Brooklyn’s Midnight Foolishness has never been a band to play it safe, but their latest release—a stripped, acoustic reimagining of Emmure’s “MDMA”—pushes that daring even further. The original track, a blast of aggression and cathartic fury, is reworked here into something almost spectral. Gone are the pummeling riffs and guttural screams. What remains is the raw, trembling pulse of the song’s emotional center.

In this version, Midnight Foolishness takes what was once confrontational and turns it inward. Their “MDMA” is slow-burning and fragile, built on sparse acoustic textures and a vocal performance that feels uncomfortably intimate—like a late-night confession recorded in a dark room. Every silence stretches, every breath carries weight. The heaviness doesn’t come from distortion; it comes from vulnerability.

That vulnerability is central to the accompanying music video—a grim, tightly framed narrative that blurs the line between metaphor and nightmare. Set in a dim, claustrophobic garage, the film depicts frontman Rob Corbino bound and tormented by a captor while two others sit motionless nearby. The sequence unfolds with deliberate discomfort, its violence slow and psychological rather than explosive. But as the video progresses, the scene begins to mutate: the captor’s power dissolves, replaced by something ritualistic and symbolic, until the roles of victim and survivor merge.

It’s a disturbing watch—but it’s meant to be. Beneath its shock lies meaning. The band turns exploitation into allegory, using the imagery to comment on the darker realities of creative life—the ways artists can be consumed by the very systems that elevate them. The performance becomes an act of reclamation, a moment of taking back power through the same vulnerability that once left them exposed.

Since their formation, Midnight Foolishness has inhabited a strange, vital corner of Brooklyn’s music scene—part nostalgia, part reinvention. They’ve worked with artists like Jonny Craig and Joseph Arrington, always moving between genres with purpose. What has remained constant is their commitment to emotional honesty. That thread runs through everything they create, and “MDMA” feels like the culmination of that ethos: a transformation of both sound and spirit.

Their acoustic approach strips away every protective layer, revealing something that feels personal to the point of discomfort. The guitar is soft but unsteady; the vocals waver between restraint and release. The song breathes, trembles, and occasionally breaks. There’s a kind of courage in that—the willingness to expose what’s underneath rather than amplify the noise.

In reinterpreting “MDMA”, Midnight Foolishness achieves what few covers do: they shift the emotional gravity of the song entirely. Where Emmure’s original thrived on force and defiance, this new version speaks in resignation and reflection. It doesn’t rage against the world; it endures it. That endurance is its rebellion.

The band’s trajectory reflects that same resilience. Since their 2010 debut The Sinners, Midnight Foolishness has evolved from energetic pop-punk roots into something darker, slower, and more introspective. Their sound has absorbed new textures—grunge grit, alt-rock melancholy, and the emotional immediacy of confessional songwriting. With “MDMA,” they’ve arrived at a point of pure honesty: a song that dismantles its own armor and stands unguarded before the listener.

By turning down the volume, Midnight Foolishness has found a new form of heaviness—one that lingers long after the last note fades. Their version of “MDMA” is less a cover than a reckoning, a quiet confrontation with pain and purpose. It’s an act of reclamation, not rage; an elegy dressed as an echo.

If the original screamed to be heard, this one whispers—and somehow, that whisper hits harder.

Toronto’s Victoria Staff returns with “Love Should Feel” – a bright, romantic indie-pop single that soaks in the joy of love when it’s simple, easy, and right. The track beams with warmth, capturing that rare kind of connection where everything else fades into the background.

“For a long time, I thought love was something that was supposed to be difficult. It was supposed to be chased and fought for,” Staff says. “Turns out, it’s supposed to be easy. ‘Love Should Feel’ is about just basking in how simple good love is.”

That sense of playful ease even made its way into the single artwork – though not without chaos. The idea was simple: a dive into a lake surrounded by sunflowers. The execution? Not so much. “We had about 75 sunflowers, but the stems were too heavy and started sinking, so we were frantically cutting them down in the boat. Every time I jumped off, the boat moved, the flowers scattered, and we had to rearrange them again,” Staff explains. “Then the seagulls started circling, thinking they were food,” she laughs. “And all of this was on film so we didn’t even know if we had the shot until we got home.”

With its buoyant melodies and heartfelt lyricism, “Love Should Feel” showcases Staff at her most joyful. “This song is special to me because there are no bad memories tied to it. From writing to recording to releasing, it’s been easy, and that’s exactly how love should feel.”

