What’s the story behind your latest song/album?
‘I Do’ has definitely had a long journey—it’s probably the song that’s grown with me the most. It all started years ago with a vivid dream where I heard this chorus melody with two lines: ‘I will. I do.’ At the time, they made no sense to me, but because the song woke me up, I felt like there was a reason behind it I couldn’t ignore. So, at around 5 a.m., I grabbed my phone and recorded the rough idea before it disappeared.
At first, I turned it into a song called ‘I Will’ about a love that grows out of a friendship—something I’d never experienced myself, but I’ve always been fascinated by those beautiful stories of people who’ve known each other since their teens and then build a life together. I was super new to songwriting and production, so that first version took over two years to finish. It finally came out in 2024 as my very first release… but honestly? I wasn’t fully happy with it, and I guess I always had this intention of re-writing it.
Then, 2 years later, something clicked. I remembered my wedding—some time before my hubby and I exchanged vows, the priest explained we could choose between saying ‘I will’ or ‘I do,’ depending on how we saw that commitment. He actually recommended ‘I will,’ so that’s what my husband and I both said. Years later, those two phrases from the dream suddenly made perfect sense: ‘I will’ as the promise, the intention… and ‘I do’ as the living, everyday yes.
So I went back to that original melody, expanded it, completely rewrote the lyrics, and turned it into ‘I Do.’ Now it’s really a love letter to my husband—the most patient, incredible man. Like when insomnia hits me hard and I’m losing my mind in the middle of the night, he’s just there, calm, helping me through it without ever making me feel like a burden. I’m endlessly grateful for him.
In a way, this song shows how much I’ve grown as a songwriter and singer over those couple of years—from that uncertain first attempt to something that feels truly honest and lived-in. It’s about choosing each other every single day through the messy moments as much as the happy ones.

How has your creative process evolved over the years?
Over the years, I’ve started spending more time with each song. My first album was very sporadic and kind of careless—I’d just go with whatever came to me in the moment and move on quickly. But I’ve realized that when I sleep on some melodies and lyrics, I can make them better.
I’m not a patient person, though, so I still go through phases where I rush things.

Is there a specific moment in your career that felt like a turning point?
The real turning point came when I found services that handle media coverage. I’m terrible at social media, so having someone write about my music and then share it felt like a massive leap forward. Suddenly, my work had that credibility boost it needed.
I’m also very happy with my current producer, George Harris, who I found last year, and my mixing engineer whose name I don’t even know—he goes by the pseudonym CeePee.

What’s one misconception people have about being a musician?
I’m not sure about others, but my own personal misconception was that you can actually make money just from releasing music. Nope—not unless you’re very famous.

Who or what has been inspiring your music lately?
My main inspiration has always been to create music that helps people feel happier. We all know that happiness is a state of mind, but not everyone knows how to get there. From my own experience, I’ve found that a positive state of mind becomes easier to achieve when you take responsibility for what happens to you. Playing the victim never helps. When you blame others for your troubles, it just builds a grudge that consumes you. People can be hurtful, but if you start to see their actions as a reflection of your own state of mind, the problem becomes easier to overcome, and you feel more in control. I try to put that message into my music, and hearing that it’s made a difference for people is what means the most to me.

Can you share a memorable or unexpected moment from a live performance?
I’m afraid I don’t do live performances. You have to have a ton of stamina to pull that off, and I just don’t have it. I was practically raised on antibiotics—every sneeze was a prescription party. As a result, honestly, I’m not the healthiest person.

How do you handle creative blocks or self-doubt?
I haven’t really experienced creative blocks. Whenever I set the intention to write a song, it usually just comes to me. Self-doubt used to be a big challenge, but I’m slowly getting over it through a natural process of self-acceptance. The longer you do something, the more confident you become.

If you could collaborate with any artist, living or dead, who would it be and why?
I’d collaborate with Axl Rose from Guns N’ Roses. When I was younger, I had a huge crush on him! 😀

What’s a piece of advice you wish you had received earlier in your career?
I wish someone had told me to find a producer online earlier. I had no idea that was an option, so before my first song was released, I spent almost two years going back and forth with a local producer, which really stretched out the process.

What’s next for you—any exciting projects or goals on the horizon?
I don’t have anything specific planned at the moment. Life’s been pretty busy with other things, so I’m just taking it one step at a time for now.

CONTACT: Instagram Facebook YouTube

What’s the story behind your latest song/album?

El mundo es verdadero was born from the need to strip reality of its masks. It’s a song about desire and truth — the kind that isn’t comfortable, but necessary. The track moves through raw emotion and Latin-tinged rhythms to tell a story of exposure: when illusions fall, the world doesn’t become easier, it simply becomes real.

How has your creative process evolved over the years?

Over the years, my creative process has become more essential and more honest. I’ve moved away from trying to explain everything and focused instead on listening — to silence, to instinct, to what remains after the noise fades. Today I write and arrange music as a form of excavation: removing layers until only what’s necessary and true is left.

Is there a specific moment in your career that felt like a turning point?

Yes — the turning point wasn’t a single event, but a decision. The moment I stopped measuring my work by external recognition and started trusting my own sense of truth. From there, every choice became clearer: the music, the collaborations, the silence between notes.

What’s one misconception people have about being a musician?

One common misconception is that being a musician is only about inspiration or visibility. In reality, it’s mostly about discipline, doubt, and long periods of invisible work. The art people hear is just the surface — the real journey happens far from the spotlight.

