Cadence Collective - Untitled Folder

ondescending is the word for it- the passage of time is condescending. The past has a way of taking a seat and making itself a home in our nervous system, and you can convince yourself of nearly anything. This is what makes the human brain so fascinating. Maybe things really were better back then, despite my aching heart. People teach you about growing pains but never tell you how long they harbor, how deep they burrow, how time has a way of eroding a memory, or how dramatically melancholic nostalgia can make you feel as you re-play and re-write everything. Remembering is a token of love and a cruel reminder of our humanity

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the band in their group chat. Only being said in passing, it struck them for some reason. The phrase gained more and more sentimentality and meaning as the band reflected upon it, unable to shake the heaviness of the words. “Almost” holds weight in how it expresses something that’s ultimately not what you want, but is a convincing imitation. To be “Real” is to be undeniable. It’s a compelling juxtaposition and a perfect title for their message. The cover art is bathed in vibrant blue and white hues that depict a hand gently reaching to a TV screen, almost caressing it. The screen projects a hand reaching back, palm opened and inviting. Not quite. It’s nearly there. Just about.

Memory Well is a DIY quartet from Central Florida consisting of Josh on guitar and vocals, Ty on bass, Jacob on guitar and Evan on drums. They’re crowding rooms with a sound that’s refreshing, tough as shit, and undeniably compassionate. A bare-boned fusion of raw garage punk and experimental indie, with hard-hitting lyricism that’ll cut straight through you like a stake to the heart. Their debut EP Almost Real was released this past April which consists of 6 tracks. A run time of 14 minutes and 43 seconds that expands, contracts and beats with a pulse. It’s the gritty soundtrack to a core memory. The title, “Almost Real,” came from a text conversation amongst

I caught Memory Well after a photoshoot this past November. We sat down in a mall food court and discussed (in short) what all of these feelings meant. What does it really say about you if you’re desperate enough to try and get something back to you through a screen?

Ty: “That’s probably one of the first things we really did put deep intention into, cuz I remember the main root of it, as Josh said- most of the songs are about his ex. We titled it “Almost Real,”, and since we had this big T.V. aesthetic- the main basis was that they were reaching to each other through the T.V.”

Evan: “We had like three cameras.”

Ty: “And then our model, posing still…she gets that perfect position, and then you see Josh is projected on the TV, and she’s just holding it out. It gives an authentic feeling.”

Jacob: “Ty moved from the second floor in a house to the third floor in an apartment, and... guess who helped carry that TV!” They took a moment to look at each other and laugh.

Memory Well’s lead singer Josh humbly acknowledged that he was the catalyst of the narrative that was chosen for this EP, exploring themes of nostalgia, longing, questioning, and heartache. After a breakup, he immediately took to writing. He ripped his heart out of his chest, put immense trust in his bandmates, and placed that heart in their hands. It’s not easy to channel the grief of a past relationship into your medium, yet through this, they’ve created a body of work that has transformed this pain into passionate artistry and storytelling. They’ve managed to capture the essence of this experience perfectly within their production, and it’s unlike anything they’ve created before. A body of work as invigorating as this deserved a proper rollout, and as true pioneers of the local Orlando DIY scene each of them utilizes the skills in their wheelhouse to produce their content, merch designs, music video direction and shows. During our conversation, Jacob grabbed Evan to shake him and proudly exclaimed how he organized their first tour ever across Florida. Evan gave me insight on how he (single-handedly) made this come to fruition; communicating with different bands and venues, scheduling and navigating last minute replacements- he made it all happen.

Evan: “Yeah, I learned…a lot from that. It was not easy, but I love it at the same time. That’s why I did it in the first place. I love that kind of stuff.”

They prefer their work to be done this way because it’s honest.

There is a piece of them in everything they create. Almost Real holds a microscope to Memory Well’s soul and takes you on a sonic journey where you don’t just experience it- you survive it.

The EP begins with “Pull.” It’s a track that wastes no space.

One guitar is panned to the left, and suddenly you’re thrown into the vortex with them, hitting the gas and being bathed in an infatuating rhythm. The lyrics feel like a plea from a personal letter. It’s an unapologetic introduction.

Then they move into the next track, “Propofol,” and the transition is absolutely seamless. You’re suddenly flying full throttle without a moment to think. The aggression lies in the act of just

getting through it, as horrible as it may feel. The haunting lines “sedate me now” echo throughout the melody. There’s a fascinating momentum, the tension between guitar tones pushing against each other with a heavy bassline razoring through, letting the notes ring out and giving them their own sense of life.

