Category: music

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If Michael Jackson had made rock songs

This is one of those thoughts that shows up and then refuses to leave.


Ayron Jones sounds the way Michael Jackson might have sounded if he had made rock songs.
Not pop with a rock edge.
Real rock. Loud guitars. No shine.


Ayron Jones isn’t very well known, which is strange, because he should be. He’s from Seattle. He grew up around blues and rock, and you can hear that straight away. His voice isn’t smooth or careful. It sounds lived in.


What keeps pulling me in is how he uses his voice.
It sits high and it moves a lot.
He slides between notes instead of landing cleanly on them. Sometimes it sounds fragile, sometimes sharp. Often both at the same time. It never feels planned. And then there’s the way some words come out. Almost spat. Pushed forward. Said with anger or frustration.


That’s where the Michael Jackson comparison really clicks for me. MJ did that too, especially in Give In to Me. Words tightened in his mouth. Consonants sharpened. The voice wasn’t trying to sound pretty. It sounded like something had to get out. With Slash on guitar, that tension is right there on the surface. Ayron Jones does the same thing in his own way. Different music, same instinct. The feeling hits first. The voice follows.


If Michael Jackson had grown up with blues records and loud guitars instead of Motown rules and pop polish, I can imagine his voice ending up somewhere close to this.


I’m going to share Take Me Away.
Listen to it next to Give In to Me.
It’s not the same sound. But that moment where the words are almost thrown out in anger? That’s where they meet.


And once you hear it, you don’t really unhear it. Or at least I couldn’t. This is the way I listen to music. I don’t know. Maybe you can hear it too.

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Otis Redding: he was only twenty-six

Today marks the anniversary of Otis Redding’s death. He was only twenty-six. He didn’t even make it to the so-called Club 27, the age we’ve come to associate with musicians who die young.
That number never really sits right with me. Because his voice doesn’t sound young. It sounds lived-in. Worn. Like someone who already knew too much about love, longing, devotion, and loss.


I don’t remember the exact moment I first heard Otis. I think it was after Etta James. I adore her. And once you fall for a voice like that, you start listening differently. You start searching without quite knowing you’re searching. And then Otis appears. And that’s it. You don’t really go back.


A lot of people don’t know this, but Respect was his song first. His version isn’t an anthem. It’s quieter, almost vulnerable. A man asking to be seen, asking for something simple. When Aretha Franklin took it, she turned it into power. I love that both versions exist. They speak to each other.


His first and only number one hit came after he was already gone. (Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay. He recorded it just days before the plane crash. You can hear something shifting in it. More space. Less urgency. That unfinished whistling at the end, because the lyrics weren’t done yet. It sounds like someone pausing, looking out, already half elsewhere.


And then there are the songs that stay with you because they hurt in the right way.


These Arms of Mine.
Try a Little Tenderness.
I’ve Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now).
Pain in My Heart.
I’ve Got Dreams to Remember.
My Girl.


That voice. The grain. The ache. It gives me actual frisson.


People are often surprised when I talk about Otis. Because when I talk about music, it’s usually prog rock or prog metal. Long songs. Complex structures. Dark atmospheres. Music that builds slowly and then overwhelms you. That’s what people expect from me. But this is just as much me. The soul, the passion.


Last August, we were on holiday in the Netherlands. I walked into a record shop, which I rarely do. I know myself too well. I see too many albums I want and don’t need. And on family holidays, I don’t like spending money on myself. But they insisted. The teenagers. My husband.
So I went in. Focused. Almost stern. Looking for something and nothing. And everything too.


The first record was obvious: Jeff Buckley – Grace. A classic. A given. If I had found Tim Buckley, I would have taken that too.


Then I saw Otis. No hesitation. No doubt.
Just this quiet certainty: I have to have this. This belongs with me.


I added Dire Straits – Love Over Gold and stopped there. I could have found many more. But this had to do.


Once we were home, Otis went on the turntable.
Loud. The way his music deserves to be played.
There’s pain in his voice, but there’s also warmth. Humanity. Nothing clever for the sake of being clever. Nothing hidden. Just truth.


He was only twenty-six. And he left behind music that still feels painfully alive.


If you don’t know where to start, start anywhere. Put on Dock of the Bay. Then I’ve Been Loving You Too Long. Let it build. Let it take its time.


You should listen to him.

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sharing is caring

I listened to many hours of music this weekend and I enjoyed myself immensely.

I am aware, Spotify is not kind to musicians and artists. Not at all. But it is convenient. Unfortunately, yes. I am one of those people. Please enjoy the music too.

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ghost in the machine (song review)

I was listening to a lot of music today and as I am writing this, there is still music playing in the background.