Montreal’s Libby Ember arrives with her introspective debut EP, I Kill Spiders. Thoughtful, anxious, and emotionally candid, the four-track collection captures the young singer-songwriter’s journey through self-doubt and quiet contemplation. Blending warm indie-pop textures with the raw honesty of indie-folk, the record is a compelling exploration of growth, conscience, and the weight of our smallest actions.

I Kill Spiders moves through questioning, longing, and reflection, creating a cohesive story of emotional honesty. The EP showcases Libby Ember’s signature introspective lyricism while delivering warm, accessible, and intimate production.

Anchoring the release is the title track, “I Kill Spiders,”  a striking meditation on guilt and consequence. Born from a moment of late-night anxiety, the song balances classic pop sensibilities with Libby’s intimate, reflective style to question the karmic significance of our choices. The track is the result of Libby’s first-place win in the Overture With The Arts songwriting competition, where she developed the song with mentorship from Canadian singer BAYLA before it was produced by Luca the Producer (Lucas Libertore).

Every once in a while, a record arrives that doesn’t just play—it confronts. It grabs you by the collar, drags you into its private world, and dares you to stay there. Mifarma, the first English-language album from Danielle Alma Ravitzki’s alter ego of the same name, is that kind of record: bruised, luminous, unrelenting. It’s not an album you casually put on in the background—it’s one you walk through, barefoot and cautious, knowing something inside it might rearrange you.

Ravitzki, who first made her name in the Hebrew music scene with a pair of haunting, poetically driven records in 2013 and 2017, has built a reputation on blending the cerebral with the visceral. But Mifarma is something different entirely. It’s not just a new chapter; it’s a new language, a new country, a new skin. Where her earlier work borrowed the voices of poets, Mifarma is entirely her own—a document of reclamation, written in scars and whispered prayers.

The story of the record’s creation is the kind that feels mythic in hindsight. After relocating to New York, Ravitzki found herself in a state of artistic paralysis, unable to find a producer who understood the sound in her head: part confession, part dream, part ache. It wasn’t until she remembered an old Berlin album that featured drummer Earl Harvin that she stumbled onto Carmen Rizzo, the two-time Grammy nominee whose résumé spans from electronic pioneers to ethereal singer-songwriters. Their collaboration became the album’s backbone—Rizzo providing the space and tension, Mifarma filling it with blood and breath.

The opening single, “I Left the Room Without My Hair,” co-written with Shara Nova of My Brightest Diamond, sets the tone like a ritual. The title alone is a line of poetry—a disarming image of leaving behind an old self, or maybe escaping one. The song builds slowly, like a fever dream; the arrangement is sparse but suffocating, a whisper pressed against your ear. It feels less like listening and more like eavesdropping on someone’s internal reckoning.

From there, Mifarma unfolds like a series of journal entries written during a long night of the soul. “Five Stages of Grief” is all sharp angles and soft collapses, a song that keeps returning to its wounds just to see if they’ve closed. “Fix Me Up” rides a pulse somewhere between resignation and defiance, its minimalist beat giving way to a fragile chorus that feels like a hand reaching through fog. On “I Am Soil,” Ravitzki sings with the slow, deliberate weight of someone who has learned to make peace with impermanence—her voice a tremor wrapped around a threadbare melody.

Rizzo’s production gives these songs their atmosphere: intimate but vast, unhurried but never still. He builds soundscapes that seem to inhale and exhale with Mifarma’s vocals, fusing the human and the mechanical. There are shades of Kate Bush, echoes of Peter Gabriel, and a touch of Laurie Anderson in how Mifarma treats sound as both story and character. Yet there’s nothing derivative about it. Every note feels born of its own strange gravity.

The album’s supporting players add color and contour without ever stealing focus. Harvin’s drumming is restrained but surgical, creating tension where silence would otherwise fall flat. Nova’s harmonies are ghostlike—present, then gone, like a flicker of candlelight in a darkened room. Melissa Lingo and Piers Faccini contribute in subtler ways, adding texture to a record that feels at once global and deeply personal. It’s a sound that could have been born in Tel Aviv or Brooklyn or nowhere at all.

What’s remarkable about Mifarma is how unflinching it is. These songs don’t tidy up their emotions for the sake of accessibility; they linger in the mess, tracing the contours of pain, shame, and rebirth with brutal honesty. “Rejection is My Pendant” is as much about obsession as liberation—a slow, hypnotic waltz that flirts with self-destruction before finally exhaling into stillness. “Somnambulist” plays like a dream within a dream, its delicate rhythm pushing against the edges of consciousness.