Track Three is “Bleed”, and it’s one of their most impressive tracks in how well it showcases their musicianship, overall talent, and how much they’ve grown as performers. They’d mentioned to me that while approaching this EP they wanted to challenge themselves as musicians. Performance and stage presence are priorities for them, and while it’s easy to jeopardize this with intricate instrumentation, they refused to let this stop them. Ty’s bass on this track in particular highlights how complex and dynamic their riffs have truly become, exceeding their own expectations. “Bleed” is an impressive example of this- an entire conversation occurring between each instrument in constant motion.

“Almost Real,” the EP title claims its spot under the fourth track, and it’s completely instrumental. They shared with me that initially, the song was supposed to be a remix of their single “Around,” but it turned into something different, with its own pulse. It captures the entire feeling of the project. The distant audio of a drum kick, almost as if it’s playing from a speaker in the other room. It’s fuzzy, like the audio from an old VHS clip.

You want to hear more, so you walk into the room. The tempo switches and you’re met with an explosive melody of longing and crying guitars. The outro is a soft acoustic guitar gracefully carrying you back down to the surface. It’s gentle, and a crackled texture fills the atmosphere behind it. With a running time of 1 minute and 11 seconds, it is a beautiful interlude that reflects the ebbs and flows of grief; the high-highs and low-lows.

Things always tend to get worse before they get better.

“Around” was the first single released as a part of the Almost Real rollout. The hook, “come back around,” repeats throughout the song offering a comforting sense of relief. A comedown from the rage as you watch everything move past you. It’s a track that blends poetry, harsh chords, breakdowns, and melancholic vocals to hold your hand and guide you throughout.

Photography by: Krandon Bruk Graphics and layout: Adriana Farfan

“Rain Delay” is the final track, and for good reason. There is no better way to end an album than a guttural scream of defeat, after all is said and done and you’ve released it all. It hurts. It all hurts so much. “I DON’T CARE ANYMORE.” There is a distinct annunciation of these words that makes it feel overwhelmingly vulnerable. An intense emotional power lies in this delivery.

Whether you truly believe what you say or not, it all still feels like a storm coming down on you. The last 20 seconds of the track ring out and you have no choice but to sit with yourself in introspection. For lack of a better term, It’s the epitome of a mic-drop.

Their producer, Kyle Hoffer, masterfully captured and recognized Memory Well’s authentic, raw, and emotional ambianceand Almost Real will forever serve as a time capsule for them

and this era they’ve discovered within each other. They’ve taken these tracks to the stage and filled the venues with infatuating passion, towing the lines of an experimental set and a rock show. Their sets are intimate and energetic, and it’s clear that the people who show up for them are what inspire them above all else. Regardless of how far they’ll go (and I know they’ll go far), their dedication and gratitude for the Orlando scene will always remain constant. They’ve made a home here and helped cultivate a community of like-minded musicians and creatives- all because they actually care enough to nurture it.

At the end of our conversation, I asked them if they were happy. I tend to ask this since (more often than not) people are uncomfortable with being honest with themselves. It’s more difficult than immediately defaulting to yes. But ultimately, you define your own happiness and success, so I wanted to check in with them and see if they felt as fulfilled as I had hoped they did. Their response was positive and genuine.

Evan: “Honestly...Yeah. I feel excited.”

Ty: “The fact that people buy our things. Having these CDs and tapes and seeing that people actually buy it! It’s surreal.”

This is a testimony to their work. People believe in them for good reason. Memory Well’s latest EP “Almost Real” is available on all streaming platforms. It’s worth it, because they’re worth it.

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GRIMZ

Kelly’s pub CONNECT RECORDS

american legion post 92

TACTILE Churchill’s pub

GRAMPS PHOTOGRAPHER: RAMONA BANOS

LUNAFIT GYM

COLLEGE LAUNDROMAT

WILL’S PUB BROADWAY CHURCH

STARDUST

SPACE STATION

Central Florida skate PHOTOGRAPHER: LIS IRIZARRY AYALAI

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WRITER: AZLYN CATO

Venues That Raised Us

It’s never been just about the music. What makes the Florida scene so special is the shared sense of belonging. It’s the people who are brought together under one roof for one night- or at least until the next show. But above all, it's the venues that raised us that keep the scene AUSTIN’S STARDUST going and our energy alive. Places like Will’s Pub, Stardust, Austin’s, A time-honored pillar of the The more time I’ve spent at Just walking around here, you and Gramps taught us how to Central Florida scene, Austin’s was Stardust, the more I have come to can probably see people working exist together, how to be loud and always there for us, even if no one love it- not just for its eclectic décor on different videos that they're vulnerable in the same breath. We else was. A place where emerging or cozy vibes, but for its lasting making, drawing, a lot of time, didn’t just go to these places- we bands and comedic acts could take presence in the Orlando community. people will come here and do the stage and get their start, Austin’s Sure, it's a great place to meet up different band performances. It's grew up in them. role in defining over three and hang out, but it’s also where I just a really nice and welcoming As venues close, rebrand, or generations of the scene remains found a sense of community- space. And when I had that disappear altogether, it becomes one of its most enduring through impromptu poetry readings, event, all of the staff that was clear how much of our identity is contributions. Its recent move to its weekly market days, and really great working like behind the counter tied to the rooms that held us. So new location- after an overnight sale sandwiches (if you know, you know). and handing out drinks and food let's take a moment to look back forced its doors to close- was made And when the tables get pushed and everything, they're just so at some of the places that are possible by countless protests and aside, and a local band fills the room helpful, super, super kind. And I more than deserving of our an outpouring of community support, from the iconic red stage, an was just very appreciative of it, you know, it's a very good kind of, gratitude for making our scene a testament to just how deeply undeniable electricity erupts. like, community space for artists Austin’s is woven into Central possible.