I listened to artists like Soen and Agent Fresco, but also Weather Systems. In September 2024 they released their debut album “Ocean Without a Shore”. I listened a lot to it for a while, but in the last six months, I only listened to the song Synaesthesia. Until today. I was in the mood to hear the entire album and so I pulled the beautiful vinyl (it’s blue with black swirls) out of its sleeve and put it on the turntable. Volume up. And off we went. I listened to the songs on vinyl, playing mindlessly on my phone. Until…

Until Ghost in the Machine came on. The song is built around a steady guitar riff that gives it forward momentum. The repetition works well here. It gives the track direction and a clear emotional line. The percussion provides the structure underneath without drawing attention away from the melody. It keeps the tempo and the shape of the song consistent.

The vocal work is one of the strengths. Daniel Cavanagh carries the main vocal line and Soraia Silva’s voice comes in at selected points, not to soften the sound but to expand it. Their voices blend into one atmosphere rather than forming a lead and backing contrast. It gives the song a unified emotional tone.

I knew the song before, of course I did, and I remember that I mentioned it in the album review I wrote as a standout song, but there was something about it that made me pause today, that grabbed my attention differently. There is no dramatic peak. The song does not build toward release. Instead, it fades gradually. A few piano notes close the track and lead directly into Are You There Pt. 2. The transition is subtle and fits the pacing of the album as a whole.

I like when music is layered. It often changes with every listen and also with our moods, I guess. And that is why we can listen to a song 50 times and think we already know it, and then on the 51st listen, it suddenly sounds new.

My song of the day for sure. What do you think? How do you like the song?

I added this video because I mentioned Daniel Cardoso’s drumming and here he plays the full song through.

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Douglas Dare – Omni (album review)

In May 2014, I reviewed Whelm, Douglas Dare’s debut album, and praised it for its sparse beauty and lyrical weight. Now, almost exactly ten years later, I discovered Omni, his fourth and most daring album to date. It was released in May 2024 but had somehow stayed off my radar until recently.

Known for his piano-led minimalism and poetic songwriting, Dare takes a confident leap here. He embraces lush electronics, pulsing basslines and rhythmic tension. Omni is not a record that stays safely in the shadows. It pulses, flickers and invites movement, all while preserving the intimacy he is known for.

As someone whose taste usually leans toward heavier genres such as progressive rock, metal and dense arrangements, what continues to draw me to Dare’s music is not its volume but its emotional weight. There is a complexity in the restraint and a richness in the rawness. Omni feels simultaneously expansive and enclosed, like dancing alone in a dimly lit room while the world fades outside the door.

This is music that leans into sensuality and story. The electronic textures are meticulous but never sterile. There is breath in the beats and skin in the synths. My favourites – Absentia, Sailor, and No Island is a Man – are perfect examples of how emotion can be sculpted into sound. Absentia aches in its pauses. Sailor carries longing like a tide pulling memory and presence into one wave. No Island is a Man is both arresting and tender, its arrangement stunning in both vulnerability and strength.



Compared to the subdued piano ballads of Milkteeth (2020) or the fractured introspection of Aforger (2016), Omni moves with intent. It is bolder, darker in tone, but more fluid in form. It sheds the fragility of his earlier albums without losing the emotional core that defines his work.

Although I only discovered Omni recently, I listened to it all day for a couple of days in a row. It accompanied me through quiet work, restless thoughts, and even the writing of the heavier piece on mental health I shared recently. It held the background gently, anchoring me with its warmth and restraint, just like the best music does.

It is worth noting that Omni is not only Dare’s vision, but a collaboration shaped by sensitive and skilful production choices. The subtle textures and perfectly balanced arrangements speak of a team that knew exactly how to hold space for his voice and message.

Omni feels both nostalgic and forward-looking. It echoes influences while carving its own strange, beautiful path. It reminds me that emotive, art-driven music, whatever its genre, has the power to disarm and hold you still.
It was high time I took the time to write about this little electronic gem.

Find him and his links here: Douglas Dare

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song of the day

Benson Boone – sorry I’m here for someone else

February 2025 brought a wave of strong new releases, and “Sorry I’m Here for Someone Else” by Benson Boone is no exception. It’s a striking follow-up to his breakout hit Beautiful Things, but with a different emotional texture. While that song thrived on raw vulnerability and soaring vocals, this one leans into a more danceable rhythm with a subtle yet undeniable 80s-inspired vibe. Think soft synths, a pulsing beat, and just the right touch of nostalgia.

It is introspective, yes, but it doesn’t wallow. Instead, it moves, both emotionally and sonically. Benson Boone continues to show range, delivering heartfelt storytelling with a voice that carries both ache and restraint, all wrapped in a surprisingly infectious sound.

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song of the day

JAIN & Solomun – tout le monde est fou

If you’re familiar with the music I usually share on the blog, this song might surprise you in more than one way. First, it features a female vocalist – not unheard of here, but definitely less common. Second, it’s upbeat, danceable;  a proper club track. The version of Tout le monde est fou by Jain and Solomun was released in February 2025, and it’s a bold, rhythmic reimagining of the original.

