Rising Star #66

Welcome to Rising Star 66 — where the next wave of musical brilliance takes center stage.

More than just a showcase, this edition is a vibrant celebration of sound, storytelling, and soul. It’s where raw talent meets fearless creativity, and where emerging voices carve out their space in the ever-evolving music scene.

Rising Star 66 invites audiences into an immersive world of rhythm and resonance. Each performance is more than a set — it’s a moment. From high-energy anthems to soul-stirring melodies, the lineup is a rich tapestry of emotion, perspective, and artistry.

What sets this stage apart? It's alive — a pulse of color, passion, and movement. Every act paints its own sonic portrait, turning the spotlight into a platform for innovation and identity.

Championing diversity and fresh voices, Rising Star 66 is a glimpse into the future of music — bold, boundary-pushing, and beautifully real.

Ready to discover the artists who’ll define tomorrow?

This isn’t just a show. It’s a spark. A sound. A story. Welcome to Rising Star 66.

Sonny DeJuan and His Debut Single “Thankful”: A Soul-Baring Introduction

Sonny DeJuan isn’t just another new name in hip-hop—he’s a storyteller with something to say. Hailing from Virginia, DeJuan found his voice early. By the age of 8, he’d already written his first love song, a short but heartfelt piece that hinted at a future filled with lyricism and reflection. By 15, he was recording with what he had—laying verses over a BJ the Chicago Kid instrumental playing from his mom’s TV, capturing it all on an iPhone 4. That first upload to SoundCloud in 2015 marked the beginning of his public journey.

But it was in 2019, with the release of his official debut single “Thankful,” that DeJuan truly introduced himself to the world. And he did it with purpose.

“Thankful” isn’t your average debut—it’s raw, reflective, and deeply personal. A soliloquy in its truest form, the track serves as both an ode to his mother and a tribute to the deeper meanings of love, family, and faith. In DeJuan’s own words, the title “brings jubilant light to the darkness and exemplifies that riches is not just money, but is love.” That message is woven into every line of the record.

Instead of going big with production or features, DeJuan pulls the listener inward. His voice rides low in the mix, almost confessional, using tone and cadence to carry the emotional weight of the lyrics. There’s no posturing, no finger-pointing—just a young man trying to make sense of the world around him and give thanks for what’s real.

In a genre often dominated by bravado, “Thankful” stands out by simply being honest. The track reflects the complex dynamics of family, growth, and self-awareness. DeJuan doesn't dodge the hard parts—he embraces them, showing the highs and the burned-out lows with equal grace. There's no sugarcoating, just truth, and that’s what makes it hit so hard.

What makes “Thankful” so powerful isn’t just the lyrics—it’s the energy behind them. DeJuan’s delivery is smooth, but not soft. There’s conviction in his voice, the kind that comes from someone who’s lived a little and thought a lot. It’s a debut that doesn’t scream for attention, but instead commands it through its vulnerability and depth.

If this first release is any indication, Sonny DeJuan isn’t just here to make music—he’s here to say something that matters. “Thankful” doesn’t just introduce an artist; it introduces a perspective, a voice, and a sense of purpose. And as early impressions go, this one lingers long after the final beat fades.

The Party After – “Happy Hour”

With their EP Happy Hour, Omaha-based trio The Party After delivers a strikingly familiar story—one that hits especially hard for anyone who’s felt stuck in a loop of small-town routine. The record paints the portrait of a character frozen in time, spending night after night in the same bar, surrounded by the same faces, haunted by the same “what-ifs.” But rather than simply observing, the band leans in, bringing the tension, the self-sabotage, and the aching desire for more into vivid focus.

Formed in 2018 by Jared William Gottberg, Derek Talburt, and Tony Bates, The Party After draws from a broad spectrum of rock history. There are echoes of Pink Floyd and Zeppelin in the mix, but also flashes of Deftones, 311, Ghost, and even hip-hop rhythms courtesy of Talburt’s own musical leanings. That eclecticism isn’t just for show—it’s the foundation of their sound, which is sarcastic, raw, and emotionally honest in all the right ways.

What makes Happy Hour stand out is how it was made: the band traveled from the Midwest to Mexico City to record at Topetitud Estudios, embracing an entirely spontaneous, on-the-fly production style. With less than half the record written ahead of time, they leaned into the chaos—writing, arranging, and recording in real time. For Gottberg, who also produced the EP, this process wasn’t just a challenge, it was a necessity. His philosophy centers on capturing real emotion in the moment rather than sanding it down in demos. The result is a record that feels alive—loose around the edges in the best possible way.

Lyrically, Happy Hour is heavy on tone and subtext. There’s a recurring thread of satire and absurdity woven through its more serious themes—whether it’s the illusion of chasing fame or the stubborn comfort of toxic routines. The band’s delivery suggests lived experience, or at least deep empathy for the people stuck in these stories. That familiarity gives the EP its resonance, especially with Midwestern audiences who know this world all too well.

