Graphic by Sonia Zahid
Despite fall’s recognizable chilly breeze coming back — strongly might I add — a couple of our writers still have words to say on music that stuck with them this past summer. Let’s reflect one final time before everyone gets their scarves and gloves out. The Stony Brook Press presents part two of 2026’s Songs of the Summer.
Unlimited Space — Prairie Princess
by Natalia Secor-Friedman
I first stumbled upon Prairie Princess’s work in December of last year. Since then, anyone who knows me has heard me declare Emerson Borakove as inarguably the most gifted lyricist of our time.
Borakove is the mother and leader of NYC-based anti-folk/country songwriting project, Prairie Princess. When I discovered their music, their Spotify had a measly 111 monthly listeners — and like any self-respecting clout demon, I have the screenshot to prove it — my favourite of their three-song catalogue was “Unlimited Space – Demo.”
This August, Prairie Princess released their first full album, Jewish American Prairie Princess, which includes the official studio version of “Unlimited Space.”
The song’s confessional lyrics, which are characteristic of the anti-folk genre, are woven with unmistakably contemporary references. Borakove is uniquely capable of including internet lingo and subjects in a way that captures the existentialism and mundanity of the digital age.
I’m just like that mouse, well, if she had an account on Hinge
The demo’s confessional delivery reads as a kind of call, flung into the void. It’s an aesthetic choice that reinforces the song’s central idea of “unlimited space” being as something that answers back only with silence. Structurally, the demo is made up of classic anti-folk conventions in the wiry acoustic instrumentation, lo-fi production and sardonic lyricism.
“Unlimited Space” retains nearly all of its demo’s lyrics, save for a handful of minor changes. The sonic frame around those words, however, changed almost entirely. The finished track is exceedingly bluesy and electric. With an extremely pronounced bassline, the addition of percussion, a discernible uptick in tempo and Borakove’s distorted guitar work, the result sounds calculated and polished in a way the demo never aspired to be.
Having spent so much time with the demo version, I can only describe my initial feelings as those of Bob Dylan’s fans when he finally went electric.
The demo’s intimacy came from its bareness, as if we were overhearing something unfinished and private. In contrast, the final version distributes emphasis more evenly across vocals, lyrics and instrumentation. As a result, the song reads less like a diary entry.
While the connection I have to the original demo version cannot be equaled, the demo would have muddled this masterpiece of an album. Besides, Borakove quenches my insatiable anti-folk thirst just three songs later with “Lonely Eyes.”
Prairie Princess is a visionary, and I am thrilled to be seeing Borakove’s career skyrocket after the release of this album.
If for any reason this falls into the lap of any Prairie Princess participants: On Jan. 9 at Union Pool, I was the girl standing alone filming your whole set like a creep. I love you.
Joy. — RAYE
by Ethan Chun
After a semester that wrecked my mental health and isolated me from my loved ones, I spent the summer toiling day after day.
I was thanklessly serving demanding patrons, picking up after incompetent coworkers and getting caught in the middle of workplace drama. Every day, I felt trapped. I wondered if it was really worth living a life that kept me so busy; even my off days felt like burdens.
“Joy.” by RAYE, reminded me that bliss always overcomes despair, and you have the power to shape your future. I discovered the song in March, when her album THIS MUSIC MAY CONTAIN HOPE. was released. “Joy.” immediately stood out to me, and it stayed on repeat throughout the summer.
The song starts with a looped sample of James Brown asking, “Mr. Ray, are you somebody?” Two seconds later, a praise break-like beat takes us to church, dominating the soundscape, until RAYE enters.
I declare and I decree
Any chain that has been holding me
Any evil tongue that whispers in these ears
I said, “I rebuke you, you must leave my life, you are not welcome here.”
The low hum of cellos joins the pre chorus as RAYE sings about letting her troubles wash over her. She calls for her heavenly Father to shield her. This builds into the chorus when she belts, “I may cry through the night / But my joy comes in the morning,” with choir-like layered vocals as horns blare proudly.
The chorus’ lyrics refer to Psalm 30:5, a Bible verse that reads, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Mariah Carey’s song, “Fly Like A Bird” — my all-time favorite gospel song — employs this same verse. Both songs taught me that sorrow is temporary, and that joy will always overpower it.
I am not a religious person, but anyone who knows me knows I have a soft spot for gospel music. Not only is it the foundation for many conventions in R&B, my favorite genre, but it also preaches lessons in optimism, self-love and generosity. “Joy.” encapsulates these ideas perfectly.
Some may think it’s cheesy to say music can teach you confidence and self-love, but its effects on me were real. Inspired to take control of my happiness, I decided to leave my summer job a week earlier than anticipated and really live: I hung out with friends, rediscovered the joy of reading, played with my dogs, went to concerts and traveled. I never regretted the decision to put myself first.