Florida’s cultural fabric.

“If I had to explain this venue to in the area.” someone who's never been here, I'd It’s the longtime regulars, Tristan Aguirre, the current manager probably explain the time that I performances from local bands, of Austins, says that a good bit of the premiered my short film here,” and community-driven events that protesters were regulars and Stardust regular Henry says. “This have made Stardust feel like customers, all fighting to save what space is just really nice for just home, becoming an anchor for essentially was a collective home. supporting artists.

Orlando’s creative culture and a reminder that third spaces like “Funnily enough, I had never heard this still matter. the term third space until a couple months ago,” Aguirre says. “I didn't really ever know really what to call Austin's, or what Austin's was, I'd always just call it like ‘your favorite cousin's garage that got turned into a coffee shop’. But learning more about what a third space is, like, it is desperately needed, because we're definitely in an age where people are a little more antisocial. Now everyone is on their phones, or, not to be like a '90s baby, but ‘back in my day’, you know, you had to go outside and interact with everybody. The spot back in the day was sitting on the power boxes, but now it's places like Austin's Coffee, where you can still bring your electronics, but you also get to interact with somebody, someone new. Like a person’s working on art, or this person's working on an essay, or this person's playing chess by themselves. You can go up to them and be like, ‘Hey, is it okay if I sit with you? ’ And more often than not, they'd say, yes, and there you go, you just met a new person, and you get some beneficial social interaction.”

The walls of the original Austin’s may have been bulldozed, but its spirit carries on- louder, resilient, and rooted in the community that refused to let it disappear.

PHOTOGRAPHER: AZLYN CATO

PHOTOGRAPHER: LIS IRIZARRY AYALAI

GRAMPS

I was lucky enough to catch a show With its final days approaching, at Gramps recently, and the energy one of Wynwood’s last was just that- intimate, electric, and ungentrified spaces will always deeply communal. Artists and fans hold a place in our hearts and in moved through the space without the story of the scene it helped barriers, sharing the same floor, the build. Lucas Bermudez, local same air, the same moment. It felt musician and avid scene-goer, like a reminder of what venues like says the first time he went to Gramps have always done best: Gramps, he felt like he was in a collapsing the distance between performer and audience, and turning movie. a night out into a shared experience. “… I was completely locked in A fixture in the South Florida scene, when [Palomino Blond] got on Gramps represents how the scene stage, and everything was just can change, but never disappear. driving and powerful, and it was heavy, but there was still beautiful melodies under it all,” Bermudez says. “And like, just everything about the atmosphere was perfect. And gramps has always felt that way, no matter who I see there, whether it be Mortician and meeting the drummer, even after they play, seeing Panchiko, Horse Jumper of Love, and LSD and the Search for God, all in one night, where I would get their signatures on Polaroids that I took with them, a drumstick.

That's always been one of the WILL’S PUB benefits of local venues is that as soon as the band or whoever is I can still remember the first time I Over the years, every show I’ve on stage gets off and their set is walked into Wills Pub. The red and attended there has carried that over, it's kind of just, you sort of pink lights, the photo strips lining the same feeling: providing a space have to say hi to everyone. You walls, the heavy mic feedback, even where strangers become regulars have to say hi to the crowd. You the “Fuck the Patriarchy” Barbie doll and regulars become family. Will’s have to say hi to your fans.” in a plastic bathtub by the bathroom Pub has not just shaped the loca sink. Yet what stood out to me most music scene, but the people who was the laughter coming from the found themselves inside those atrons sitting at the bar and the walls. ecstatic energy of the small (but mighty) crowd.

PHOTOGRAPHER: RAMONA BAMOS

PHOTOGRAPHER: LIS IRIZARRY AYALAI

Photographer: Carlos Sierra

What Keeps Us Here This is a love letter I’ll never send, mostly because Florida already knows and doesn’t need the validation. It just keeps doing its thing, loud and humid and slightly unhinged, daring you to either leave or learn how to live inside it.

