It’s been a minute since I sat down with a new album and just let it live with me for a while — but this one found its way to me through a dear friend, and I’m glad it did. She told me it was made by the kids of one of her friends, and maybe that’s why it hit me the way it did. There’s something about discovering music when it still has that innocence to it — when the artists are still closer to the “why” than the “how.”
At first, it didn’t fully click. It took a few listens before it started to wrap itself around me — before I started catching the little moments between the notes, the quiet courage in the vocals, the way the imperfections feel intentional. That’s when it grabbed hold.
There’s a rawness to Fading that’s hard to fake. It reminded me of the first time I stumbled across Lola Young — not because they sound the same, but because they share that same fearless honesty. These songs don’t try to be perfect. They just are. And that’s the beauty of it.
The whole album moves like a late-night journal entry set to music — part confessional, part daydream. Some songs drift like smoke, others ache like something you can’t quite say out loud yet. It’s intimate without being fragile, emotional without being dramatic. You can feel them learning who they are as they go, and that’s the part that makes you want to root for them.
Fading doesn’t scream for your attention. It quietly earns it. And once you let it in, it lingers.