And yet, for all its darkness, Mifarma isn’t despairing. There’s a quiet resilience that pulses beneath the sorrow, a reminder that vulnerability isn’t the opposite of strength—it’s the root of it. Ravitzki’s voice, fragile and deliberate, often sounds as though it’s holding back tears—but when it breaks free, it’s incandescent.

By the album’s end, you get the sense that Mifarma isn’t just an alter ego—it’s a vessel, a place where Ravitzki can speak freely without translation. There’s something profoundly timeless about the way she approaches melody and meaning, as if she’s communing with the ghosts of the great confessional songwriters before her—Joni Mitchell, Beth Gibbons, Jeff Buckley—while still charting her own territory.

Mifarma doesn’t chase trends or polish itself for commercial appeal. It belongs to an older tradition: albums as complete worlds, meant to be lived in from start to finish. It’s the kind of record you return to late at night, headphones on, when the rest of the world feels far away.

By the time the final notes fade, you don’t feel like you’ve just listened to music—you feel like you’ve been somewhere. Somewhere lonely, somewhere honest, somewhere sacred.

Denise Marsa has a knack for transforming personal insight into vibrant music, and her latest single, “Company of Women,” is a shining example of that skill. From the moment the track begins, it announces Marsa’s perspective: celebratory, empowering, and fully alive. She doesn’t just sing about the connections between women; she inhabits them, offering listeners a glimpse into a world shaped by creativity, solidarity, and mutual strength.

The remix by Until Dawn pushes “Company of Women” into new energetic terrain. It merges contemporary dance rhythms with subtle nods to classic disco, producing a sound that is kinetic yet approachable. The beat drives forward with urgency, urging movement without demanding it, and the layered instrumentation creates a sense of vibrancy that feels both spontaneous and intentional. This is a song meant to be felt physically, in the sway of a body or the simple joy of tapping along, as much as it is meant to be appreciated for its lyrical depth.

What sets “Company of Women” apart is its combination of playfulness and meaning. Marsa’s lyrics are thoughtful but never didactic, clever without ever feeling flippant. There’s a subtle wit in the way she constructs her verses, balanced by a sense of genuine warmth and openness. The track becomes a celebration of independence, of choosing one’s own path, and of defining womanhood on one’s own terms. Whether embracing quiet moments or exuberant energy, Marsa’s song captures a spectrum of experiences without losing focus or clarity.

This is a track that thrives in its duality. It’s infectious and immediately enjoyable, yet there’s substance beneath the surface. The chorus feels communal, a rallying call for women to support one another, while the verses explore the nuances of that connection with precision and care. “Company of Women” refuses to oversimplify or sanitize the experience it celebrates. It acknowledges that empowerment comes in many forms, whether in bold action or quiet reflection, and that joy is most potent when it’s shared.

In every note and lyric, “Company of Women” radiates thoughtfulness and intelligence. The remix ensures the song resonates across contexts—from dance floors to headphones, from intimate gatherings to larger celebrations. Marsa has created more than a song; she has built a space where listeners can feel seen, uplifted, and inspired. By combining infectious rhythm, intelligent lyricism, and a sincere celebration of connection, she has crafted a work that lingers long after the final note fades.

“Company of Women” is both a toast and a manifesto—a recognition of creativity, strength, and joy among women. It’s a musical statement that is lively, thoughtful, and memorable, capturing the essence of community while celebrating individuality. In Denise Marsa’s hands, empowerment becomes not just a theme but a lived experience, shared through melody, rhythm, and voice.

Toronto emo/alt-rock trio da nang return with Kids, a nostalgic, sun-soaked EP about the messy intersections of love, loss, heartbreak, and joy. Anchoring the record is title track “Kids,” a bittersweet anthem that celebrates the rush of young love while staring down the heartbreak it’s destined to bring.

da nang’s Kids EP plays like a scrapbook of adolescence, with songs that hang together like faded Polaroids – warm, raw, and brimming with emotion. From cottage recording sessions surrounded by worn furniture and summer air, to riffs that grew into full-fledged songs almost by accident, the band leaned fully into nostalgia in both sound and spirit.

“The title track is about being in love when you’re young, knowing it’s probably going to blow up but going all in anyway,” says frontman John Thai. “It’s grief dressed up in sunshine – holding someone close while everything feels like it could collapse at any second.”

Musically, “Kids” blends bright, celebratory guitar riffs with an undercurrent of melancholy, creating a tension that perfectly captures the feeling of teenage heartbreak. The song pulls you into the past with the raw intensity of first love, while its production – meant to feel like a hot summer drive with the windows down – grounds it in the nostalgia that defines the entire EP.