I was born here and then left before I could really know what that meant. I was four. After that, Florida became this place I kept circling back to, sometimes for a year, sometimes for less, always as a military kid who never fully unpacked. Every time we came back it felt familiar in a way that lived in my body more than my brain. Like muscle memory. Like hearing a song you don’t remember loving but somehow still know all the words to.

When I turned eighteen, I came back for good. Photographer: Bianca Mejia Not dramatically. Just quietly. Like, yeah, this

Photo: Lis Irizarry Ayala | Graphics: Bianca Mejia

makes sense.

Growing up around Florida taught me how to exist inside noise. Literal noise, thunderstorms cracking open the afternoon, cicadas screaming like they’re on a deadline, bass from someone’s car rattling your windows at midnight. And Photographer: Carlos Sierra also emotional noise. Heat, chaos, people, things happening all at once. You learn how to find your own rhythm or you get swallowed by it. I think that’s where the art comes from. You make things here because you have to. Because sitting still in this place feels impossible.

Everything creative I love feels tied to this landscape. The humidity makes everything feel closer, more intense.

DIY shows in garages, sticky floors, Christmas lights that never come down.

Friends turning into collaborators without a conversation about it. Someone always has a camera, someone has a half-written song, someone has an idea that might be bad but might also be perfect. Florida doesn’t care if it’s polished. It just wants it alive.

It’s the small stuff that sticks. Midnight Publix runs. Salt in the air. Winplaces. Places people like to say are dows down because the AC broke again. easier. But they don’t buzz like this.

Sitting on the hood of a car after a Florida taught me how to live inside storm while steam rises off the pavechaos and still make something beaument like the world is exhaling. That tiful out of it. Staying isn’t about soft moment before night fully sets being stuck. It’s about loyalty. To the in, when everything feels a little holy version of me that learned how to and a little temporary. I’ve seen othcreate here. - Lis Irizarry Ayala er places now. Cooler places. Quieter

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ell for Miami based noise rock/ shoegaze band Easterlin, the scene looks dreamy and raw, but nostalgic like a home video or a rotary phone. Many of their album covers, teasers, and show flyers are digitally distressed collages that bring you back in time. Easterlin describes the relationship between their visual art and their music as an ecosystem, and I fully understand as I listen to the wisp of vocals and reverb and rip of their gritty guitars everything feels as dreamy as those surreal collages.

Every band needs merch, to leave a mark on the world that says ‘I’ve been here’.

Merch is a moving archive, every t-shirt is something you can wear until it falls apart, something that proves the music wasn’t just a moment, it stays with you. A local hardcore and emo merch designer Evan Hicks from Gnarled says that he feels that the best way to get his emotions out is to draw and create.

Evan’s uniquely grotesque humanoid abominations alongside his affinity for thin brushes and a lot of texture set him apart from other artists. But what sets him apart comes from his heart, Evan fuels his art with his emotions, and his art powerfully speaks for itself. Many bands including Burial Etiquette and Fallen God come to him for his irreplicable style.

Abeer Belal is a visual creative that’s known for their voice through their work. The type of work you don’t just see, you feel. One of Belal’s standout pieces was a spiraling bandagelike cloth sprawled with ink that wrapped down the arm and leg. Written in sequence on this piece of cloth that spans the whole outfit were lyrics to songs by Novely, Opposition Dolls, Flowers for Emily, Saetia and more. When Belal was down, their expression was there to help them through it. Belal recalled the outfit design was based on a poor mental state, and that they had very personal connections to the songs. I found the outfit to be very inspiring, especially knowing that this work of art was made from struggle.

What ties all of these artists together is a shared need to turn emotion into something tangible. Through album covers, clothing, merch, or music, they help us express things that might be difficult otherwise. But isn’t this what the scene really looks like: raw, personal, and stuffed with meaning?

D.I.Y Doesn’t Mean Alone LIS IRIZARRY AYALAI

When Cadence went Working on this issue Letting go of control quiet, I thought maybe together has taught me did not mean losing my In 2025, I didn’t really that was it. Maybe I had more than I expected. I voice. It meant making know what Cadence already done what I came have been taught through room for others. It was anymore. through meant admitting I was here to do. Maybe the collaboration, Not in a dramatic way, silence meant I lost my conversation, and allowing through tired just in that quiet, purpose. watching other people support to meet me unsettling way where Then my best friend care about this as much there.

It meant you keep opening the Celeste launched the as I do. Every edit, every trusting that DIY can same folder and second every shared be communal without issue of idea, nothing feels right. I Soundshots. moment reminded me that losing its soul. knew what it used to Watching her put it out creation gets stronger Collaboration, in my be. I knew how it into world, looks like the world so when it is shared. started.

