Twelve years since their last event in Montreal, Vans Warped Tour is coming back

The song feels like candlelight flickering in a soaked corridor, an echo of doomed love translated into electricity. Cale’s voice seeps through the mix like a sermon delivered in an empty chapel, while Charli drifts above it, part storm, part ghost, part confession. Together they make something that doesn’t aim to modernize Brontë’s world so much as haunt it anew, a house built not on melody but on memory...

Canada’s music industry has been through too many revolutions to count. Every few years, a new invention shows up promising to change everything forever. The radio was supposed to kill the concert hall. The cassette was supposed to kill vinyl. The internet was supposed to kill both. Then came streaming, which promised fairness and freedom, and delivered another layer of corporate control wrapped in convenience. So when artificial intelligence started learning how to sing, rem

There is a moment, about two minutes into Inland See , when the sound stops feeling like music and starts to feel like weather. It is not a sudden realization. It arrives gradually, like the quiet shift between morning and afternoon that you only notice when the light changes. The record does not demand anything from you. It unfolds. Bitchin Bajas are a trio of Chicago musicians who have been making this kind of sound for years. Cooper Crain, Rob Frye, and Dan Quinlivan appro

Listening to psykotic  feels like standing too close to a speaker that’s starting to melt. Everything hums, everything burns, and yet somehow you keep leaning closer. OsamaSon isn’t here to make you comfortable. He’s here to test what your nervous system can handle. This record lives in the world rage-rap built, but it tries to make the walls shake harder. It’s heavy on distortion, bass that hits like a migraine, and those stretched-to-the-limit vocal filters that make every

D’Angelo was never about noise. He was about mood. The kind that settles in your chest and stays long after the record ends. He had a voice that could make you pause mid-conversation. It wasn’t clean or polished. It was human, like a whisper that still carried a storm. You could never really figure him out, and that was part of the spell. Most artists want to be seen. D’Angelo wanted to disappear inside the sound. He played like he was talking to something higher. When he san

The Super Bowl is more than a football game. It is an annual ritual, a gathering point for families, friends, and millions of viewers...

Westminster Magistrates’ Court, London. Another damp weekday, another headline about Kneecap. This time it was Mo Chara (real name Liam...

Verses GT  feels like a body moving through smoke, pulse steady, lungs full of heavy air. It is not an album that explodes or shouts; it...

This record doesn’t ease you in. It doesn’t even open like an album. It convulses, spits, and then clamps its jaws around your skull. The...