Hamilton, ON’s Thomas Duxbury and New Mother Nature continue to ride the momentum of previously released singles “Istanbul” and “She Never Knows” with “Already Dead,” a brooding and deeply introspective blues-tinged garage rock track that captures the disorienting weight of sleepless nights and spiraling thoughts. Built around eerie guitar textures and restless energy, the song finds Duxbury grappling with isolation and exhaustion while searching for some glimmer of light beyond the darkness. It arrives as the latest single from the band’s forthcoming album, set for release on May 19th, 2026.

“I was lying awake in bed, anxiously stuck in my thoughts and unable to sleep,” Duxbury explains. “It felt like I had been awake for weeks and was losing touch with reality. In my mind I kept picturing myself driving my old red Ford Ranger down a dirt road at dusk, trying to clear my head. I wanted to try and fight my way back to some sort of light and hope that I could cling to.”

“Already Dead” sits in the uneasy space between awareness and detachment. Duxbury describes moving through crowds and conversations while carrying a private internal battle no one else could see. “There was a war going on in my mind that I was alone in and the people around me were completely unaware,” he says. “I didn’t want to talk about it. I just wanted to keep it to myself.”

Musically, “Already Dead” leans into experimentation. The track’s eerie opening tone was created by recording an electric guitar with microphones placed on it like an acoustic instrument, before layering spring reverb to heighten its ghostly atmosphere. Later in the song, a fuzz-laden guitar solo introduces a sound Duxbury has continued developing in his live playing and collaborative work. “I was experimenting with chromatic lines in the solo,” he explains. “It almost feels like summoning a snake.”
Though its origins lie in a deeply personal period of anxiety and depression, the song has taken on new meaning since its creation. Duxbury initially hesitated to release it due to the vulnerability of the subject matter, but encouragement from friends and collaborators changed his mind. “A bunch of my friends and colleagues resonated with it,” he says. “If releasing this song helps someone feel less alone during a dark moment, then it feels worth putting it out into the world.”

Edmonton’s St.Arnaud, the project of Ian St.Arnaud, returns with St.Arnaud, a vibrant and collaborative third record that captures the full spirit of a band in motion. Expanding beyond its singer-songwriter roots, the album blends buoyant indie pop, roots textures, and early indie rock influences into a dynamic, lived-in collection that feels both loose and deeply intentional.

Released as a series of three deluxe singles before arriving as a full-length, St.Arnaud introduces a unique structural approach, grouping songs into distinct “movements” shaped by production style rather than genre. Drawing inspiration from the playful, raucous energy of Jonathan Richman & The Modern Lovers, the album leans into pop hooks, sardonic lyricism, and a collaborative energy that defines its sound.

At the heart of the record is “It’s Cool,” a chill, confessional indie pop standout that balances resignation with quiet self-assurance. Built around a laid-back groove and an understated emotional core, the track explores the tension between feeling stuck and choosing to move lightly through it anyway. “It’s about brushing off that sense of futility,” Ian explains, “about self-assurance, and keeping your sense of humour alive. Stay light on your feet as long as you can. It’ll probably be ok in the end.” The song’s chorus, contributed by bandmate Tory Rosso, anchors that sentiment with an easygoing clarity that defines the track’s tone.

Across the album, St.Arnaud turns inward to trace the subtle shifts that shape our lives, the small, transient moments that only reveal their meaning in hindsight. Themes of stillness, movement, and reflection run throughout, grounded in observational songwriting that captures both personal nuance and broader emotional truths. Sonically, the record pushes into new territory, incorporating pedal steel, electric pianos, and more driving rhythmic foundations while maintaining the project’s signature warmth and wit.

Ottawa, ON singer-songwriter and pianist Alanna Sterling (they/them) shares “More,” a quietly powerful and emotionally exposed pop ballad that sits in the tension between desire and acceptance. Blending chill, nostalgic, and moody textures with piano-driven songwriting, “More” explores the fragile space between wanting deeper connection and learning to live without certainty of its return.

At its core, “More” is about emotional honesty in its rawest form; those unspoken needs for more presence, more truth, and more love, even when it’s unclear whether they will ever be fully met. Rather than resisting that feeling, Alanna leans into it. “It’s me learning to sit in that vulnerability instead of running from it,” they share.

The result is a song that feels intimate and unguarded, carried by Alanna’s expressive vocal delivery and understated piano arrangement. Built around emotional restraint rather than release, the production allows space for silence and reflection, echoing the push and pull of longing at the heart of the track.

Lyrically, “More” captures the quiet intensity of emotional wanting less as a dramatic plea, and more as an internal dialogue. It’s a meditation on attachment and acceptance, unfolding slowly in a way that mirrors the complexity of real emotional experience.