The song remains a personal anthem, reminding me that although I’m back in the school’s demanding, bustling environment, I just have to wait because joy is around the corner.
Ain’t In LA — Adela
by Faith Kanu
Pop culture often romanticizes the idea that success requires proximity to industry powerhouses. Adela dismantles that myth in “Ain’t in LA” with a single repeated line.
The baddest bitches
Ain’t in LA.
Her refusal to be in Los Angeles doubles as a refusal to tie her creativity to any specific city or industry ladder.
Adela’s track championed a wave of pop artists from underrepresented countries. Her track highlighted young women who built their names from the ground up despite countless setbacks in an industry dominated by American, British and Western European stars.
Adela’s success reminds you that you don’t need a Hollywood zip code to succeed in the pop world.
This summer forced me to confront how much pressure I put on myself to be in the “right place” to succeed. Living and studying in Stony Brook, surrounded by trees and bike paths, forged a stillness that made me forget I was anywhere near New York. Stony Brook isn’t a political capital like Albany or Washington, D.C.; it’s a science-heavy, research-driven university in a suburban pocket of the state. As someone on a pre-law track, the distance from the city scared me.
I worried that being so far from the centers of political activity would leave me at a disadvantage. I feared missing out on internships, networking opportunities and experiences that seemed much more accessible to students living in places where politics are everywhere. I worried that being here meant I was already behind.
Despite that fear, I found an internship. Not because I was in the right city, but because I put myself out there by emailing, showing up consistently and building connections in unfamiliar places. Landing that internship proved proximity wasn’t the only path. I didn’t need Albany or Washington D.C. to validate me. I found an opportunity right at Stony Brook.
That realization is why I connect with “Ain’t in LA.” so strongly. The song is not just about rejecting the idea that success lives in one city. It’s reclaiming agency over where you build your life. What makes this message especially compelling is how Adela reinforces it through the song’s cultural and musical references. Rather than relying solely on lyrics, she draws on familiar sounds from pop music history to deepen the song’s themes of independence and self-definition.
Theron Thomas’s involvement in “Ain’t in LA” adds a layer of intertextuality that goes beyond simple nostalgia. Vocal ad-libs function as sonic signatures in pop. Since the last song he was involved in, “We Can’t Stop,” dominated early-2010s pop culture, Thomas’s ad-libs became part of a shared auditory vocabulary for a generation of listeners. By reintroducing that same vocal texture in “Ain’t in LA”, Adela invoked a cultural reference that signaled rebellion, youth and carefree defiance. She reframed the sound within her own alt-pop identity, transforming a familiar pop artifact into a commentary on global pop influence.
Adela’s humor shines in her treatment of escapism. She exposes the universal delusion that moving cities magically fixes your life is just that, a delusion. In “Ain’t in LA,” she lists new places, new vibes and new versions of herself.“Ain’t in LA” refuses to chase the usual pop narrative. It comments on the pressure young artists face to uproot themselves for validation. She flips that narrative by treating LA as an option, not a solution.
Run Rabbit — Mollie Elizabeth
by Sophia Chen
I’ve never been the type to listen to music. My AirPods were like neglected children, and while I felt they deserved some love, searching for music was more like a chore than anything magical. I could’ve gone the entire summer without listening to any new releases at all.
Until I played Honkai Star Rail and fell in love with a character named Aventurine. Then, one of my favorite artists made an edit for them using the song “Run Rabbit” by Mollie Elizabeth.
Suddenly, I couldn’t put down my headphones.
Music became a way for me to relive a character’s story, and lyrics became a way for me to bring in-game scenes to life.
Run Rabbit is a swing-jazz song about being trapped in a state of salvation anxiety and generational trauma. The upbeat melody works perfectly with Aventurine’s occupation as a high-stakes investor; it highlights his struggles like a gemstone under a microscope. His actions and what he has lost are put together into the perfect poison in the form of an animatic.
Put on a smile, just find a vice
Don’t hate the girl, just hate the crime
The figure of the performer is obscured until they step into the spotlight. A little boy named Kakavasha adorns the mask of Aventurine; Kakavasha is Aventurine’s discarded old identity.
Kakavasha grew up poor but had a family that loved him. Aventurine drowned in riches but lost the lives of the people who loved him the most.
Aventurine is a gemstone symbolizing luck. The irony is that Kakavasha was the hope of his village and Aventurine lived to see he wasn’t.
This track speaks to me purely for its imaginative purpose. The three-course meal of this song contains religious trauma, abuse and survivors’ guilt.
Oh, forgive me, Lord, oh, I’m a good girl
I’d never hurt a fly, but I’ve got walls to climb
There is a lot of guilt in Aventurine’s actions. You don’t get to see it until you peel back the mask, revealing his childhood. He’s a gambler, whose debt is the crimes of his past. He pulls the slot machine lever again and again until his luck wins him a jackpot, proving himself worthy of the bodies piled in his hands.