Who or what has been inspiring your music lately?

Lately, I’ve been inspired more by states of being than by specific artists — silence, distance, desire, and the fragile moments when truth reveals itself. I’m drawn to what happens in between things: after the noise, after the celebration, when masks fall and something real remains.

Can you share a memorable or unexpected moment from a live performance?

During a live show, someone once stayed completely still through the entire set — no phone, no applause, just listening. At the end, they came up to me in silence, hugged me, and left without saying a word. It reminded me that sometimes the deepest connection doesn’t need explanation.

How do you handle creative blocks or self-doubt?

I don’t fight creative blocks anymore — I listen to them. Self-doubt often signals that something needs time or honesty. Stepping away, allowing silence, and trusting the process has become part of the work itself.

If you could collaborate with any artist, living or dead, who would it be and why?

I would choose Leonard Cohen — not to add something to his work, but to remove everything unnecessary. His way of turning vulnerability into form, and silence into meaning, deeply resonates with how I approach songwriting today.

What’s a piece of advice you wish you had received earlier in your career?

I wish someone had told me that consistency matters more than intensity. That building a body of work takes time, patience, and the courage to stay when enthusiasm fades. Talent opens the door — staying is a choice.

What’s next for you—any exciting projects or goals on the horizon?

Right now, I’m focused on letting 21 Grammi continue its journey — through live performances, international listening spaces, and deeper connections with audiences. At the same time, I’m already writing again, without urgency, allowing the next chapter to take shape naturally rather than forcing it.

CONTACT: Instagram Facebook

At the Threshold of Becoming

Giuseppe Cucè’s Ventuno unfolds like a quiet confession whispered in a vast, echoing room. Taken from the concept album 21 grammi, the song carries the symbolic weight of its title with grace and restraint, offering a moment of stillness in an age of constant sonic urgency. Rather than chasing immediacy, Ventuno invites the listener to slow down and listen closely—to the music, and to themselves.

Built on warm, analog textures, the track blends cinematic orchestration with Mediterranean sensibility. Subtle strings, piano, and organ move patiently, allowing space for emotion to surface without being forced. The vocal delivery is intimate and unguarded, less about technical display and more about presence. There is a sense that each note has been chosen carefully, as if silence itself were part of the composition.

Lyrically and emotionally, Ventuno feels suspended between loss and awareness. It reflects on identity, transition, and the quiet aftermath of change—the moment when certainties dissolve, and something truer begins to take shape. The song does not provide answers; instead, it lingers in the question, trusting the listener to sit with it.

What makes Ventuno compelling is its refusal to rush. It doesn’t aim to impress on first listen, but to endure. As part of 21 grammi, it reinforces Cucè’s commitment to storytelling over spectacle, meaning over momentum. Ventuno is not just a song—it’s a pause, a breath, and a reminder that depth still has a place in contemporary music.

When Power Dances With Hope

Andy Smythe doesn’t tiptoe into big ideas—he walks straight toward them, eyes open. Leviathan, the second single from his upcoming album Quiet Revolution, feels less like a song that wants to entertain and more like one that wants to sit with you, ask uncomfortable questions, and still leave the door cracked open for optimism.

Musically, Leviathan unfolds with a curious, almost theatrical energy. There’s a carnival-like pulse running beneath the track, playful on the surface yet carrying real weight. Guitars, synths, organ, bass, and blues harp all weave together, creating a soundscape that feels expansive without tipping into excess. Knowing this is a solo effort only deepens the impact—Smythe isn’t just performing the idea, he’s fully inhabiting it.

What makes Leviathan compelling is its emotional balance. The song wrestles with power, control, and the age-old human desire for order, especially in a future shaped by artificial intelligence and global uncertainty. Yet it refuses to sink into cynicism. Instead, there’s a quiet confidence here, a sense that questioning authority and imagining fairer systems can coexist with hope.

Smythe’s approach is thoughtful rather than preachy. He trusts the listener to connect the dots, to feel the tension between history’s so-called saviors and the fragile promise of progress. Leviathan doesn’t hand over easy answers—but it does offer perspective, wrapped in ambitious sound and a strangely uplifting spirit.

When Power Dances With Hope

Andy Smythe doesn’t tiptoe into big ideas—he walks straight toward them, eyes open. Leviathan, the second single from his upcoming album Quiet Revolution, feels less like a song that wants to entertain and more like one that wants to sit with you, ask uncomfortable questions, and still leave the door cracked open for optimism.

Musically, Leviathan unfolds with a curious, almost theatrical energy. There’s a carnival-like pulse running beneath the track, playful on the surface yet carrying real weight. Guitars, synths, organ, bass, and blues harp all weave together, creating a soundscape that feels expansive without tipping into excess. Knowing this is a solo effort only deepens the impact—Smythe isn’t just performing the idea, he’s fully inhabiting it.

What makes Leviathan compelling is its emotional balance. The song wrestles with power, control, and the age-old human desire for order, especially in a future shaped by artificial intelligence and global uncertainty. Yet it refuses to sink into cynicism. Instead, there’s a quiet confidence here, a sense that questioning authority and imagining fairer systems can coexist with hope.

Smythe’s approach is thoughtful rather than preachy. He trusts the listener to connect the dots, to feel the tension between history’s so-called saviors and the fragile promise of progress. Leviathan doesn’t hand over easy answers—but it does offer perspective, wrapped in ambitious sound and a strangely uplifting spirit.