.png)
Linus Hablot sits down with Medicine Box at Medium Sized Backyard to talk new music, dream tours, and why playing live with a band is helping him finally finish the songs he's been sitting on for years.
"Back Home" catches Yeat at a strange crossroads: everything he hustled for is real now, but none of it feels the way it was supposed to. The flex is genuine, the paranoia is genuine, and the numbness underneath both is the most honest thing on the track. It's a victory lap where the runner keeps glancing back at the starting line.
"Kill The Geese" is Joji at his most quietly unraveling, circling a breakup through blurry images of malls, rain, and empty pockets. It's a song about performing indifference so hard that the effort becomes the confession. The more the narrator insists they're fine, the more obvious it is they're not.
"FTC" is one of those songs that hides a love confession inside a rejection of everything that isn't love. Joji strips the narrator down to a single preference, and that simplicity hits harder than any grand romantic gesture could. It's a two-minute argument that the right person makes everywhere else feel pointless.
"Do You Know The Devil" finds Vince Staples in a rare moment of raw vulnerability, tracing a life spent too close to darkness and desperate for a way out. It's not a song about evil so much as about exhaustion, the kind that comes from carrying weight you never asked for. Vince doesn't pose as a saint or a sinner here. He just sounds like someone who's been in the fire long enough to know it by name.
Vince Staples takes the most patriotic phrases Americans know and wrings them dry until all that's left is the irony. "Only In America" holds the promise of freedom in one hand and the reality of survival in the other, and it never lets you forget those two things have never been the same. It's a song that sounds like a celebration and feels like a funeral.
"The Big Bad Wolf" is Vince Staples dismantling the fairy tale that Black Americans were ever safe from the state. Built around Slick Rick's chilling chorus and a relentless accumulation of historical and personal violence, the song refuses comfort at every turn. It is not a protest song in the traditional sense. It is a reckoning.
"White Flag" finds Vince Staples exhausted by every war he's expected to fight at once: racial violence, street life, love, and the performative allyship that surrounds all of it. The chorus isn't defeat. It's the clearest-eyed thing he says on the track. By the end, surrender stops feeling like weakness and starts feeling like the only honest move left.
"I Built You A Tower (a)" is about the exhausting architecture of obsession, the way we try to manage overwhelming feelings by giving them a private, contained space, only to watch that containment collapse entirely. Ben Gibbard writes about building a mental prison for someone who ends up ruling the whole building. It's one of those songs that knows exactly how foolish the narrator looks and refuses to let them off the hook for it.
"Envy the Birds" captures that specific anguish of being trapped inside a fight you can't escape, watching it spiral while your mind searches for an exit. Death Cab for Cutie turns the image of birds in flight into something almost desperate, a longing not for freedom exactly, but for silence. It's a song about how words, once launched, can't be recalled, and how the safest place starts to feel like nowhere at all.
"How Heavenly A State" sits with someone in the moment they stop fighting, and asks what it actually feels like to watch that happen. Death Cab for Cutie write about death not as tragedy but as threshold, finding something almost sacred in the surrender. It's a song about the gap between what grief looks like from the outside and what the dying person might have found on the other side.
"Punching the Flowers" is a portrait of a man so committed to his own suffering that tenderness becomes something to destroy. Death Cab for Cutie trace the slow erosion of a relationship not through cruelty alone, but through willful disconnection, the quiet violence of someone who mistakes numbness for depth. By the end, the damage is done and the question of whether any of it was love feels genuinely unanswerable.
"One Thing Right" is a quiet declaration of love built entirely on honesty about everything else falling short. Bedouine doesn't pretend to have life figured out, and that's exactly what makes the song so disarming. It's not a grand romantic gesture but something rarer: a person who admits they're lost, then points to the one thing that makes sense anyway.
"There Goes The Night" is a song about holding on to who you used to be before the world asked you to grow up and apologize for it. Cold War Kids build something that feels like a memory you're still living inside, part eulogy, part celebration, and completely unashamed. It's about the nights that shaped you, the people who were there, and the stubborn refusal to let any of that go quiet.
