The Faded Ticket Booth is a four-piece Scottish acoustic group built around a warm, narrative-driven female vocal. Their music leans into everyday poetry rather than spectacle: upright bass, brushed drums, clean acoustic guitar, and voices that feel like shared conversation rather than performance. They sound like a street you’ve walked before but can’t quite place, a melody you remember without knowing when you heard it.

They formed on the quieter edges of Edinburgh’s busking circuits, shaping their sound in places where attention isn’t guaranteed — doorways, market corners, the brief hush that follows passing footsteps. That background taught them presence without volume; phrasing without force; sincerity without staging. Their arrangements remain intentionally uncluttered, preferring atmosphere over punch.

Influenced by the acoustic honesty of late-80s British folk-pop and the conversational phrasing of Eddi Reader, they record with a philosophy of leave the human parts in. Light string squeaks, the breath before a high note, the soft brush of a chord change — if it’s true, it stays. The result isn’t retro, but unhurried; not nostalgic, but familiar in a way that feels quietly earned.

Their recorded work is released in a deliberately limited way: not everywhere at once, not across every platform, but carried by NOT FM and Filodyo as their primary homes, where their catalog lives with the same intention as their songwriting. It isn’t framed as exclusivity for the sake of strategy — just a quieter kind of presence, placed where it feels understood.

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Eli Varnish spent most of his life drawing straight lines for crooked cities. As an architect, he designed libraries, train stations, and far too many gray, forgettable office buildings. He was always more interested in light than concrete — the way it moved through windows, shifted on floors, or disappeared behind closed doors. But deadlines piled up, and inspiration gave way to invoices. When he retired at 62, he didn’t throw a party. He just handed in his keys, took the long way home, and listened to the silence.

That’s when the music came back.
In his youth, Eli had played piano quietly — always in private, never in public. Now, with no blueprints to chase, he returned to the keys. Slowly. Gently. A few friends joined him — a bassist who used to drive a bus, a trombonist who sold insurance, and a drummer who once taught math. They started meeting weekly above an old bookstore. No gigs, no names. Just music.

Eventually, they found their way into a small jazz bar — dim, warm, and half-forgotten. That’s where Eli plays now. No spotlight, no talk. Just a glass of red wine, a crooked hat, and a piano that creaks in all the right places. The audience doesn’t clap much. They just nod, like they recognize something they forgot they knew.

Eli doesn’t miss architecture. “Buildings are meant to last,” he says, “but songs... songs are meant to leave.” And so he plays — not to impress, but to remember. To trace old lines in the air. To build something no one can own, but everyone can feel.

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"You've probably never heard of Mira Jensen, but then again, who has?" says Mira Jensen in a witty repartee to obscurity. This indie-goddess, hailing from the ink-blotted margins of the music world, brandishes her raw talent like a broadsword, cutting through the monotony of manufactured pop.

Behind her calming blue eyes and spaghetti disaster of blonde curls spirals the complex mind of a poet, busily spinning threads of everyday life into lyrical gold. Her music is a veritable tonic for the soul, born from the bittersweet marriage of late-night introspections and forgotten childhood memories. And "A Song Left Unwritten", her pièce de résistance, seizes your heart only to turn it into an errant marionette, dancing to its heartrending symphony.

Yet, don't let her philosophical musings fool you. Mira is as unpredictable as a jack-in-the-box, as exemplified by her impromptu concert inside an empty fish tank in the heart of Hackney (that’s right, you heard it here first). Whether she's spinning out profound ballads or making magic in the most peculiar of venues, Mira Jensen's authenticity shines brighter than her neon pink Converse.

In the music industry, where mimicking the familiar often spells success, Mira's candidness is as refreshing as a summer breeze in the Sahara. Though her nom de guerre might not yet line the billboards, something tells us Mira Jensen's footnotes in the annuls of music are just a few jamming sessions away from becoming headline-worthy annotations. Watch this space!

