Atwood Magazine is excited to share our Editor’s Picks column, written and curated by Editor-in-Chief Mitch Mosk. Every week, Mitch will share a collection of songs, albums, and artists who have caught his ears, eyes, and heart. There is so much incredible music out there just waiting to be heard, and all it takes from us is an open mind and a willingness to listen. Through our Editor’s Picks, we hope to shine a light on our own music discoveries and showcase a diverse array of new and recent releases.

This week’s Editor’s Picks features NoSo, James Smith, Billy Nomates, Brian Dunne, Glitterfox, and Mon Rovîa!

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There’s something about “Sugar” that grabs you by the hand and doesn’t let go. Every time I press play, I stay until the very last note – pulled in by a glistening guitar line that sparkles like sunlight on morning pavement, lifted higher by the pulse of tight drums and NoSo’s radiant, soaring voice. It’s the kind of song that has a heartbeat of its own – achingly intimate and irresistibly sweet, with a subtle sting that lingers long after the last chorus fades.

In a box of power
A mouse is too loud
Move like a hiker,
Indebted to you now

Two years after their debut LP Stay Proud of Me introduced us to singer/songwriter Baek Hwong’s richly cinematic world of self-reckoning and coming-of-age vulnerability, NoSo returns with something bigger, bolder, and beautifully assured. Released in mid-May, “Sugar” sets the tone for the LA-based artist’s highly anticipated sophomore album When Are You Leaving?, out October 10^th via Partisan Records, and marks a powerful step forward – not just musically, but emotionally.

“My first album mostly comprised of daydreaming about what my life could be like if I embraced my identity,” Hwong says. Indeed, Stay Proud of Me was an album of internal reckoning, reconciliation, and intense self-reflection. Its track “Parasites,” for example, was initially composed prior to Hwong’s top surgery in 2020, and ultimately completed after they had healed – written with their past and present bodies in mind. “Feeling Like a Woman Lately” toed an oh-so-thin line “between empowerment and dysphoria,” as they candidly expressed at the time.

In contrast to their first record, there’s a self-assuredness permeating NoSo’s present music as well as their emotional headspace. “This record is firmly rooted in reality and details my enlightening and tumultuous experiences head on,” they share.

That grounding is everywhere in “Sugar.” Beneath its dreamy disco groove and gleaming pop exterior lies a raw reflection on compassion, boundaries, and the quiet toll of holding space for someone who’s hurting. “‘Sugar’ is about the delicate dance of interacting with volatile, unwell individuals,” Hwong explains. “It’s a reflection on those experiences, aiming to approach them with sympathy instead of anger. I’ve learned that this is the only way I can move forward – by not feeding those memories and giving them power.”

Only in silence
And I fell for your
Waning sugar kindness
And I fell for your
But you needed to be touched
And I could tell your
Sickness had enough

That maturity echoes in the song’s glistening chorus, home to some of its most haunting lines – “Only in silence, and I fell for your waning sugar kindness… but you needed to be touched, and I could tell your sickness had enough.” There’s warmth and wear in that refrain, but also conviction and clarity; a reclaiming of power through gentleness, rather than retaliation.

If Stay Proud of Me was NoSo letting us into their dreams, When Are You Leaving? invites us into their reality – a new chapter of unfiltered self-expression, self-possession, and emotional depth, where vulnerability meets resolve with refreshing vigor and sonic firepower. “Sugar” glows with unflinching empathy and unshakable strength, the sound of an artist fully in their element, pushing forward without compromise. It’s stunning growth in motion – and if this is any indication, what’s coming next will be even more luminous.

This song may be layered with nuance, but in the end, it’s as sweet as it is seductive. I’ve been trying to cut back on sugar in my 30s, but NoSo’s making it really difficult. Consider me hooked.

