composition tools, are changing not just how music is participatory, fluid and radically open ended. Neill’s interest lies not in fixed compositions but in adaptive systems where the boundaries between composer, performer and listener begin to blur.

In this light “Morphic Resonance” asks: what if music isn’t just a product of human creativity, but part of a larger ecological and temporal process? What if memory isn’t stored, but acted out? And what if every performance, every iteration is a ghost of what came before, re-shaped by what is happening now?

One gets the feeling that Amalgam Sphere, when fully released, will only deepen these themes. If Morphic Resonance is the seed, the coming work may very well be the bloom – alive, unpredictable and carrying within it the memory of every note that came before.

Find out more about Ben Neill on his Website

Stream music on Spotify , Apple Music and YouTube

Blue Pilot Dive into Memory and Melancholy on New EP ‘Tamagotchi,’ Highlighted by Introspective Cut “Paul”

Blue Pilot, the genre-blurring duo known for their intricate, narrative-driven arrangements, return with their latest EP, Tamagotchi—a deeply introspective collection exploring themes of isolation, cyclical struggles, and mental deterioration.

The standout focus track, “Paul,” captures the gradual loss of optimism over time, painting a bleak yet poignant portrait of an individual beaten down by life’s hardships. What began as a simple poem evolved into a raw, minimalist track that diverges from the band’s usual layered production.

Paul” was recorded with restraint—a rare move for Blue Pilot. Instead of expanding the track with elaborate instrumentation, the duo let the song breathe, preserving its stark emotional weight. It’s part of a four-part suite on the EP, seamlessly tying into Tamagotchi’s overarching narrative.

Toronto-Based Pop-Punk Band NERiMA Unveils Energetic Yet Cynical New Single “Fifty Years”

Following the recently released, “Reverence,” NERiMA’s latest single, “Fifty Years,” is an electrifying yet introspective track that pairs an upbeat, high-energy instrumental with emotionally weighty lyricism. The song delves into the anxiety of long-term commitment, questioning whether love can truly last a lifetime and wrestling with the fear that everything could one day fall apart. Balancing elements of pop, punk, and rock, “Fifty Years” perfectly encapsulates the band’s ability to mix sonic vibrancy with deeply personal storytelling.

Inspired by lead vocalist Lexi’s personal fears, “Fifty Years” explores the uncertainty of relationships and the difficulty in believing that someone will stay by your side for decades. Despite its bright, driving sound, the lyrics reflect a raw cynicism—grappling with the impossibility of predicting the future and the insecurities that come with love.

With a nod to their earlier sound, the single bridges NERiMA’s past and present, offering longtime fans a sense of nostalgia while showcasing the band’s evolution. Featuring dynamic production choices, including a striking outro that reintroduces an earlier verse in a softer, more intimate way, “Fifty Years” highlights the band’s knack for emotional storytelling and compelling song structure.