You may have noticed I’ve been sharing more current releases lately. I’m not sure why, but there’s genuinely some brilliant new music out there right now. This track, for instance, stands out from my usual melancholic, atmospheric soundscapes. It’s vibrant, sharp, full of energy, and yet, it still carries a subtle edge of irony and social observation that speaks to me. Maybe that’s why it made it onto the blog.

Enjoy the song

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music march 13/31

Max Giesinger – butterfly effect

The song was released in 2025 (February 21st)

If my childhood had been different, who would I be now? If kindness had outweighed the quiet, if voices had softened instead of sharpened, if I had felt seen rather than learning to disappear, would I still be me? Maybe I wouldn’t have found solace in words. Maybe I wouldn’t have built a world inside my mind, a place where I was both safe and free.

If I hadn’t listened to that album, the one that cracked something open in me, would my heart beat to a different rhythm? Would another song have found me, whispered its secrets, shaped my thoughts? Music has always been more than background noise. It is the thread tying moments together, the map leading me to myself.

If that friend had stayed, if the goodbye had never happened, what kind of person would I be now? Some people slip away, and at the time, it feels like a wound that won’t close. But in the end, those absences shape us as much as the presences. Loss carves space for something new, something unknown. Without that fracture, would I have learned to stand taller, trust my own voice?

If I hadn’t started writing, if I had ignored that first whisper urging me to put words on paper, would I have ever truly understood myself? Writing isn’t just a choice. It is a necessity, a thread woven into my being. Without it, I might still be searching for the pieces of myself that only writing ever made whole.

That is the butterfly effect. Small moments, tiny choices, a song, a book, a lost friendship. One shift in the past and the present might be unrecognizable. The person I am, the person I have become, exists because of all of it. Because of every “if” that led me here.

Music march is brought to you by demfloseinewelt on Threads

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Music march 12/31

Frank Turner – mittens



There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come from explosive fights or dramatic endings. It’s the slow kind, the one that lingers after you have given everything and realised it was never going to be enough. Frank Turner’s Mittens, released in 2016 on Positive Songs for Negative People, captures that feeling with brutal simplicity.

“I once wrote you love songs, you never fell in love.”

That line alone says more than most ballads ever do. Love songs are declarations, little lifelines thrown into the void in the hope that someone will catch them. But here, they don’t land. They exist, they are written, played, sung, but they do nothing. There is no grand rejection, no bitter fallout, just the realisation that love cannot be willed into existence, no matter how beautifully it is framed.

Then comes the line that seals it:

“We used to fit like mittens, but never like gloves.”

Mittens and gloves serve the same purpose, but they do it differently. Mittens force closeness, pressing fingers together in a shared warmth, but they lack precision. Gloves fit every curve, every space between fingers, allowing movement without losing connection. That difference is everything. There was comfort, there was something that felt safe, but it was never the right shape.

For a poet, this kind of writing works because it leaves room to breathe. It does not over-explain. It does not try too hard. It lets the image carry the weight, and in that restraint, it hits even harder.

Music march is brought to you by demfloseinewelt on Threads

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Music march 11/31

Saybia – I surrender

From the album “These are the Days” (2004)

Why this song today?

Because it’s about release without resolution.

Because it sounds like quiet thoughts that won’t settle.

Because it holds that push and pull between letting go and holding on, and I know that feeling too well.

Because “Into the arms of a beautiful stranger” isn’t always about a person, it’s about seeking comfort in places that don’t quite fit, about trying to fill a space that stays empty.

Because “Who really loves me?” isn’t just a lyric. It’s a thought that lingers, sometimes quietly, sometimes not.

Because it doesn’t end with certainty, just a choice to surrender.

Music march is brought to you by @ demfloseinewelt on Threads

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music march 10/31

Grace Potter and the Nocturnals – falling or flying

I first heard Falling or Flying in the car, on a Dutch radio station, while heading to a family vacation. It was one of those moments when a song catches you unexpectedly, sinking into your skin before you even know the lyrics. I pulled out my phone, Shazamed it, and added it to my Spotify playlist right away. Something about the melody and the weight in Grace Potter’s voice made me pause. Even then, I knew it was a song I would return to.

Released in 2007 on This Is Somewhere, Falling or Flying is a song that lingers in uncertainty. It is restless and full of longing, searching for something unnamed. It gained recognition after appearing in Grey’s Anatomy and ER, which makes sense. It belongs in moments of hesitation, when emotions build but do not yet have direction.

I have felt this before. That space between motion and stillness. The quiet ache of wanting something without knowing what. The weight of a feeling that does not settle but does not fully break open either. It is not sadness, but it is not lightness either.