Hold the land above me,
carrot on a string
Call me the problem
But you needed me

Only in silence
And I fell for your
Waning sugar kindness
And I fell for your
But you needed to be touched
And I could tell your
Sickness had enough

The first time I heard that opening guitar line – warm, slow-burning, and soaked in longing – I felt like I’d stepped into a faded photograph. “Dancing with You (Baby)” pulls you in instantly, wrapping memory and melody into something rich, raw, and utterly immersive. It’s bluesy and nostalgic, tender and turbulent. And James Smith, a man blessed with what must be one of the most common names in the entire Western Hemisphere, sets himself unmistakably apart: His voice aches with raw emotion as he dwells in the shadows of what was, caught in a spell of yearning he can’t quite shake.

It was a love of a different kind
Now loneliness is a friend of mine
I’m looking back on the summer nights
When life felt so much better

Dancing with you baby
Oh I just can’t quit remembering
The way that you move baby
Back when we used to feel
So alive
Feel like I’m just wasting all my time
Not dancing with you baby
Dancing with you baby

Smith’s first release since last year’s critically acclaimed debut Common People, “Dancing with You (Baby)” feels like both a continuation and a bold step forward. “It’s a track I’ve sat on for a couple of years now,” Smith tells Atwood Magazine. “I wrote it specifically about a time a couple of summers ago, when my partner and I would dance around the kitchen with the radio on. It’s pretty on-the-nose lyrically! This track is a nostalgic look back on the ‘honeymoon period’ and how nothing really matters when you first fall in love.”

That sentiment pulses through every lyric. “Stumbling around on the kitchen floor to our favourite song on the radio. No there was nothing that could break us when our heartbeats moved together.” Smith captures the glow of young love in vivid detail, balancing the rush of memory with the ache of distance. “Oh I just can’t quit remembering the way that you move, baby. Back when we used to feel so alive.”

Stumbling around on the kitchen floor
To our favourite song on the radio
No there was nothing that could break us
When our heartbeats moved together

Now every time that I close my eyes
I’m transported to that peace of mind
I keep ’em shut ’cause I wish that I
Could stay right here forever

Musically, the song is a masterclass in restraint and warmth. That lead guitar – clean and expressive – carves out a space somewhere between Fleetwood Mac and John Mayer, two of Smith’s biggest influences (and, it just so happens, two of my favorite artists. Coincidence? I think not). “I’d actually say that Continuum and Rumours are both on my desert island discs haha!” he says. “Continuum is so perfectly recorded and was definitely a reference for this record.”

Fittingly, the song was recorded live in one take at London’s legendary Konk Studios. “I didn’t really have an approach with the song initially – it sort of just came to me one morning whilst I was playing around on my guitar. However, I think when it came to the recording process,” Smith recalls. “I knew that I wanted to produce the track in a proper studio (and not my little room in North London). So for this song and the rest of my new album, I went and spent some time at Konk Studios – which is the most magic place on Earth. It was founded by the Kinks, and some huge, huge records have been recorded there. ‘Dancing with You’ ended up being one live take in the studio – and I’m super, super proud of how old school and cool it was to record like that!”

Dancing with you baby
Oh I just can’t quit remembering
The way that you move baby
Back when we used to feel
So alive
Feel like I’m just wasting all my time
Not dancing with you baby
Dancing with you baby

Ten months on from Common People, Smith says this new song represents both a quick return and a creative evolution. “Less than a year and I’m back in the game already!” he laughs. “I absolutely love that record, but it feels like a different me. I started writing those songs in my early twenties and I’m pushing 27 now. But it was a real labour of love and opened a lot of doors for me. I was also able to tour Europe with that album at the start of the year, and that was one of the best experiences of my life, so I’m super grateful for it.”

He continues, “I wanted to make a quick ‘comeback’ because I have SO much music. I’m constantly writing and producing songs, so it only feels right to put them out. And album 2 is a huge step up from album 1.”

There’s an intimate ache to “Dancing with You (Baby)” – the kind that doesn’t shout to be heard, but makes you lean in. It’s gentle, yet dramatic; grounded, yet soaring. A love song and a lovesick song all in one. “I’d say it can exist as both,” Smith reflects. “I’d hope that listeners can feel the effort that goes into creating real music with real musicians through real studio equipment! This isn’t no AI / Laptop music. It’s super complicated, but obviously sounds really simple. I’m trying to do things old school and be true to the singer/songwriters that came before me.”