"We Might as Well Be Strangers" sits in the quiet devastation of a friendship or relationship so far gone that even the grief has faded. Weezer's Rivers Cuomo and Wednesday's Karly Hartzman trade perspectives on the same collapse, arriving at the same hollow conclusion from different directions. It's a song about losing someone and then, worse, losing the part of yourself that cared.
"Life's a Dream" traps you in a cycle before you even notice it happening. Modest Mouse builds something hypnotic and quietly devastating out of waking, forgetting, and going back to sleep, turning ordinary human inertia into something that feels cosmic. It's a song about how we lose ourselves not in dramatic moments but in the endless, unexamined repetition of days. And somehow, at the end, it offers something that feels almost like comfort.
"Jilt" opens inside a blur of alcohol, bloated mornings, and expensive things gathering dust, then slowly clears into something sharper: a man waking up to himself after years of drift. Clarion turns the foggy post-excess moment Koreans call 현자타임 into a full confrontation with identity, asking whether the person you've become would embarrass the person you used to be. The answer is never comfortable, but the question is the whole point.
ivri's track is a slow-burn confession about the exhaustion of shapeshifting for someone else's comfort, until there's nothing left to give and no real connection to show for it. The narrator doesn't lash out or grieve loudly. They just arrive at a wall, stripped bare, and admit it's over. It's the quiet devastation of realizing that being everything for someone guaranteed you'd end up meaning nothing to them.
"Cotton" is Vince Staples stripping everything back to one honest confession: that music holds him together when nothing else can. Against a backdrop of street violence, absent faith, and love that can just as easily destroy you, the song makes a quietly radical argument that a record spinning on a turntable might be the most dependable lifeline there is. It's tender in a way Staples rarely allows himself to be, and that vulnerability is exactly what makes it hit.
"Nightshift Superstar" is a song about the seductive pull of something that costs you everything. Muse frames addiction or fixation as a person, a performer, someone who only exists in the dark and leaves you hollowed out by morning. The tension between glamour and destruction is the whole point, and the song never lets you forget that both are true at the same time.
"Fight Like A Girl" is a song about flipping the script on someone who thought they had the upper hand. Amy Lee and K.Flay take a phrase historically used to demean and weaponize it as a declaration of dominance, walking the line between righteous fury and cold precision. It's a confrontation song, but the real power move is how calm and inevitable it all feels.
"Wide Open Heart" is Evanescence at their most nakedly hopeful, a song about surviving long enough to feel something again and choosing not to look away from the pain that got you there. It doesn't promise that things will be okay. It asks whether we're willing to stay present anyway, and it makes that question feel like a form of courage.
"Forever Without You" is a song about surviving someone who almost took you down with them. It tracks the full arc from consuming, destructive love to a hard-won clarity that feels equal parts relief and grief. Amy Lee doesn't romanticize the loss or the relationship. She just tells the truth about both.
"Self Destruct" is Evanescence at their most confrontational, turning personal exhaustion into a broader reckoning with systems and people that keep us sick. Amy Lee's narrator isn't just falling apart, they're watching everyone fall apart together, and asking who actually wanted it this way. It's a song about the violence of denial, and the strange relief of finally naming it.
"Calm Down" is not a plea for peace. It's the sound of someone who has been holding everything together for too long finally setting it down. Amy Lee delivers the song's repeated command with a calm that cuts deeper than any outburst could, building toward a threat so quiet it lands like a door clicking shut.
"About Us" is Evanescence at their most politically furious, tracing the slow realization that the systems and figures people put their faith in were always indifferent to their suffering. Amy Lee writes from inside the wreckage, not above it, making the anger feel personal even when the targets are massive. It's a song about complicity, exhaustion, and the moment you stop trying to pull someone back from the edge they ran toward themselves.
"How Do I Heal" sits inside a paradox: healing requires letting go, but the narrator refuses. Amy Lee traces grief not as something to move through but as something to live alongside, finding in loss not an absence but a presence that still guides, still speaks, still keeps the light on.