But the confidently and so Around that same time, shared documents and purpose I once felt so beautifully stopped me in Ari, my co founder, kept long messages sent clearly got fuzzy, and my tracks. It was hers in pushing me in ways I did late at night. It looks instead of pushing every way. And when she not know I needed. She like behind the scenes through, we kind of told me that Cadence and reminded me to be proud moments no one ever stopped. I stopped. the way I had built it of the things I love. Of sees. It looks like care Not because I didn’t inspired her to finally the parts of Cadence without credit. Just care, but because I share her art with the that Just feel specific, presence. cared so much that scene, something in me sentimental, and very me. showing up. every decision felt cracked open. She said She saw value in the There is relief in impossible. seeing me do it vision even when I was realizing the scene DIY is supposed to be imperfectly made it feel doubting it, and she did only works because about independence. possible. Like it did not not let me shrink it down people want it to.

Doing it yourself. have to be perfect to just to make it easier or Because they keep Building something out matter. choosing each other. quieter. of nothing and That was the moment I Sometimes community Because DIY was never standing on it proudly. understood what Cadence support looks like meant to be lonely. We And I love that part. I actually was. forget that someone believing in you just still do. But somewhere It was never just mine. It before you believe in sometimes. along the way, that had already done its yourself again.

Celeste did not just idea turned into me work by moving through DIY does not survive release an issue. Ari carrying everything the people around me. It because one person did not just push me alone and convincing had already lived outside refuses to quit.

It forward. The editorial myself that was the of my hands. survives because people team did not just help price of doing it right. During the Cadence care enough to show up execute a vision. They If I needed help, maybe revival, me why something for each other. Because reminded I wasn’t strong enough. shifted in me. I finally inspiration passes Cadence exists at all.

If I paused, maybe I let myself admit that I between friends. Because Not because I built it failed. did not need to do this someone sees you try and alone, but because it I was exhausted in that alone. I looked around thinks maybe I can too. made space for others very specific DIY way. and realized I was I had been treating to build too.

The kind where you are surrounded like This is a tired piece, by an independence not just tired, you are incredible community of isolation. Like I had written from that soft burnt down to the creative people who something to prove by place after a long wick. Too many roles. cared deeply and showed doing everything alone. night of editing or Too much up fully. Instead of But the truth is Cadence planning or responsibility.

Too trying to hold everything has always been overthinking. But it is much pressure to keep myself, I decided to trust collaborative.

It only also a comfort piece. A the thing alive by that. exists because of shared reminder that asking sheer force of will. That is when I knew effort, shared trust, for help does not Burnout is everywhere Cadence needed a full shared belief. I just erase your pride. in DIY spaces because editorial staff. needed to let myself see Letting go does not we ask ourselves to be Not as a rebrand or a that as part of the work, mean you failed. And machines fueled by level up, but as an honest not a weakness.

DIY does not mean you passion, and we forget reflection of what DIY Doing it together still have to do it by that passion still needs actually looks like. counts as doing it yourself. rest, and people, and yourself. care.

Cadence did not disappear in 2025. I just stopped seeing it clearly for a while.

Now I know it is still here, living in the people around me. And that is more than enough.

PHOTOGRAPHER: RAMONA BAMOS

Music & Mental Health NOAH DUKES Most of us didn’t come to music because everything was peachy. We came because something inside needed somewhere to go.

Because we had a feeling that we couldn’t carry alone. Before it was a show flyer, it was a way to breathe.

Look, in the DIY scene music isn't just a product; it's an emotional outlet, an explosive expression of humanity. Expressing yourself with any form of art can be therapeutic, Evan from Every Blister Reminds Me of You, a local emo band states "everything that I can’t put into words I can put into a character” when talking about his art.

While I support all expression, I personally believe music is the best medium to express those emotions that can't find a way out. Many studies show that music can offer therapeutic benefits in alleviating stress, anxiety, and depression. For many of us, music is how we survive.

Regardless of how good the music is, the same things that can help us heal can also wear us down. Burnout builds up slowly.

Sometimes it looks like dreading practices you always used to look forward to, or feeling emotionally exhausted or just creatively stagnant. An easy mistake for a musician to make is to believe that they are only useful when they are actively creating; that's one of the fastest tracks to burn out. In scenes built on passion, rest can feel like failure. But everyone needs a break; no one can work nonstop.

But also no one can do it alone.

The scene isn't just the sound, It’s the family. The scene is sustained by us supporting each other, from picking up a stranger in the pit to checking in with your friends that haven't been themselves lately.

Support doesn't have to be loud, it can be reminding each other that worth isn't measured in output, or reminding each other to go easier on ourselves.

Part of supporting each other is knowing when to reach out of the scene. Nothing can replace professional help when things start feeling too heavy. The Zebra Youth Coalition offers housing and mental health treatments that they state are especially sensitive to the needs of Black, Hispanic and Latinx LGBTQ+ youth.