With its timeless production, soul-stirring tone, and aching honesty, “Dancing with You (Baby)” stands tall among the year’s best. And as Smith himself puts it – with a wink wink, nudge nudge – “I’m an East Londoner with a lot about me – I write and produce and mix all my own music, and I’m not cocky, but I reckon I’m gonna be f*ing massive in a couple of years.”

Say no more – I’m inclined to agree. “Dancing with You (Baby)” is as good as it gets – and a month out from its release, I’m still stuck on that dreamy, radiantly beautiful guitar line.

Dancing with you baby
Oh I just can’t quit remembering
The way that you move baby
Back when we used to feel
So alive
Feel like I’m just wasting all my time
Not dancing with you baby
Dancing with you baby

There’s a fiery tenderness coursing through Billy Nomates’ “Override” – like someone staring down the edge of collapse and choosing, defiantly, to keep going. It’s gritty and glowing all at once: An indie rock-Americana hybrid that hits with equal parts grit, heart, and hope. Whether she’s growling over guitar or floating above the haze, Bristol-based artist Tor Maries opts for endurance in a situation that’s urging you to “do yourself a favour and get out.”

First line that I wrote that you don’t hear
Fell out of my throat then fell out my ears
Oh, I’m feeling something that I’ve never really known
From Viking to Roman, it’s older than the stones
And if I don’t have the courage
Then I can’t just let it be
Why do al the vultures send flowers to me?
I won’t make you money and you don’t pull the strings
Why don’t you get a real job and stop taking from me

You love if it’ll go down
So you can say you made us
And do yourself a favor
And get out

Both a rallying cry and a reckoning, “Override” is the fourth track / focus single off Metalhorse, Billy Nomates’ recently released third studio album and her first made in a proper studio with a full band. Out now via Invada Records, Metalhorse departs from the stark post-punk of past records and leans into something more expansive – a raw, rootsy, and emotionally complex sound shaped by grief, resilience, and hope. Maries describes it as a concept album about a crumbling funfair, where “some rides are nice to get on and some rides aren’t.” That metaphor becomes a vessel for life’s chaos – risk and reward, heartbreak and exhilaration – and through it all, a fight to keep going.

“They tell you the fair won’t survive without them. But you can override,” Maries insists – a line that lands like a mantra for reclaiming agency in a world that tries to break you down. And the song itself is all resistance: Fueled by galloping drums, jangly guitars, and her signature bristling delivery, it balances raw vulnerability with an unmistakable inner fire.

“First line that I wrote that you don’t hear / Fell out of my throat then fell out my ears… I won’t make you money and you don’t pull the strings / Why don’t you get a real job and stop taking from me.” The lyrics bristle with frustration and clarity – calling out exploitation, dismissal, and the vultures who circle when you’re already down.

Next time that I find you in my room
Looking for something that you could use
I can’t really hеlp you if you got no ideas
You might just have to settlе
For getting old and thin
And that ain’t nothing shady
Yeah, we all get what we give
When did all the circus get so expensive?

Well I got something going
And you just sit and grin
Tell them all I’m crazy
And hope it sinks my ship
You love if it’ll go down
See upcoming pop shows
Get tickets for your favorite artists
So you can say you made us
Oh, do yourself a favor
And get out

Written and recorded three months after her father’s death and following a personal MS diagnosis, Metalhorse reckons with loss, insecurity, and perseverance in a world that rarely makes space for softness. It’s an album about survival – about holding joy in one hand and grief in the other, and still finding the strength to sing. “That was my safety and protection in the world,” Maries says of the bond she shared with her father. Even during the hardest days, they could still talk about music.

On “Override,” she rises. There’s power in her restraint, urgency in her breath. And even as she reckons with a world that feels like it’s spiraling, she clings to what’s real – gut, grit, and a voice that refuses to be drowned out. The circus may be expensive, but Billy Nomates is priceless.

You love if it’ll go down
You just love,
you love if it’ll go down

There’s something about your thirties that makes you pause and ask: Is it really so bad to want a good life? Brian Dunne’s “Clams Casino” feels like it was written for that exact moment of questioning – that tug-of-war between self-critique and self-worth, between what we think we should have and what we’re allowed to want. It’s a song that cuts to the core of millennial disillusionment, and then keeps digging – searching for sweetness in the tension, and light in the middle of the wreckage.

