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

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