The culture we build in the scene directly correlates to how safe it feels. We should prioritize people over productivity, and sustainability over constant action. I’m not talking about slowing everything down just remember, you're human too.

You’re a feeling, complicated human and you deserve to be taken care of.

Take a breath. Check in with yourself. Check in with your friends.

The scene won’t disappear if you rest.

We’ll be waiting for you!

show diary

with leo

by leo lobo

11.11.2025

never have I ever seen an artist bring almost the entire room on the stage but holy shit did pearl go above and beyond my expectations for the show.

I mean I've seen her and the show on tikok and I knew the energy she came with, but seeing it up close in person was insane and seeing everyone so free and happy on stage was so so cool. She is such a girls girl and honestly the vibe in the room was unlike any other show I’ve been to and like the outfits were making me jealous that I don’t dress feminine anymore cause I would’ve loved to devour a cropped fur coat and heels like 80% of the crowd was lowkey inspiring.

On the topic of outfits and being a girls girl I got to talking to the business she uses for a lot of her promotion and shows in general and the girl running and hand making everything was the sweetest thing ever, pretty sure it was Zuco Swim, anyway she was invited out to sell by Pearl and I literally thought that was the sweetest shit ever.

Honestly just a night of screaming to amazing toxic-relationship-post-breakup music and dancing around in the intimate barn-like venue that is tampa new world (that has become one of the favorites in the area lowkey)

Latinx culture is a blend of rich histories, multiple languages, traditions, and art spread across a vast geographical landscape. A culture that has been both celebrated and politicized in the U.S. A culture that has shaped and inspired various movements, subcultures, and music genres. In the Florida scene, we have a multitude of Latinx creatives and community members who have created beautiful, living, non-conformative spaces and music that reflect their experiences and ethos.

Preying Mantease is an all-female indie rock band based in Orlando that imbues powerful messages into their music. Anny Polanco was born in Santo Domingo, DR, and is the lead singer of the band. She shared the intentional messaging behind some of their released songs. “Our song ‘Amy’ is named after Amy Coney Barrett, one of the judges who voted to overturn Roe v Wade.” The song critiques how judicial and social structures handle sexual assault cases.

“It’s inspired by how rapists get a slap on the wrist even if there is sufficient evidence to prosecute them, and even when there’s not, people are more inclined to believe it didn’t happen because they didn’t see it,” Polanco said. “‘Did You Ask Her’ is about consent and how blurred lines do not equal consent, and ‘Not the Same’ is about being different and not fitting the norm.”

“Did You Ask Her”, one of their most recognized songs, utilizes built-up tension through repetition, capped by a guttural scream to reflect a familiar frustration and rage felt by people who have experienced what the song describes.

L i tt l e A n ny i n t h e D R

Jay Villegas, Venezuelan and lead singer of Disputer, also believes music can make a statement. “Yes, it should be fun, a place for joy and memory, but it should ask a question: what do you stand for and what values do you want to echo to the people who listen? For me, every song is a small rebellion, a reminder that art can hold both celebration and responsibility in the same breath.”

According to Villegas, their music is a way of showing up for their community. “In a time where being yourself can still feel like an act of resistance, our voices in the music scene become more than just songs; they become a reminder that visibility matters and that the future can be bigger, louder, and more inclusive than what came before.”

Anny from Praying Mantis, Photo by: SMGP Media

Camillo Alvarez is Colombian/Venezuelan and a local musician in bands Listener555, Disputer, Sana, Mr. Floyd Larry, East of Eden, Deerbones, and Lethal Injection ( he’s a busy guy). He shared his take on the importance of the scene. “The music scene is the only place most people can go to be really free, safe, and receptive to art made by their peers.”

Polanco also feels the scene is important because it is a safe space. “Within the scene, there’s a zero tolerance policy for bigotry in a very dark time for marginalized communities (gay folk, trans folk, immigrants, women, poc), and being different is usually celebrated or normalized. It’s important we keep it that way.”

Some members of the community have made it their commitment to create spaces for these artists to perform and outcasts to gather. One of them is Devin Cano, also known as 407House. He immigrated from Peru to Miami, later setting down roots in Orlando. He started hosting house shows in 2022, creating a venue staple in the scene where people could gather and discover new bands in the comfort of his home. “My main ethos when it came to shows was ensuring affordability, good sound, and safety,” Cano said. The result was a project that blossomed into 43 shows, including raves, touring acts, local diy, screamo, and more.