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Sofia Cruzado is a captivating Latin pop artist whose powerful voice and magnetic stage presence draw listeners in from the very first note. With a style reminiscent of modern Latin icons, she blends infectious rhythms with heartfelt storytelling, creating songs that ignite both emotion and movement.

Her debut single, Feel The Fire, captures her fiery spirit and undeniable charisma. Available exclusively on Filodyo and NOT FM, the track marks the beginning of a promising career that’s set to light up the Latin music scene. Sofia Cruzado doesn’t just perform—she commands attention, leaving an unforgettable impression on everyone who hears her.

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Wrong Floor Cinema is a four-piece alternative rock band formed in 2025 by Orson Vell, Marlow Pin, Crispin Dayrate, and Niles Weatherby. The group came together through a series of badly organized rehearsal-room bookings, after repeatedly being assigned the same basement studio by mistake. They kept the name Wrong Floor Cinema because it matched their shared taste for overlooked places, awkward situations, and things that feel slightly out of sequence.

Their music blends sharp pop-punk guitars, dry spoken-sung vocals, clipped rhythms, melodic bass lines, and an offbeat sense of humor. Although their sound draws heavily from 1990s alternative rock, they avoid straightforward nostalgia, mixing that influence with modern production, restrained arrangements, and lyrics built around mundane frustrations, social discomfort, bad timing, and small personal disasters.

Orson handles vocals and rhythm guitar, Marlow plays lead guitar, Crispin plays bass, and Niles is on drums. Together, they have built a reputation for tightly controlled live performances that still feel unpredictable, balancing catchy melodies with deadpan delivery and a slightly detached stage presence. Wrong Floor Cinema sounds like a band that arrived late, entered through the wrong door, and decided to stay anyway.

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Callum Hayes, known to many as the life of the party and to some as simply "that crazy guy with the decks," is a Swedish DJ and music producer. Crafting infectious beats and dance anthems is his forte, with his breakthrough track "Dancing The Pain Away" causing quite a stir in the local music scene.

Callum's journey into the world of music production began somewhat unexpectedly, in the adrenaline-fueled arena of advertising music. After one too many late nights tweaking jingles for brands too dull to mention, he decided to take his talents to the club scene instead. Hayes' wicked sense of humor is reflected in his artistic process; he often jokes about resigning from his ad gig with a dramatic flip of his work desk only to realize he was working from home – no audience, no theatrical exit.

Collaborating with various vocalists, Callum has brewed a wide range of flavors in the grand cauldron of his music. Be it power-packed EDM or chilled-out trance music, Hayes serves his listeners an exotic buffet of tunes. He has managed to carve out a niche within the competitive domain of independent artists, becoming a regular feature at local Swedish venues where he inevitably brings the house down.

In the spunky and tenacious spirit of indie artistry, Callum Hayes continues to dance his pain and ours away. His energetic personality and infectious tracks make every night feel like a weekend and with Hayes at the helm, the party rages on. Callum Hayes might not be a global name just yet, but those Swedish nights have never grooved harder.

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Born and raised in Ventura, California, Jett Ralston grew up in a garage that smelled like motor oil, vinyl records, and his father’s hair pomade. While other kids watched cartoons, Jett memorized the Grease soundtrack and tried to mirror Elvis's hip sway in the hallway mirror. His voice—low, smoky, and just a little rough around the edges—carries the DNA of that golden age, but never feels stuck in it.

Jett’s debut single “Through Me” (feat. Dolores Queen) is a cinematic slow-burn: part lost love, part lounge confession. Produced exclusively for Filodyo, the track fuses analog charm with subtle modern edges, pairing his velvet baritone with Dolores Queen’s haunting harmonies. He doesn’t try to be Elvis — but he sings like someone who misses that kind of honesty on stage.

With a sound caught somewhere between a flickering jukebox and a midnight highway, Jett Ralston is not here for nostalgia — he's here to make old souls feel seen again.

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