"Sanctuary" opens in apocalyptic chaos and lands somewhere far more defiant than despair. Evanescence builds a anthem not around rescue but around the refusal to need it, where surviving together is the only shelter that holds. It's raw, communal, and completely clear-eyed about the world it's set against.
"Afterlife" is what it sounds like when someone stops begging to be saved and starts daring fate to finish the job. Amy Lee writes from a place so wrung out and haunted that death stops being a fear and becomes almost a dare. It's not a suicide note or a surrender, it's a portrait of someone who has simply run out of reasons to flinch.
"Rapture" is about the specific kind of freedom that only comes after you've been lied to long enough. Amy Lee writes about finally seeing through someone who hid behind power, money, and manufactured shame, and choosing the light not as comfort but as a declaration. It's a song about surviving someone, not just leaving them.
"Who Will You Follow" is a confrontation with a force that hollows you out so completely you stop recognizing your own reflection. Evanescence builds a case for waking up before you disappear entirely, tracing the line between devotion and destruction with unsettling precision. It's a song about the terrifying moment you realize the thing you gave everything to was feeding on you all along.
"Tell Me When You've Had Enough" is a song about endurance pushed past its natural limit, where survival stops feeling like strength and starts feeling like a trap. Evanescence builds a portrait of someone ground down so completely that the question of when to stop fighting becomes almost impossible to answer. It's raw, defiant, and quietly devastating all at once.
"Beautiful Lie" is about the moment you realize you've been slowly destroyed by a relationship built on someone else's delusions. Evanescence captures the exhaustion of someone who finally sees clearly but has been paying for another person's refusal to wake up. It's not a breakup song so much as a survival reckoning, raw and unapologetic about the damage done.
"Do That Again" lives in that brutal in-between space where you know a relationship is over but your body hasn't caught up with your head yet. Malcolm Todd captures the specific ache of someone trying to do the right thing while craving one last reason to undo it. It's a breakup song where the farewell keeps getting interrupted by desire, and the tension never fully resolves.
"Good Bye" sits in the strange space between heartbreak and hope, where saying goodbye doesn't actually mean it's over. Malcolm Todd traces the full weight of a relationship, from a shy first hello to imagined children in the yard, and somehow turns the most painful moment into a quiet promise. It's grief and certainty sharing the same breath.
Malcolm Todd's "Lonely Song" is a wry, aching portrait of being 22 and quietly falling apart while pretending otherwise. It treats loneliness not as a dramatic collapse but as a low hum beneath all the performative fine-ness, the kind you joke about because admitting it straight feels too heavy. Sharp, self-aware, and a little funny in the saddest way.
"X's & O's" is that feeling you can't talk yourself out of, no matter how clearly you see it coming. Malcolm Todd writes about the specific kind of person who makes you forget your own rules, not because you're blind to the risk, but because part of you doesn't care. It's self-aware desire at its most honest, and that's exactly what makes it hit.
"Gun To My Head" is Malcolm Todd forcing himself to say the thing he's been dodging: leaving someone he loved for a career that turned out to be lonelier than he expected. It's a confession that only comes out under pressure, and the pressure is entirely self-inflicted. Todd strips away the bravado of success to show what it actually looks like up close, which is hotel rooms, bad dates, and a chest that still wants someone specific lying on it.
"Ain't That The Truth" is the kind of song that catches you mid-thought, halfway between clarity and self-deception. Malcolm Todd writes about someone who knows exactly what they should do and keeps finding reasons not to do it. It's honest without being dramatic, which makes it cut deeper.
"Malcolm In The Middle" is a song about the specific dread of loving someone who loves you back, but not trusting it to last. Malcolm Todd writes from that liminal space between closeness and doubt, where a perfect moment feels more fragile, not safer. It's tender and anxious at once, the emotional equivalent of holding your breath while someone sleeps next to you.
"I Saw Your Face" captures the specific pain of loving someone enough to disappear from their life. Malcolm Todd builds a quietly devastating portrait of a person who spots an ex in public, freezes, and then walks away, not out of cowardice, but out of sacrifice. It's a breakup song where the wound is self-inflicted on purpose, and that's what makes it sting.
