Picture this: you’re staring at your reflection in a night-black mirror, and suddenly, it blinks back.
This is “The Rabbit Hole.”
Guided by Ashlee’s voice—woven like thread through the labyrinth of MORI’s electronic universe—you aren’t just hearing soundscapes. You’re slipping into a parallel realm where identity isn’t fixed, and losing control isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The synths float by like ghost ships on an alien ocean, while subtle beats pulse under the surface, like a too-steady heartbeat when you’re on the verge of something you can’t quite name.
MORI, the 21-year-old digital sorcerer who pieced this together, seems less like a producer and more like some alchemist crouched over a cauldron, blending Rap, R&B, and Rock in a way that, frankly, feels like we’ve been swimming in these genres wrong all this time. The air he crafts is minimalist but swollen—cyber-nostalgia dressed in melancholia. It feels eerie and beautiful, but not like some synthetic dream. No, it’s more like stepping out into the cold desert of reality only to watch it dissolve in front of you.
And the themes—solitude, uncertainty, inner war—they don’t shout at you. They’re not high school locker angst. They’re quieter and darker, a bit like Kafka wandered into a Tron reboot and lost his only map. The song moves on the edge of an existential cliff, with the idea that maybe falling is the only real option.
Is it a banger for the club? No. It’s a pulse for the thinkers, the dreamers, and the people who see the glitch in the system and aren’t sure they want to fix it.
Don’t ask what’s at the bottom of “The Rabbit Hole.”
Jump in.