Jay from Disputer, Photo by: SMGP Media

J a y ( c e nt e r) p efo r m i n g w i t h fa m i l y m e m b e r s

Camilo playing with Sana, Photo by: SMGP Media

Cano shared that if there’s anything the scene could improve on, it’s venues and accessibility. “Good venues come and go so quickly. I feel bad for artists who want to get into the scene. There’s not much accessibility unless you know someone.”

One of the most beautiful things about Latinx culture and our people is that we always believe there is room for one more at the table. A term of endearment often spoken in crowded family gatherings is “Jala una silla,” meaning pull up a chair.

This sentiment is reflected in the interviewees’ responses.

Isabel Perez-Benitez, drummer for Sana, would like to see more of a spotlight on up-and-coming acts. “More traction for new and other kinds of music, honestly, there are so many bands out there not getting an audience.”

Polanco recalls how the Orlando scene has evolved and wants to continue pushing the envelope. “I got to Orlando a few years ago and remember analyzing the scene then and thinking about how non-inclusive it seemed. Now, the growth it has had has been a beautiful sight. I want to keep seeing an influx of diversity and inclusion in the scene, transcending genres and gender + racial stereotypes.”

Villegas also encourages more diversity. “The music coming from minorities, women, and the LGBTQ+ community feels important right now because it opens up space that people like us haven’t always been given.”

The connection between Latinx culture and music is profound and personal for many artists. Perez-Benitez shared her musical roots. “‘I’m fully Puerto Rican. My dad’s side has always been musical, which makes me proud to represent my family.”

Villegas also feels connected to music through their heritage. Their grandpa was a painter and writer who inspired the art Villegas creates today. “I grew up chasing his voice through the pages he left behind, learning Spanish just to understand the echoes he hid in fiction. Now I write songs the way he wrote stories-vague on purpose, full of feeling without explanation, a place where anyone can wonder and hang their meanings on the walls.” Through their music, Villegas creates an opening, an invitation, and a quiet hospitality.

D e v i n C a n o w i t h h i s m ot h e r i n Pe r u ( l e f t ) 4 07 h o u s e s h ow ( t o p c e nt e r) , P h o t o b y: Fra m e s b y V i n c e

I, like many in my community, have also struggled finding that balance between pursuing joy vs pursuing stability to create wealth for my family and me. As an immigrant from a first-generation family, the concept of the American dream is framed as the only way to secure happiness, so we put our heads down and work. While I step away from that construct more and more, there is still a grit to anything I do. That is the beauty of art forged by our community; there is always a profound, hard-earned nature to it.

Villegas reminds readers to honor their roots.

“There’s only one you, so don’t carve yourself into someone else’s shape. Keep your communities alive, show up even when it’s not your fight, and lift the local scenes that push culture forward. Our audience-mostly latin-grounds me, protects me, and reminds me why I create. Free Venezuela, Free Palestine, and may we keep pushing back against anything that tries to cage our lives or art.”

Throughout my conversation with each artist and community member, I listened to their different stories, experiences, and emotions that all wove together in a way that brought our culture and universal heart to life. They all shared the same passion for one of the most unifying things that can exist in a divisive time: community and meaning born from music.

For Cano, his culture and experiences shaped his love for music today. “I was raised by a single first-generation mom.

When we first moved here, we didn’t know any English, and we assimilated into the culture together,” he recalled. “When I was 10, one of the gifts I begged my mom for was a radio. I always had music playing in the background, even as a young kid.”

Cano shared how music evolved into a lifeline for him. ”Growing up, during dark times, concerts were so special to me because they gave me something to look forward to. I would think, ‘Everything is going wrong right now, but in two or three weeks I’m gonna see this artist, and everything’s gonna be fine.’”

While music is a huge component of Latinx culture, finding a balance can be a struggle for some artists like Polanco. She shared how in her family, music is encouraged only as a side hobby. “Personally, it’s encouraged as a side hobby, but I’m still expected to have a real career. I’m still in school, we (Preying Mantease) all are, but we find a balance. It’s about doing it anyway and beating the odds because it fulfills you,” Polanco said.

C a m i l o a n d I s a p l a y i n g i n S a n a , P h ot o by : Fra m e s b y V i n c e

Same Sky, Different Worlds The drive from Orlando to Miami feels like a ritual at this point — three to four hours of highway blur, gas-station coladas, and playlists that swing between shoegaze and hardcore.

Central and South Florida sit under the same wet heat, the same thunderstorms, the same sun-cracked billboards. But their underground scenes are entirely different planets, still orbiting the same moon.

Photo by SMGP Media

My notebook sits in my lap during the commute, filled with scribbles and doodles from last weekend, still smudged with sweat and ash, and retaining the smell of cigarettes and cheap fog machines. A house show off Colonial: around 50 people packed into a living room that’s seen too many bands that a landlord would ever suspect. Local fans bump shoulder-to-shoulder, arms around each other’s necks, screaming every word like the band wrote the songs for them. That’s what defines Central Florida: intimacy in chaos. Venues that feel temporary even when they’re not. Flyers taped over old flyers at Stardust. The same familiar faces at every show.