I’ve been trying to have a good life
But no one wants you to be satisfied
They double the bill and split the difference
Leave you paying down the interest

They say you get what you pay for
I bought a mattress at the discount store
I feel like I’m sleeping on a concrete floor
I guess you get what you pay for

“I have both a lot of class pride and a lot of class shame,” Dunne, a Brooklyn-based singer/songwriter, member of folk rock supergroup Fantastic Cat, and longtime favorite of our pages, tells Atwood Magazine. “The story kind of ping pongs back and forth between ‘why’s it so hard to have a good thing?’ and ‘is it so bad to want a good thing?’ Which is sort of what I’m always asking myself – when I can’t get what I want or need, I’m just so existentially frustrated. And then the second I do, I start to have imposter syndrome, wondering if I deserve this $6 coffee.”

Why’s it so hard to have a good thing?
It should be easier you would think
You better be rich and good looking
‘Cause it’s so hard to have a good thing

“Clams Casino” is the title track and thesis statement of Dunne’s fourth album, out September 5^th via Missing Piece Records. Inspired by working-class blues and modern malaise, the record asks what happens after the dream fades – when the bad guys have won, and you’re left trying to salvage dignity, meaning, and a little joy at the dinner table. “Overall, I’m really interested in following my generation through the different phases of life, narratively speaking. The people in these songs are the same people populating those songs on the last two albums – both those records are about millennial disillusionment. So this record is about what happens after. To me, it’s about the chasm between selling out and moving out,” Dunne says. “Should I stay or should I go? The eternal question.”

I’m just trying to have a good life
Clams casino on a Sunday night
Betting the house on a bottle of wine
I’m just trying to have a good time

Is it so bad to want a good thing?
Don’t even let em catch you looking
Don’t let em see you get your foot in
Is it so bad to want a good thing?
‘Cause all I want is just a little bit more
Is that so much for me to ask for?
And clams casino on a Sunday night
Is it so bad to want a good life?
Is it so bad to want a good life?

That tension is baked into every line of “Clams Casino,” where layered guitars, soft synths, and a soulful vocal burn slow and steady. Dunne opens the song in a place of quiet frustration: “I’ve been trying to have a good life / But no one wants you to be satisfied / They double the bill and split the difference / Leave you paying down the interest.” From there, the verses spiral deeper into the everyday indignities of scraping by – “I bought a mattress at the discount store / I feel like I’m sleeping on a concrete floor.”

He ultimately hits his high in the song’s spirited chorus – bold, buoyant, and brutally honest: “Why’s it so hard to have a good thing? / It should be easier, you would think / You better be rich and good looking / ’Cause it’s so hard to have a good thing.”

Dunne explains how this song came very naturally to him, driven by the title, which he had sitting in his notebook for quite some time, and always liked. The question was always when, not if he’d write this song. “I felt like ‘Clams Casino’ is what a working man thinks a rich man eats, and I felt like I could fold a lot of story into that,” he shares. “This one came pretty easy to me – the subjects in this song were eating at me in a particularly aggravating way. I knew the moment I wrote it that it was the direction I needed to go. I could just see all the characters playing out, like a movie.”

She said all you do is bitch and moan
You’re never happy and you’re never home
Everyone wants what they don’t have
And you really don’t have it half bad

But baby I’m trying to express myself
You know the doctor said it might help
If I can release some of this tension
If I can make peace with this question

Dunne’s brilliance lies in his balance of humor and heaviness, irony and empathy. “I’m just trying to have a good life / Clams casino on a Sunday night / Betting the house on a bottle of wine / I’m just trying to have a good time.” The imagery is rich and cinematic – a little absurd, a little tragic, and all too real. Whether he’s dreaming of tiny luxuries or calling himself out mid-song, there’s a vulnerability here that makes the whole thing hit harder.