"Breathe" is Malcolm Todd at his most nakedly honest, caught between knowing something is wrong and doing it anyway. The song maps the tension between restraint and want with surprising specificity, grounding big emotional stakes in a hotel suite and a pair of legs on a shoulder. It's intimate in the way only real confession can be, and it lingers.
"Free.99" is about the cruel joke of getting exactly what you thought you wanted. Malcolm Todd untangles the aftermath of leaving a relationship that felt suffocating, only to find that the space left behind feels worse than the weight ever did. It's a song about regret dressed up as liberation, and the two-word title says everything: this freedom cost nothing, and it's worth exactly that.
"Obsessica" is a song about desire that knows it has no defense and doesn't really want one. Malcolm Todd traces the whole absurd arc of infatuation, from self-aware horniness to spiral-mode attachment, and somehow makes the sheer ridiculousness of it all feel completely honest. By the end, the obsession hasn't narrowed to one person. It's exploded outward into a roster.
"Jean Skirt" is a small song that does something big. Malcolm Todd captures the exact moment before things tip over, when the heat is mutual and everyone in the room knows it. It's a story told almost entirely in clothing and sweat, and somehow that's enough.
"Snake the Drain" is a song about the slow, grinding exhaustion of loving someone who shows up with charm instead of effort. Devon Again frames intimacy and frustration inside the same domestic space, making the case that sweet words and real partnership are two completely different things. It's not a breakup song exactly, more like the moment right before, when you've finally stopped being moved by the apology.
"Rinkside" is a song about watching someone from a distance and knowing, with total clarity, that you're too late. Vansire builds a quiet ache out of hesitation and longing, set against the spinning motion of someone who doesn't know you're watching. It's a song about the gap between feeling ready and actually being ready, and how the city keeps pulling you back into that loop.
Some songs don't need words to tell you exactly where they've been. "Canto Andino" by Hermanos Gutiérrez is a fully instrumental piece that carries the weight of landscape, memory, and longing through pure melody and string work. It's the kind of track that fills in its own blanks, and yours too.
"Stone Over Water" captures that specific kind of tired where the performance of being okay costs more than the pain itself. Ben Gibbard writes from inside a fog that won't lift, watching himself age and unravel while telling everyone he's fine. It's a song about the gap between what we admit out loud and what we stare at alone in the dark.
"Secret Language" is about the gap between what you feel and what you can actually say out loud. Ryan Beatty captures that specific ache of loving someone while being unable to name it directly, communicating in gestures and proximity instead of words. It's tender and a little bruised, the portrait of someone who wants desperately to be understood without having to make themselves fully visible.
"High Hopes 3000" is a brutally honest portrait of someone trying to outrun emptiness through the rituals of connection, new shirts, late nights, and strangers' arms, only to end up exactly where they started. ROLE MODEL captures a specific kind of modern loneliness: not dramatic, not loud, just relentless and circular. The song asks whether love is something that finds you or something you have to work yourself toward, and it never quite answers.
"the feeling" captures that specific kind of longing where you know exactly what you want but have no idea if the other person is even in the same conversation. Steve Lacy lays out the obsessive, humiliating, tender reality of loving someone who keeps you guessing, and somehow makes it feel worth singing about. It's a song about the courage it takes to just ask the question.
"Difficult Love" is a song that knows exactly what it's doing and does it anyway. Malcolm Todd captures that specific kind of attraction that lives in the chaos, where the hurt and the want are so tangled up you stop trying to separate them. It's honest in a way that makes you a little uncomfortable, and that's exactly the point.
together PANGEA sit down with Medicine Box at Medium Sized Backyard to talk touring burnout, their new album 'Eat Myself,' and why they only follow Dolly Parton on Instagram.
corook sits down with Medicine Box at Medium Sized Backyard to talk How Do I Relate to You, rewriting songs four times, and why touring with friends beats everything.
Nia Archives talks identity, jungle music, and making peace with being a black sheep... filmed backstage at Lightning in a Bottle ahead of her debut live band performance.