Though ever-changing, its heartbeat stays the same.

Orlando’s scene thrives on DIY habit: there’s always a new band, a new collective, a new idea. Entire eras are born and buried in weeks. Bands here treat evolution like a sport; new sounds, new demos, new lineups. Reinvention is the point.

Blake Barnes, drummer of Orlando’s Harwick, an up-ancoming experimental rock band, says being part of the city’s rising DIY scene carries a sense of pride that’s hard to describe from anywhere but behind the drum kit.

“Seeing the crowds while performing, the way people interact and seek out new music, new artists, it’s so inspiring,” Barnes said. “I get to watch people, both my friends and people I’ve never met, connect over something I worked really hard on, and there’s not a feeling like it. I have a lot of pride, not only in my band, but in the DIY scene as a whole.”

Barnes said that realization came early for Harwick, during the band’s very first show.

“We realized we weren’t just a band, we were part of a movement,” he said. “The energy was electric. You could feel it in the air. People were moshing and having a great time to our music. We all looked at each other, smiled, and played louder. We never expected the response we received, but once it happened, it made us that much more determined to put on a good show.”

For Barnes, that sense of belonging is what makes creating within Orlando’s DIY ecosystem feel so personal.

“We’re not doing this for clout or recognition—we want to make art,” he said. “Everyone puts so much time and energy into what they do. You see it in the bands, in the crowds, in the photographers, in the venues. It feels like a hive mind, all of us seeking the same experiences. It pushes us to be better, to make our music more personal, to write our hearts out, and to connect with even more people.”

Brielle Bennett, frontwoman of Watts, can also vouch for Orlando’s DIY culture. She says most shows are entirely DIY-backed, from booking and bands to mixing and mastering. The interconnectedness of Central Florida’s music scene, she believes, is what makes it so unique.

“You get to really meet the people you play with,” she said. “Whether it’s local or touring bands, the way our venues are set up forces you to hang out and talk to each other.”

Watts is a hardcore band that has cemented itself in the scene with a gritty, punk-forward sound. Brielle wants the band’s role to be opening people’s minds to the heaviness of hardcore.

“I want Watts to be a band that invites everyone into hardcore,” she said. “I also want it to be a way for girls to see that they can hold space in hardcore without being looked down upon.”

As we make our way south, the energy flips.

By the time we reach Broward, the sky darkens, like someone dimmed the state’s lower half just to set the stage. South Florida is louder, brighter, more humid in every sense of the word. The scene feels like a pressure cooker, where punk, hardcore, alt-rap, indie, and electronic bleed into each other without warning. Miami doesn’t just sing. It swallows you.

Creatives bounce between galleries, backyard gigs, and club stages in the same night. Everything is bigger here, and braver, too. It’s the kind of place where a band can break in front of 40 people, where Gramps’ closing feels like a funeral, and where bands like Palomino Blond can take over a warehouse and turn it into a community pulse overnight.

Kat, lead singer of Lylac, an up-and-coming alternative rock band from Miami, said she rarely goes to a show without seeing a familiar face.

“I see groups of friends that attend other shows, always going to different venues and watching different artists,” she said. “I usually run into at least a few of the same people every time, and I love how friendly and open everyone is.”

She pointed to the intimacy of South Florida venues, like Kelly’s Pub, as a defining feature of the scene. Performing in those spaces, she said, feels both natural and nerve-wracking.

“It’s a small stage, maybe a foot off the ground, so you’re essentially at eye level with the crowd,” she said. “It gives people the chance to really feel immersed in the music. It can be intimi-

dating, having so many eyes on you, but the lyrics tell a story, and if people listen, that story unfolds throughout the set.”

The people are different, but the dream isn’t.

The overlap is real: fans caravanning down the state, bands migrating back and forth like seasonal birds. Both regions feed each other, even when they feel worlds apart.

Florida’s underground is a big, messy ecosystem. Scenes shift, venues close, and new bands take over. Central Florida offers the warmth of a community scraped together with duct tape and pure will. South Florida brings adrenaline, reinvention, and the confidence to push boundaries until the edges tear.

For coming generations, both places are blueprints.

Orlando shows you how to build something from nothing. Miami shows you how to make it something larger than anyone could ever anticipate.

By the time we roll downtown, the streets are buzzing. Tonight’s showisinawarehousebehindamechanicshop,thekindofplace you only find if someone texts you the real address. I close the notebook. The air smells like sweat, spray paint, and ocean salt.

Same sky. Different worlds. The same dream beating underneath it all.

Photo by SMGP Media (bottom right) Photo by Angie Liotta (top center)