“The last verse is my favorite,” Dunne says. “A second character enters and eviscerates the argument as completely self-involved and useless.” She cuts through the noise with biting clarity: “All you do is bitch and moan / You’re never happy and you’re never home / Everyone wants what they don’t have / And you really don’t have it half bad.” It’s the kind of mirror that stings – and it’s what keeps this song from collapsing under its own weight.

Is it so bad to want a good thing?
Don’t even let em catch you looking
Don’t let em see you get your foot in
Is it so bad to want a good thing?
‘Cause all I want is just a little bit more
Is that so much for me to ask for?
And clams casino on a Sunday night
Is it so bad to want a good life?
Is it so bad to want a good life?
Is it so bad to want a good life?

If his last album, 2023’s Loser on the Ropes, was about still being in the fight, then Clams Casino is what happens when the final bell rings and you’re left picking up the pieces. And yet, there’s hope here – not cheap optimism, but hardened grace. “My intention for all my records has always been to make people feel less alone in their personal struggles. But I wanted to take on a bigger issue on this album and how it trickles down (no pun intended) to one’s personal issues. Catching a break in this world is nearly impossible,” Dunne says. “There’s an embarrassment of riches on our planet and they’re being hoarded by a bunch of lottery winners who don’t even know what they have.”

For anyone feeling a little hard up – for meaning, money, or a moment of peace – “Clams Casino” is a mirror and a balm. Dunne may be calling himself out, but in doing so, he’s calling all of us in. And while I’ve never had clams casino, based on this song, it sure sounds nice.

There’s a dreamy heat that radiates from Glitterfox’s “Passenger” – the kind that builds slow and steady, like neon reflections in a midnight window. It’s lush and cinematic, achingly intimate and dripping with desire. The song simmers in smoldering warmth, blending indie rock and Americana into something spellbinding and soul-stirring – a hypnotic trip through self-inquiry, longing, and the strange comfort of letting go.

Street’s dim but I don’t mind the dark
Waiting on this boulevard
Doors open and I take my ticket
Night ride to the city limit

Take me there
Past the faded storefronts and houses
Sirens blare
Street’s empty but my head is crowded

The first single off Glitterfox’s upcoming debut album decoder (out August 22 via Jealous Butcher Records), “Passenger” opens in a moment of stillness: “Street’s dim but I don’t mind the dark / Waiting on this boulevard.” The world outside might be silent, but inside, there’s movement – thoughts stirring, emotions burning. “The song begins with the story of a person waiting for the bus on a dark and empty street at night,” guitarist Andrea Walker shares. “When my ex and I were together we shared a car, which meant I ended up riding the bus a lot… That bus is completely enchanting at night. There are two pink neon strip lights running the length of it that made me feel right at home.”

It was those late-night bus rides that inspired Walker to think bigger – about fate, free will, and the illusion of control. “Maybe my own destiny is a bit like that #4 bus,” they reflect. “I have some autonomy… but as far as controlling where the bus is actually headed? I can’t see into the future. In that way I’ll always be a passenger in the vehicle of destiny. But best be sure I’m going to make the absolute most of the ride I’ve been given.”

I’m just a passenger
Lost in the city lights
A face on the number four
Riding at midnight

That metaphor pulses throughout the track, captured in lines like “Take me there / Past the faded storefronts and houses… I’m just a passenger / Lost in the city lights / A face on the number four / Riding at midnight.” It’s a song about surrender – not in defeat, but in radical acceptance. Of who we are, where we’ve been, and what might lie ahead.

Doors open and I take my ticket
Night ride to the city limit

Take me there
Past the empty rail yards and fountains
Stars so pale
How am I gonna know when I’ve found it

I’m just a passenger
Lost in the city lights
A face on the number four
Riding at midnight

Based in Portland, Oregon, Glitterfox is the magnetic, genre-blurring project of Solange Igoa and Andrea Walker – two longtime creative and romantic partners who, despite recently splitting after 12 years together, continue to make music with unshakable emotional clarity and connection. The band formed in Long Beach back in 2012 and built their reputation the old-fashioned way: Touring relentlessly, busking, and showing up with raw heart and unforgettable songs. Their sound blends garage rock, new wave, Americana, and dance – a collage of styles made uniquely their own through storytelling, sweat, and soul. Atwood Magazine previously praised the band’s 2023 single “TV” as a “cathartic eruption of pain, exhaustion, and emotionally charged indie rock… a tender song full of turbulence and turmoil, longing for a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel.”