It always passes. One way or another, I land. The lyrics have stayed with me over the years, even inspiring a couple of my poems. Today, I am feeling it again, and I am letting it be.

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music march 9/31

Antimatter – no contact

From the album A Profusion of Thought (2022)

For those who have followed the music posts on this blog for a while, you may have come across mentions of Antimatter. Antimatter is the project of Mick Moss, a highly talented British musician. I have always been drawn to his voice, the richness of its tone, the subtle nuances in his delivery. And then there are the lyrics, which have inspired more than one of my poems.

I first discovered Antimatter through Anathema, as past members—Duncan Patterson and Daniel Cavanagh—were once part of the band. That connection led me to explore their music, and I quickly found myself immersed in its depth. Antimatter’s sound has always carried an intensity that feels both haunting and intimate, a kind of quiet desperation wrapped in melody.

The emotional weight of their songs reached me at a time when I needed that kind of heaviness in my life. Some say that listening to melancholic music only deepens sadness, but for me, it was always the opposite. It became a haven, something to hold onto when nothing else made sense. The lyrics, the sound, the rawness of it all made me feel understood. As a teenager and young adult, that feeling was invaluable.

Looking back, I realise how much those songs shaped me, not just as a listener but as a writer. They taught me that vulnerability is not a weakness and that darkness has its own kind of beauty. Music like this does not just fade into the background; it lingers, weaving itself into memories and emotions, resurfacing when you least expect it.

Even now, when I hear those songs, they still resonate. The meanings may shift, evolving with time and experience, but the connection remains. Maybe that is the magic of truly great music—it grows with you. That is why I still look forward to every new release from Antimatter and any other project Mick Moss is involved in. I know that his voice, his lyrics, and his performance will always reach me where music needs to touch the listener, in that space beyond words where only sound and feeling exist.

As always: music march is brought to you by demfloseinewelt on Threads

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music march 8/31

Fontaines D.C. – it’s amazing to be young

It is amazing to be young. There is an energy to it, a sense of urgency too. A feeling that we give everything we have to our youth, as if nothing beyond it could ever measure up. As if the best years of our lives are spent before we even know what to do with them. Fontaines D.C. captures that feeling in It’s Amazing to Be Young, their latest release from their 2024 album Romance.

But the truth is, I never had an issue with age. At 42, I feel like the most authentic version of myself. This shift started at 39, a slow but steady settling into my skin. I am much more comfortable in my ways, more laid-back, more aware of what I am capable of. I know my flaws too, and I embrace them as part of who I am, shaped by every experience that brought me here.

I still fall into old patterns sometimes, but I do not self-sabotage as much anymore. I do not let people manipulate me or take advantage of my kindness. That alone makes all the difference.

It is amazing to be young. But right now, I feel young too. I have responsibilities. I lead an adult life. But because of that, I am also free. Most times.

This is today’s song. This is today’s thought.

Music march is brought to you by @ demfloseinewelt on Threads

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Music march 7/31

Airbag – machines and men

Some lines stay. I don’t know why certain words stick while others fade, but I wanna get out, I wanna be free, so come on now, let me out lodged itself somewhere in me the first time I heard it. It didn’t ask to be remembered. It just was.

It’s been years, and I don’t listen to Machines and Men as often anymore, but those words still surface. They’ve slipped into my own writing, not as a direct echo but as something reshaped and rewritten, the feeling of them woven into poems and thoughts.

Maybe it’s the way the song carries itself, unrushed, steady, never forcing anything. It moves forward because that’s what it does, not because it’s trying to get anywhere. That’s probably what makes the line hit harder. It’s not desperate. It just is.

I don’t need to explain why it stayed. Some things don’t need explaining. Music is always about memories and meaning. Isn’t it?

Credits for musicmarch go to demfloseinewelt on Threads

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music march 6/31

Mogwai – take me somewhere nice

From the album Rock Action (2001)

Tonight I will do something that I haven’t done in a while. Share too much.

A wave of nausea rose. My heart started beating too fast. My hands were clammy and trembling. I couldn’t breathe. There was no air. Not for me. Just emotions everywhere. And they covered me like a weighted blanket—too heavy to shake off, too much to bear.

This hasn’t happened in a long while. Not like this. But I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t prevent it.

And when I was finally able to breathe, I started crying. My entire body shook. I felt so cold. And I cried and I cried and I cried—until there was nothing left. Until I was empty.

I shut down. Completely. And while the blanket was lifted, it was replaced with a veil of numbness—a quiet exhaustion. Nothing mattered at all. Everything mattered too much. And I was standing in the storm, blown away in different directions.

That’s why I chose Mogwai’s Take Me Somewhere Nice today. It exists in that space after everything has already happened. It doesn’t ask for much, doesn’t force emotion. It just drifts, like I do now. Waiting for something to feel real again.

Tomorrow is a new day

Credits go to @ demfloseinewelt on Threads