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.

Montreal-based pop/R&B artist Satya returns with “Realness,” a soulful, empowering anthem about finding true, unconditional love in a world that often feels chaotic and unsteady. The single blends sleek, modern R&B textures with Satya‘s warm, emotive voice – offering both sensuality and strength in equal measure.

Written by Tranell Antoine and co-written alongside Satya and Garett Raffanelli, “Realness” is rooted in the profound experience of discovering loyalty, trust, and emotional safety. For Satya, it’s about celebrating love that’s genuine, grounding, and rare. “The title captures the core essence of the song – it’s about love that is sincere, unfiltered, and unwavering,” she explains. “It’s not just romance – it’s the authenticity and depth behind it that makes it so powerful.”

With its slow tempo, layered harmonies, and intimate production choices by Domeno – from glowing synth pads to reverb-soaked backing vocals – “Realness” embodies the warmth and clarity of love at its truest form. Simple, direct, and deeply resonant, it distills the awe of experiencing something profoundly new.

Calgary-based indie-rock outfit Summer Bruises are releasing their sophomore album, Out of Body, recorded at OCL Studio with producer Lorrie Matheson.

The record asks the listener to face the archetype of the predator – internal, external, figurative, or literal. From cartoonish vampiric characters in “Sang Crême Glacée” to the volatile intensity of “With Me or At Me,” the album wrestles with abusive relationships, loneliness, self-reckoning, and the desire to heal. Lead single, “Death Disco,” pulses with unrelenting energy, balancing goth-inspired tension with a sharp post-punk edge.

Musically, Out of Body hears Summer Bruisesleaning into darker textures and isolating atmospheres compared to their debut. “As the album’s music and lyrics are ‘colder’ than our debut, Light to Waste, we isolated ourselves from each other in different rooms during recording or finished our tracks individually,” explains guitarist Aaron Smelski. “This was intentional and encouraged by our producer, Lorrie Matheson. Overall, it has a colder feel – similar to a Joy Division album – than warm cohesiveness like our previous record.”

The cold, drum-machine-inspired percussion and discordant piano break open the artery of lead single, “Death Disco,” creating a danceable yet uneasy atmosphere. While much of the band’s debut Light to Waste LP came together with harmony and ease, “Death Disco” was the first time Summer Bruisesencountered creative friction. “Don’t worry – we still love each other,” they clarify, “but it was the first time we really had to navigate through tension and find a healthy way forward.”

1. Tell us the story of this song, why did you choose to visualize this song specifically? 

The origin of this song, if you ask Elyse, the vocalist and lyricist, is this: I used to wonder why some migratory birds fly at night. I’d spy the pale shadows of waterfowl on autumn nights, hear them shrieking overhead to orient themselves to one another. Just… hurling themselves at full speed through the yawning black of the lightless countryside. 

When we started writing this song, it finally occurred to me that they did it because they must. Or maybe because they couldn’t stop themselves even if they wanted to. Even if they were terrified. And maybe once they’re already up there in the dark, they can’t come down anymore. They’ve already picked up so much speed, flown so high… can’t see below them, so it’s too late to come in for any sort of graceful landing. They’d crash out.

This translates to this concept of succumbing to ones desires or instincts, maybe even being lured into it, realizing you’ve fallen into something, something you can’t climb out of or don’t know how to, but not being able to find the brake pedal. It’s about spiralling out of control, and the regret that comes with it. 

Why did we choose to visualize this song? It sort of happened through sheer luck. KC Caywood from SAIT’s 2023 Film and Video Production Program approached us with a fully-fleshed idea for a vampire music video, and as soon as we were presented with it, we knew that Death Disco would be the perfect fit. 

2. What was the inspiration behind this video (visuals, storyline, etc.)? 

KC Caywood was the visionary behind this video and would certainly be able to answer this question more thoroughly than anyone from Summer Bruises can, but I know she referenced Herk Harvey’s ‘Carnival of Soul’s (1962) stylistically, and probably some other old horror films from that era. Summer Bruises did not actually have much creative input regarding the video, but we are thrilled with how it turned out!

3. What was the process of making this video?

We were involved in the filming part for one night, so I can’t speak to what KC and the film crew’s process was, but I have filmed short films in the past so I’ll take an educated guess that there were probably a lot of very long hours, late nights, and heaps of caffeine to keep the crew fuelled. That’s usually part of the process. A lot of heart involved, too. That entire film crew was brimming with heart and enthusiasm, even though they were running on maybe just a handful of hours of sleep. We filmed the band’s part in one night – the vampire ball where the band is playing music for all the dancing vampires and their soon-to-be victims, and honestly? It was a blast. KC had us sit with the hair and makeup expert, who dolled all four of us up, then we did a bunch of takes, pretending to play Death Disco on our respective instruments. The pretending part felt kind of silly, yet we really leaned into it. After filming the band’s parts, the rest was in KC and the film crew’s capable hands.