Out in late August, Glitterfox’s decoder is already shaping up to be a kaleidoscopic, deeply human debut – processing the aftermath of a long-term relationship with warmth, wit, and full-bodied feeling. “We do this Fleetwood Mac trick,” frontperson Solange Igoa says, “where you take a really heavy topic but make it a dance song.” In “Passenger,” that trick becomes magic: Glitterfox conjure a world that aches and glows at once, a ride you never want to end.

I’m just a passenger
Lost in the city lights
A face on the number four
Riding at midnight

I’m just a passenger
Lost in the city lights
A face on the number four
Riding at midnight

Mon Rovîa’s soul-stirring songwriting doesn’t just soothe – it invites listeners to exhale, to reflect, to keep moving forward. Released in early May, his song “Oh Wide World” is a quiet revelation: A soft, stirring breath of fresh air in a world that rarely lets us rest. It’s gentle but powerful, serene but searching – a soul-nourishing reminder that there is still wonder, still goodness, still room to dream, even when everything feels broken.

Trouble
Through the rubble, of time
I’m feeling the weight of decline
Through broken bed seams
Lies a hopeful dream
Theres a place
To find

Looking
Through the window, unknown
At all of the places you could go
And the more you sit with it
The more that you stiffen
The more your fear corrodes

Built on little more than voice and guitar, “Oh Wide World” glows with warmth and intention. Mon’s performance is unvarnished and alive – his fingerpicked melodies pulsing like a heartbeat, his voice carrying the weight of hope and heaviness in equal measure. Small sounds become larger than life in his hands, and that’s part of what makes this song so moving: It’s a testament to the quiet strength of vulnerability, and the beauty of our own fragile humanity.

Ohh, this wide world of mine
Only exists outside the lines
Ohh, this wide world of mine
You get what you give
If you decide to try

“Ohh, this wide world of mine / Only exists outside the lines / You get what you give / If you decide to try,” Mon sings in the chorus – a mantra for anyone on the edge of fear, hesitation, or change. Each verse unfolds like a meditation, tracing moments of struggle and doubt before turning outward: “Looking through the window, unknown / At all of the places you could go / And the more you sit with it, the more that you stiffen / The more your fear corrodes.”

Released in partnership with To Write Love On Her Arms for Mental Health Awareness Month, “Oh Wide World” is deeply personal for Mon Rovîa. “‘Oh Wide World’ is a testament to resilience and hope, urging listeners to step beyond fear into boundless opportunity,” he shares. “In these challenging times, this song gently reminds us to embrace the world’s goodness. It reflects the healing power of embracing one’s truth, especially for me as a man navigating mental health struggles. It encourages me to go out, find others who share these experiences, and continue together – because if you don’t go, you’ll never know, and only you can decide to try.”

Shiver
‘Til thе river, runs out
Or follow those whispering winds south
And what you thought a frightful drеam
Becomes another thing
And your worries
Return to the clouds

Ohh, this wide world of mine
Only exists, outside the lines
Ohh, this wide world of mine
You get what you give
If you, decide to try

That message lands like a lifeline. As he sings in the final verse, “What you thought a frightful dream becomes another thing / And your worries return to the clouds.” It’s not about erasing the fear – it’s about choosing to keep going, anyway.

A Liberia-born, Tennessee-based artist blending Afro-Appalachian folk and indie sensibilities – and one of Atwood Magazine’s 2025 artists to watch – Mon Rovîa has been building toward this moment for years – captivating audiences with his heartfelt songwriting and breathtakingly honest performances. “Oh Wide World” feels like a quintessential expression of his artistry: openhearted, quietly defiant, and full of light.

In a world that can feel increasingly disconnected and overwhelming, Mon Rovîa gives us a reason to pause – to breathe, to believe, to begin again. We need more songs like this. We need more voices like his.

Ohh, this wide world of mine
Only exists, outside the lines
Ohh, this wide world of mine
You get what you give
If you, decide, to try

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