There are songs that feel less like music and more like modern mythmaking, almost like a someone’s calling ancient birds under a grey Nottingham sky. “Something Mine” by Masquerade shuffles between battle cry and lullaby in a dissonant yet captivating twist, and no, it’s not playing within the safe lanes of pop-rock, either.
The guitar strums feel like distant conversations, the drums, a heartbeat locked in sync with emptiness, filling space but never quite sealing it. The vocals? Well, they don’t quite shout; they ache—like the murmur of someone who’s tired of yearning but still clings to it like an old jacket on a windy day. Through a mixture of emphatic melodies and brittle vulnerability, Masquerade presents a track that hums with restlessness, a march toward…something. A lonely fate? Maybe a better tomorrow, maybe just something real. There’s an ode to imperfection here, sure, but also a strange comfort in the chaos of dissatisfaction.
This song smells of damp streets, late nights spent wondering, and the stubbornness of people who refuse easy answers—there’s a gritty beauty in that. Like catching glimpses of yourself in shattered glass, the rough spots make it sharp, even empowering.
Is it absurd to think this song could be a cousin to existential theatre? Or, dare I say, a soundtrack to a 19th-century letter about unrequited love—but sent by DM? Random feelings become anthemized, framed by warm, human contradictions.
“Something Mine” doesn’t give you answers. It’s not here to coddle. Instead, it leaves you in the messy middle of things—where you realize wanting more might just be what makes you feel alive.