"Never Know" is a small, tender song about the kind of love that exists mostly in private, the kind that sustains you precisely because it doesn't need an audience. McCartney writes about distance, doubt, and the strange comfort of being truly known by one person while the rest of the world stays oblivious. It's not a grand declaration. It's something quieter and more honest than that.
"We Two" is Paul McCartney at his most quietly certain, a song about a love so settled it doesn't need to prove itself. It moves like a warm memory, unhurried and sure, tracing the kind of devotion that doesn't shout but never wavers. By the end, what started as one person's private longing opens into something shared, a "we" that was always the point.
"Down South" is Paul McCartney looking back at the raw, unpolished beginning of one of music's greatest partnerships. It's a song about how you find your people not in a studio or on a stage, but crammed in a lorry cab going nowhere in particular. Simple, warm, and quietly enormous.
"Mountain Top" wraps a lysergic daydream in the language of innocence, blurring the line between wonder and losing control. McCartney builds a shared world of talking mushrooms and hypnotic skies that feels enchanted until the chorus cuts in with something closer to alarm. It's a song about the seductive pull of altered states and the quiet question underneath them all: do you want to go deeper, or do you want out?
"Ripples in a Pond" is Paul McCartney at his most quietly honest, writing about long-term love not as a grand declaration but as something that keeps moving outward, surprising even the person feeling it. The song holds together the small tensions of a real relationship and the genuine wonder of watching love deepen anyway. It's simple on the surface and unexpectedly moving underneath.
"Days We Left Behind" is Paul McCartney sitting alone with a photograph, not wallowing but bearing witness. The song moves through memory, youth, and loss with a restraint that makes it hit harder than any grand gesture could. It's about the things you can't reclaim and the promises you refuse to let go of anyway.
"Lost Horizon" is a song about how the past doesn't stay in the past. It lives in the sound of a clock, a bus brake, a fairground in the distance. McCartney builds a world where memory isn't something you think your way back to but something that ambushes you, and where that ambush turns out to be a gift.
"As You Lie There" is a song built entirely on longing from a distance, the kind that lives in your chest and never quite finds a door to walk through. Paul McCartney captures that suspended, almost frozen feeling of wanting someone you barely know, circling their window night after night, wondering if you exist in their mind at all. It's tender and a little unnerving at the same time, which is exactly what makes it stick.
"Down Debbie/Reservoir" sits in that specific exhaustion where you know something is wrong with you but can't quite reach the feeling to fix it. The Army, The Navy stitch together two emotional states: the dry, demanding ache of needing someone to fill what's missing, and the quieter guilt of not wanting to be the person dragging everyone down. It's a song about numbness that somehow doesn't feel numb at all.
"As I Was" sits in that quietly devastating place where love hasn't ended but the people inside it have started to drift from who they used to be. John Vincent III builds a song around one urgent, unanswered question: can the person you love still see the version of you worth holding onto? It's equal parts nostalgia and self-doubt, and it hits hardest because it never fully resolves.
"Rock o' Stone" is Kurt Vile at his most quietly devastating, tracing a heart so worn down it's turned to rock, while the warmth of other people waits just a few feet away. It's a song about the gap between knowing you're isolated and being unable to close it, told with the kind of rambling, half-dreaming honesty that makes Vile's writing feel like eavesdropping on someone's internal monologue. By the time the outro arrives, the repetition of "all alone" doesn't feel like complaint so much as a state of being someone has simply learned to live inside.
"Gangstalker" puts you inside a mind that has completely lost its grip on what is real, and it does it without flinching. Sublime builds the song around a narrator who is fleeing invisible pursuers, certain of a threat no one else can see. What makes it devastating is how the song never mocks them. It just follows them, faithfully, all the way to the edge.
"Play Your Games" is Greta Van Fleet at their most reckless and self-aware, capturing that specific feeling of leaning hard into a good time while knowing morning is coming to collect. It's a song about choosing fire over caution, fun over consequence, and the bittersweet rush of someone who knows exactly what they're doing and does it anyway. The lyrics are lean, almost careless in the best way, and that's the whole point.