Even though Happy Hour serves as the final single leading up to their debut full-length album Dopamine Machine (expected summer 2025), it feels like a complete statement in itself. The band isn’t slowing down either—they’re already outlining ideas for their second full-length record, with plans to return to the studio in 2026.

On stage, The Party After has shared bills with names like Hinder, Smile Empty Soul, and Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, most recently opening for Midwestern theatrical rock act Arson City. This fall, they’re set to headline Fecht Fest in Kearney, Nebraska.

It’s a fitting mantra for a band that isn’t afraid to dig into the uncomfortable, embrace the imperfect, and turn personal truths into songs that hit with startling clarity.

Ivy League – American Love

Ten years is a long time to sit with your thoughts. It’s even longer when you’re carrying the weight of unspoken stories, memories that refuse to age, and the quiet work of putting yourself back together. For Ivy League, American Love isn't just a debut—it’s a reckoning.

The record is the product of a decade of soul-searching by bassist and songwriter John Rossi, whose fingerprints are all over the band’s unmistakable sound. With roots in the East Coast underground, Ivy League blends Alternative, Indie Emo, and modern pop into something that feels both personal and universally familiar. It’s the kind of music that doesn't just play through your headphones—it sits beside you, shoulders the load, and stays a while.

The record's conceptual heart draws from a place of reflection. “Trauma and devastation can become sacred,” Rossi shares—and that thread runs throughout American Love. The album doesn’t dwell in darkness, but rather, finds light in what’s been broken. Inspired by kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing shattered pottery with gold, Ivy League doesn’t ask us to relive the pain, but to admire what comes after: the beauty in survival, in resilience, in being made whole again—cracks and all.

Musically, the EP is anchored by Rossi’s expressive bass work, but it’s the emotional complexity of the tracks that lingers. Take “We Are Infinite”—a track that’s deceptively upbeat, wrapped in breezy melodies and bright tones. But peel it back, and the lyrics offer something deeper: a nod to life’s quiet fatigue, and the strength in simply staying. It’s about finding peace with where you are, even if it’s not where you thought you'd end up.

Then there’s “Everything I Ever Wanted,” which feels like the record’s emotional core. It's not flashy, not trying to prove anything—just honest, aching, and real. Like the best of Ivy League’s work, it leans into vulnerability with open arms, offering not answers, but solidarity.

At its heart, American Love is about community. It’s a record for the listeners who don’t just want to hear something—they want to feel it. Rossi and the band have crafted more than a collection of songs; they’ve created a space. A space where grief, joy, and self-discovery are all welcome. A space to belong.

And in a world that often rushes us past our pain, Ivy League slows things down just enough to remind us: there’s gold in the cracks.

My Turning Point – The Eulogy

In a world increasingly cluttered with synthetic emotion and algorithm-fueled songwriting, The Eulogy by My Turning Point arrives like a whisper in a storm—quiet, raw, and heartbreakingly human.

The artist behind My Turning Point, Welsh singer-songwriter Leon Evans, doesn’t write songs so much as he opens wounds and lets them speak. With The Eulogy, set for release on March 23rd, 2025, Evans crafts a deeply intimate tribute to a lost friendship—one that doesn’t just touch on grief but lives inside it. The song wasn’t born in a writing session or a studio brainstorm, but in the quiet haze of a 3 a.m. dream on December 19th, 2024. Two words—“trauma bond”—stuck with him as he woke in tears, fumbling for his phone to capture the torrent of memory and sorrow.

What followed was a song that essentially wrote itself. Built from a previously unused acoustic chord progression and lyrics pulled straight from the emotional wreckage, The Eulogy was finished within days, mastered by Christmas Eve in Evans’ home studio—a garage turned sanctuary for sound and reflection.

It’s a minimalist track at heart. Originally meant to be just voice and guitar, the song took a life-changing turn when Evans, who doesn’t even play piano, began laying down a simple one-hand-at-a-time melody on a MIDI keyboard. What emerged was something far greater than he anticipated: a haunting piano arrangement that elevated the track's emotional gravity to almost unbearable levels. The artist reportedly broke down upon hearing the final playback, overcome by the realization that the song had transformed into a pure vessel of catharsis.

Vocally, Evans holds nothing back. You can hear the tears—literally. Many of the takes that made it to the final master were recorded through raw sobs, lending a devastating authenticity that no polished vocal ever could. There’s no pitch correction, no slick production tricks—just the unvarnished sound of someone reliving something real.

Stylistically, The Eulogy wouldn’t feel out of place beside James Blunt’s Goodbye My Lover. But whereas that song was polished for the charts, The Eulogy is too personal, too naked, to ever be mass-produced. It’s not trying to be universal—and yet it is. Anyone who’s lost someone they never thought they would, who’s grieved the slow death of a once-inseparable bond, will feel this track hit somewhere deep and unspeakable.

This isn’t just a song. It’s a private letter accidentally left open on the table for the world to read. Evans isn't touring, not chasing charts, not building a brand—he’s just making music that needs to exist. And in a time when sincerity often takes a back seat to strategy, that might be the bravest thing an artist can do.