You put me in this house, I had to claw right out
Run rabbit, run rabid (run, run, run, run, run, run, run)
Walls padded, drinking acid
I like the hiccupy ending tones of the verses, the consistent harlequin-esque feeling of the melody and the loopy record player segments with slotted movie-tape motifs. It’s cohesive as it symbolizes his alcoholism.
“Run Rabbit” tackles psychological themes, obsession with self-worth, elements of abuse and trauma and self-loathing. It’s a whole Archive of our Own story worth of character study.
Won’t Be Disgraced — God’s Hate
by Julianna Schick
There’s a not-so-little music scene that stretches across the States. A scene you can thank for creating the mosh pits we all love: hardcore.
Hardcore music has been in my life for years, from my dad listening to it when he picked me up from school to my brother being in multiple hardcore bands. I loved growing up in the scene and attending local venues. It made the risk of taking a spin kick to the head worth it.
Naturally, Long Island hardcore has been a favorite genre of mine for a long time. Long Island Hard Core enabled me to branch out into the scene, which led me to discovering God’s Hate, one of my now favorite bands. So, you can imagine my joy when I saw they released a new project after being radio silent since 2021.
My favorite among the tracks on their newest EP, Won’t be disgraced, was the self titled track.
I know your pain is real, embrace the hurt that you feel
But you must never submit, you can’t fail if you don’t quit
There is no strength in solitude, because the job is only finished when we pull each other through
The track pays homage to the late Bo Lueders, co-founder of Harms Way and co-host of the Hardlore Podcast — which he hosted alongside God’s Hate drummer, Colin Young. The loss of Lueders hit the community hard, so not only did the song honor him, but it sent a message to fans. It lets listeners know it is okay to be open about your struggles. Some of the toughest battles we go through are mental, and fighting them alone only makes things harder.
God’s Hate showcases how supportive the hardcore community is through its music. “Won’t Be Disgraced” communicates that you don’t need a traditional support system, the community will have your back.
To make a change, rearrange your pain, conquer today
If you have nothing, you will still have God’s Hate
You can’t hide the hurt within
War in your head, we will help you win
There is no need to fight alone. The hardcore community is rooted in respect for others and the idea of picking up someone when they fall goes way beyond just the rules of the mosh pit. It is okay to be open about your struggles, this track ensures that their music will always be there for you and God’s Hate isn’t going anywhere.
Hearing a band speak on mental health brings me comfort. It shows they truly care about their fans.
God’s Hate has been able to hold on to the unity and inclusivity within hardcores roots. “Won’t Be Disgraced” was loud about the fact that the traditions and values of hardcore haven’t gone anywhere and that they will always honor them.
Support your local hardcore scene. From the 818 to the 631. LIHC.
Heart Has To Work So Hard — Blondshell
by Leah Asinovski
Just about everyone I know, including myself, went through a messy breakup this summer.
We had met our boyfriends on our first real nights out as freshmen, where we couldn’t help but crave the feeling of being desired. The freedom from social expectations was exhilarating; it made our heads spin under the hot party lights. We didn’t notice the unfamiliar jealousy and the glaring insecurities. All red flags were invisible when everything else was also flashing red. Or maybe we just didn’t care enough to look.
Countless artists have described the emotional turmoil of a messy relationship, but Blondshell’s portrayal in “Heart Has To Work So Hard” feels particularly raw. The song starts off with the kind of intense mechanical pulse you can feel vibrating in your lungs. It cools down just enough for Blondshell’s controlled lyrics, building up tension in the prechorus.
You give me paws
You get me scaring strangers
You get me criticizing
You make this feel like labor
Paws acts as wordplay on pause; despite their attachment, the narrator is distrusting of her partner. But paws can also be taken very literally. Perhaps Blondshell is suggesting that the more time passes in the relationship, the more she begins to act animalistic, stressed out and hostile, like a beast. She even starts pushing people away, “scaring strangers” and “criticizing.”
It could also describe how the relationship feels manipulative and doglike, as well as just downright difficult. If the conversation flows so smoothly on some nights, why does it end in screams on others? And why does Blondshell still turn to face her partner when they wake up? In an emotionally exhausted voice, she laments:
My heart has to work so hard when you’re around
My heart has to work so hard when you’re around
Accompanied by heavy, thrashing guitars, Blondshell describes the intense physical reaction she gets from the highs and lows of this relationship and the tireless work she put in to love someone who causes her so much pain. “Heart Has To Work So Hard” goes from cool to intense to cool in seconds, mimicking her messy dynamic.
This track cut deep into my summer. I remember how my ex and I’s intellectual conversations and sweet affirmations were followed by words so harsh they sent me reeling. We stayed together for months because I just wanted someone. But, a relationship should not be laborious.
After the track’s turmoil, it ends with a beautiful, reverberating guitar line. The relationship, the hurt, it will all fizzle out. I am better off without it.
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