"Young Again" captures that specific ache of realizing childhood wasn't just a phase you passed through but a world you exited without saying goodbye. Shinedown builds it out of blacktop summers and bottle rocket wars, the kind of details that hit differently once you're on the other side of them. It's a song about innocence not as something stolen but as something surrendered without knowing it was happening.
"Starless" is a song about waking up inside a system that has already gotten under your skin. A Perfect Circle trace the quiet creep of authoritarian thinking, the moment you realize the poison took hold, and the desperate scramble to find your own bearings again. It is disorientation as a political and personal crisis at once.
"Dust in the Wind" by Chanel Beads sits in that quiet, bruised space between grief and stubbornness, where you know something is gone but refuse to fully let it register. The song traces a slow emotional collapse and an equally slow attempt to hold the world together anyway. It's about the specific exhaustion of caring for something that has already slipped away, and the strange dignity of carrying that weight without resolution.
"The Wave" sits in that tender, terrifying space where a relationship is close to breaking but not broken yet. Lydia Kitto delivers the kind of vocal performance that makes reassurance sound like a quiet act of bravery, and the lyrics back her up completely. This is a song about choosing someone not because things are easy, but because losing them would be harder than anything the storm could throw at you.
"Deep End" captures that specific kind of longing where you're doing everything right and getting nothing back, and somehow that makes you try harder. Julia Wolf turns small domestic details into evidence of obsession, building a portrait of someone who knows they're too far in and can't stop anyway. It's self-aware and a little unhinged, in the most relatable way possible.
"Rumspringa" by ear is a song about the exhausted aftermath of a relationship that refuses to end cleanly. It captures that specific feeling of knowing something is over but being unable to fully let go, cycling through hope, numbness, and guilt with quiet precision. The lyrics are sparse but heavy, built around the kind of honesty that surfaces when you stop performing strength.
"Dark Magic" opens like a fairytale and closes like a threat. Quadeca builds a song about wanting someone, losing them, and then reclaiming something bigger than the relationship ever was. It's a breakup song that refuses to stay broken.
"BOUNCY CASTLE & TRAMPOLINES" is Labrinth throwing a fist in the air at adulthood, not with sadness but with defiance. It's about the specific grief of realizing you traded something irreplaceable for something ordinary. The song doesn't wallow in nostalgia; it weaponizes it.
"Anointed Reprobate" is one of those tracks that unsettles you before you can fully explain why. Labrinth sets up a spiritual invitation that feels equal parts church revival and warning label, pulling the listener toward something holy and corrupt at the same time. The song holds those two states together without resolving them, which is exactly the point.
"Talk On The Hill" is a song about spiritual hunger, the kind that doesn't have a name yet. WILLOW reaches toward an ancient, collective knowing she can almost feel but can't quite read, and the whole song becomes an act of devotion to learning how. It's reverent without being religious, personal without being confessional.
"Handle" finds Ravyn Lenae issuing a warning and an invitation at the same time, framing her love as something overwhelming, elemental, and entirely worth the risk. The song sits in that charged space between confidence and vulnerability, where knowing your own worth means accepting that not everyone can meet you there. It's a dare dressed up as a love song, and the tension never fully lets go.
"Momma Gets By" is a quiet portrait of a woman holding everything together while the man she loves holds very little. McCartney draws the picture without judgment, letting the gap between what this woman carries and what she chooses to feel do all the heavy lifting. It's a song about love that looks irrational from the outside and completely coherent from the inside.
"Salesman Saint" is Paul McCartney reaching back into his own family history with the kind of simplicity that only comes from real understanding. It is a song about the generation that endured everything and asked for nothing, finding a way forward through small joys and sheer necessity. McCartney captures the emotional math of survival: not heroism, not happiness, just the stubborn decision to carry on.
"First Star of the Night" is Paul McCartney at his most quietly hopeful, built around a single image of a star piercing through the dark. It's a short song that carries real emotional weight, capturing that specific feeling when grief or sadness starts to lift and you catch yourself believing things might be okay again. Small in scale, enormous in sincerity.