Stylistically, the track sits comfortably within Alanna’s evolving sonic identity, a blend of contemporary pop sensibility and timeless vocal influence. Drawing natural comparisons to artists like Adele and Amy Winehouse, Alanna’s work remains distinctly personal, shaped by introspective songwriting and a deep focus on emotional connection.

Their artistry is further defined by a growing international presence, including a standout performance residency tied to the 2024 Paris Olympics, as well as recognition within Canada’s music community through nominations for Songwriter of the Year and Solo Artist of the Year at the Capital Music Awards.

Strange Plants return with “Ground Falls Away,” an energetic rock single that blends kinetic grooves with the band’s signature analog warmth. Driven by pulsing rhythms, vintage textures, and an undeniable forward motion, the track captures the restless feeling of pushing through life’s daily pressures and refusing to stand still. Following up on February’s “Lay Your Mind,” it’s the second release to be shared as part of a collection arriving throughout the year.

The inspiration for “Ground Falls Away” came from a candid conversation between friends. “I was speaking with a friend over drinks one night and he was really going through it,” explains songwriter Matt Brannon. “He was hustling day to day just to stay ahead, and it felt like if he ever stopped moving the ground would just swallow him up. Despite all this pressure, he remained hopeful and willing to keep soldiering on.”

The song first began with a riff from songwriter Travis Flint, an acoustic figure that weaves through the verses and anchors the driving momentum. Though written several years ago, the band initially set it aside after recording the foundational tracks during a transitional period. Returning to it later gave the song new life. “We had recorded the bed tracks but shelved it for a while,” Matt says. “Coming back to it now, it feels like it was meant to be. It’s so much better and we couldn’t be happier.”

One of the most distinctive elements of “Ground Falls Away” lies in its rhythm section. The bass lands on the upbeat against the kick drum’s downbeat, creating an unusual push-and-pull groove that fuels the song’s sense of motion. The chorus then expands dramatically, culminating in an instrumental back half that delivers emotional impact without relying on additional lyrics.

To complete the track, Strange Plants reunited with producer Robbie Crowell (Deer Tick, Sturgill Simpson), who also produced their self-titled debut album. “We brought Robbie in to put a bunch of stuff on it and bring it into the Strange Plants family,” Matt explains. The final arrangement leans into the band’s love of 70s and 80s sonic textures, layering synths, sequencers, and analog production touches into what remains, at its heart, a vibrant rock song.

Bang Bang Jet Away didn’t approach “Mishima” like a concept they needed to unpack or justify, and that already sets the track apart from the usual run of music that borrows from literature or history as a kind of aesthetic shorthand. There’s no framing device here, no sense that the band is guiding the listener toward an interpretation or even particularly interested in helping the reference resolve into meaning. Instead, the name sits at the center of the release like something deliberately left exposed.

Yukio Mishima, as a figure, tends to resist easy treatment. His work, his public persona, and the contradictions that defined his life have been picked over in academic and cultural spaces for decades, often reduced into competing narratives that never quite settle. Bang Bang Jet Away don’t attempt to resolve any of that tension, and more importantly, they don’t seem interested in translating it into something more immediately digestible. The decision to use his name feels less like homage or commentary and more like placing a loaded object inside the framework of a song and refusing to defuse it.

What distinguishes the track from similar reference-based work is that it doesn’t build outward from the idea it invokes. There’s no attempt to turn Mishima into metaphor, nor is there a clear narrative structure that mirrors aspects of his life or writing. The music doesn’t function as illustration. It functions more like environment, or pressure, or something that occupies space without clarifying its own purpose.

The sound itself follows that same logic. Rather than moving through clearly defined sections or building toward recognizable emotional peaks, it holds a kind of suspended motion, where elements enter and leave without settling into a fixed hierarchy. It’s not chaotic in the sense of being unstructured, but it resists the expectation that structure should become visible or reassuring. Instead, it stays slightly out of focus, as though the form is always in the process of forming but never fully arriving at a stable shape.

That choice matters in relation to the title, because it prevents the listener from treating the reference as something to be decoded. Mishima’s name carries too much historical and cultural weight to function as simple texture, yet the band doesn’t step in to interpret that weight on behalf of the audience. They leave it intact, and in doing so, they create a space where the listener has to sit with the friction between recognition and incompletion.

There’s a kind of discipline in that refusal. Not the discipline of control or precision in the traditional sense, but the discipline of not over-explaining, of not resolving what could easily be made more explicit. A different version of this song might have leaned into narrative clarity or emotional signposting, turning its reference point into something more immediately legible. Bang Bang Jet Away resist that impulse entirely.

What remains is a track that doesn’t offer interpretation so much as insist on presence. “Mishima” doesn’t close around meaning, and it doesn’t attempt to guide the listener toward a final reading of its subject. It simply holds the name, the sound, and the tension between them in the same space without resolving any of it.