The Eulogy may have come from a dream, but it’s the kind of song that lingers long after you’ve woken up.

Besides – Breakfast

There’s a certain kind of magic that comes from music made without overthinking—songs that drift into being rather than being forced into shape. That’s the feeling you get from Breakfast, the latest release from Hong Kong-based project Besides. Helmed by the ever-wandering David McGinty, this record is less of a statement and more of a mood—an unhurried walk through the fog, where the light keeps shifting and the path unfolds at its own pace.

McGinty, who’s been quietly making waves with Besides since its debut The Empty Air, continues to build on the lo-fi dreamscapes that made that first album such a sleeper gem. But while The Empty Air was rooted in sci-fi musings—robots, Mars, and the weight of displacement—Breakfast feels more grounded, more personal. It’s still steeped in that same dusky haze of shoegaze, slacker rock, and slowcore, but there’s a warmth here that leans into the mundane beauty of the everyday.

Sonically, the record feels like a conversation between Pavement’s meandering wit and the lush atmospheres of early Radiohead or even The Flaming Lips on a sleepy day. Guitars warble and sway like they’re melting in the morning sun, synths hum with vintage warmth, and vocals drift in and out like thoughts you forgot you had. It’s a sound born from late-night sessions and borrowed gear—McGinty’s creative process favors intuition over polish, and you can hear it in every perfectly imperfect layer.

The collaborative spirit behind Besides is just as present here, with contributions from McGinty’s circle of fellow wanderers—musicians from Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Indonesia, including his long-time creative partner Kit Cheung. You get the sense that these songs weren’t written so much as stumbled upon, often sparked by casual conversations, stairwell confessions, and spontaneous jam sessions. That looseness is the album’s strength—it lets you breathe with it, drift alongside it, get lost in its fog.

Lyrically, Breakfast doesn’t shout. It reflects. The themes float between societal observations and personal reckonings, always shaded with a kind of hopeful melancholy. McGinty doesn’t pretend to have the answers, but he’s a good companion for asking the questions. Whether he's musing about change, connection, or the quiet in-between moments of life, there’s a gentle sincerity that hits home.

In a world increasingly obsessed with perfection and polish, Breakfast is a reminder that beauty often lives in the lo-fi corners, in the half-finished thoughts, in the shared silences. It’s a record best experienced with headphones on and nowhere to be—a soundtrack for slow mornings, long walks, and everything in between.

Besides doesn’t demand your attention. It earns it quietly, one blurry chord at a time.

Suzanne Grosvenor – Heart of Love

In a world that often rushes past beauty in its purest forms, Suzanne Grosvenor’s Heart of Love feels like a quiet, breath-catching moment of stillness. Performed as a one-take improvisation on her concert grand piano, live before an intimate audience in her conservatory, the piece unfolds not like a practiced recital, but like a conversation — one the pianist seems to be having with herself, her instrument, and some long-lost memory that chose that moment to resurface.

From the first notes, Heart of Love bears that rare, timeless quality that makes it difficult to pin to any one era or genre. It could easily be mistaken for a long-lost standard from the Great American Songbook, a late-night jazz ballad from the '40s, or a contemporary neo-classical gem in the spirit of Einaudi. But there’s also something distinctly personal and alive about it — a melody that seems to emerge and evolve as you listen, as if the music is discovering itself in real time.

This is the magic of Grosvenor’s artistry. Like Keith Jarrett — to whom she is often compared, and not lightly — she operates in a space where improvisation becomes a kind of alchemy. The melody in Heart of Love didn’t exist before she sat down at the piano that day. It appeared, haunting and full of grace, woven spontaneously from her fingers and memory. That she was as surprised by its emergence as her audience was only adds to the mystique.

What’s perhaps most striking is the emotional transparency of the piece. It’s gently romantic, but never sentimental. Melancholic, yet comforting. It holds space for listeners to bring their own feelings to the experience, much like the works of Debussy or Ravel, whose influence lingers in Grosvenor’s phrasing and harmonic textures. There are moments where her touch recalls Chopin’s sensitivity, and others where the rhythmic turns flirt with the unpredictable energy of early Stravinsky.

Grosvenor’s path to this moment has been anything but linear — and you can hear it in her music. She’s played everything from Moog synths in the '70s to fiddle in bluegrass circles, from rock gigs to composing film scores. Her journey through jazz, ambient, and classical idioms has refined her voice into something rare: a fully realized musical identity that’s as versatile as it is intimate.

On Heart of Love, all of that history is distilled into something simple and profound. It’s a melody born of experience, yet it carries the freshness of new love. Whether you approach it as a jazz ballad, a neoclassical miniature, or simply a beautiful piece of music, one thing is certain — it will linger with you long after the final note fades.

In an age of digital perfection and overproduced gloss, Heart of Love is a reminder that sometimes the most unforgettable music happens in a single take, in a quiet room, when no one is trying too hard — just listening.