"Life Can Be Hard" is Paul McCartney at his most tender, a small and honest love song about finding steadiness in another person when everything else feels unstable. It doesn't reach for grand romance so much as something warmer and more durable: the kind of love that shows up quietly and holds. McCartney frames hardship not as something to overcome alone, but as the exact moment where real connection becomes visible.
"Home to Us" is Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr revisiting the streets they came from, not with rose-tinted nostalgia but with clear eyes and genuine warmth. The song holds two truths at once: life was hard, the place was rough, and it was still home in the deepest sense. It's a working-class love letter that earns every note of its sentiment.
"Coil" by ear is a quiet unraveling, two voices circling a relationship that has already come apart before the song even begins. The lyrics move from careful reassurance to slow detachment, tracing the moment someone stops fighting to stay and starts walking toward something else. It is small and precise in the best way, leaving more unsaid than said.
"No Fear" holds two things at once that should cancel each other out: the rawness of a body fully given over to love, and a calm, almost visionary faith that something waits beyond the wreckage. Iceage builds a song that tastes like wounds and dawn at the same time. It's devotion that doesn't flinch, even when it bleeds.
"Baby Driver" is built on a feeling most people know but rarely say out loud: the moment you realize there's nothing left to squeeze from a situation, and the only honest move is to leave. 070 Shake turns that moment into something tender instead of cold, framing the exit not as defeat but as the only real act of care left. It's a song about clearing out so you can finally find your way back to yourself.
Jessie Mazin sits down at Medium Sized Backyard with Medicine Box to talk her debut EP, collaborating with Carlos de La Garsa & Adam Meltchure, and writing through rage.
Crisis Crew sit down with Medicine Box at Medium Sized Backyard — van life, genre-coining, and a raw take on busking culture that hits different.
Crisis Crew sat down with Medicine Box at Medium Sized Backyard to talk van life, coining 'blue gaze,' and why busking still matters — even as the money dries up.
Crisis Crew sit down with Medicine Box at Medium Sized Backyard to talk van life, inventing 'blue gaze,' and why busking taught them they're allowed to take up space.
Crisis Crew sat down with Medicine Box at Medium Sized Backyard — van life, a self-coined genre called blue gaze, and a raw take on busking culture in the digital age.
Crisis Crew sit down with Medicine Box at Medium Sized Backyard — van life, coining 'blue gaze,' and why busking still matters in a cashless world.
Solya sits down with Medicine Box Magazine to talk Queen of Texas, recording an album in 10 days on analog gear, and why Yeat is on her collab wishlist.
Momo Boyd breaks down the inspirations, discomfort, and real-time self-discovery behind her debut EP. From Dijon to BET Awards goals, this is an artist who knows exactly what she's building toward.
"White Flag" finds Vince Staples at a rare moment of stillness, not defeat but deliberate withdrawal from every front he's been forced to fight on. The song moves through racial violence, street loyalty, and love with the same quiet conclusion: he's done. It's the sound of someone choosing peace not because things got better, but because the cost of fighting finally got too clear.
fakemink's "Like A Virgin" is a track built on contradiction: waking up in pain and still feeling untouchable. It's a survival anthem that doesn't clean up the mess, mixing self-destruction, bravado, and real fear into something that feels genuinely alive. The title isn't about innocence. It's about being unbroken by a world that keeps trying.
"Masks Off" is Jesse Welles at his most unflinching, sketching a America where hatred has stopped hiding and started selling merch. The song moves from dark comedy to genuine dread, tracking how a country built on contradictions eventually stops pretending it isn't. It's a folk broadside for a moment when the performance of decency has been abandoned entirely, and Welles isn't sure whether to laugh or grieve.
"Life On The Run" is Brandi Carlile's invitation to stop grinding and start moving, not toward a destination but away from the lie that exhaustion is the same as meaning. It's a road song about escape, but the deeper pull is philosophical: the people who never stop racing are the ones who never actually win. Carlile wraps that idea in warm, open-road imagery that makes surrender feel like the most alive thing you could do.
.gif){kind=small}
a Music Magazine based in Los Angeles, CA.
