Rehab's Couch

There I was. Back bent. Dust on my fingertips. Eyes narrowed like a detective in a 70s cop show. Somewhere between the warped Heatwave 7-inch and a bootleg “Best of Shabba” tape, I felt it. That tingle. That crackly whisper from the wax gods. Crate Diggin’ ain't therapy. It's resurrection. This mix isn’t polite. It doesn’t ask permission. It walks in with dusty boots and soul on its breath. From the first slap of Mr. Foxy’s “Cashville Chronicles”, you know exactly what time it is — grown-folk grooves, dusty gems, no filler, no filter. We’re talking Tom Browne’s brass strut, Little Beaver’s backroom two-step, Latimore’s gravel-growl bedroom sermons, and Thee Sacred Souls floating in like new prophets with old souls. You know those record shops where the real heat is never out front? Where the gold’s behind the beaded curtain, next to a rusty fan and an old fella named Marvin who hasn’t moved since 1996? That’s where this mix lives. Not on the racks — in the back. In ...

🎧 TDK 1.20: The Original Therapist Was a Cassette Tape By Ms Jo 90 | Rehab’s Couch Before algorithms tried to guess our moods, before playlists came pre-packed and soullessly shuffled, there was the TDK 1.20 — 120 minutes of blank magnetic possibility. Two sides. Sixty minutes each. One journey. If you know, you know. This wasn’t just a cassette. It was a confessional booth, a time machine, a sonic love letter — sometimes to someone else, often to yourself. You’d hit “record,” pause, and pray no one coughed during the intro. Each mix took hours. Days. Weeks. You’d wait for that perfect song to come on the radio, index finger ready on the red button. And when it did? Magic. That hiss, that warmth, that raw intimacy… The TDK 1.20 didn’t just play music — it held it. And don’t get it twisted: the 1.20 was a rebel. While the cool kids swore by the 90-minute tape for its thicker, safer ribbon, the 120 was for the emotional daredevils. The longform storytellers. The DJs with som...

After the women carried on regardless, the brothers answer. Not loud, not flashy — but in that quiet register of truth only grown men know how to tune into. This mix isn’t about stoicism. It’s about softness. It’s about Carl Thomas with his heart in his throat, Will Downing in a silk confession, Joe whispering what he should’ve said before, and Anthony Hamilton just being Anthony Hamilton — gospel in his chest, gravel in his voice, love in his bones. These are men who’ve lived and lost, who’ve held back tears behind dark shades, who’ve prayed with soul samples and made peace with the echoes. This is not the answer to her resilience — it’s the reflection in it. The other side of the silence. The kind of mix that reminds you: real men do feel. And when they do? They say it with a groove. So here it is: Then the Men Say… Pull up a chair. Let the brothers speak. Link here    

Blog Post | Rehab’s Couch There’s a sound that lives between the bassline and the backbone. It doesn’t ask for attention—it commands it. It’s the sound of a woman who’s been through it and still shows up soft, bold, and unbothered. So here’s to the women who iron their dresses with jazz playing, kiss their own shoulders in the mirror, and never forget to water both their plants and their peace. This mix? - it’s mood maintenance. A sonic shrug, a deep breath, a reminder: even when life or love lets you down, your groove still fits. Dipped in soul-jazz honey but spiced with the truth. Not truth shouted—truth whispered, hummed, and harmonised. Because sometimes resilience doesn’t roar. Sometimes it just… grooves on regardless. Link here:

Back on That Velvet Frequency (Pt. II) by Jo 90 for Rehab’s Couch Sometimes, you’ve got to go back to that place — not because you’re stuck, but because the vibration is just too rich not to revisit. I had to hit the velvet frequency again. The first time was revelation. This time? It’s resurrection. Velvet frequency isn’t just a sound; it’s a state. A sensual throb that wraps the ribs, massages the temples, realigns the pulse. It’s that glide between soul and spirit, where the bassline breathes like it’s got lungs and the vocals brush past your cheek like whispered confessions. Deep, warm, textured — like candle smoke curling slow against silk walls. This new mix is about returning to self. After the noise. After the chaos. After trying to be too many things in too many rooms. The velvet frequency doesn’t demand anything of you — it invites you to melt. To be present. To feel. I updated the vibration. Polished the corners. Let some fresh air in. Same velvet, new dimensions...

Love in the Time of Timberlands: A 90s & 00s R&B Throwback By Rehab's Couch There was a time when love songs had a bassline you could bounce to. When heartbreak came with harmonies, and healing sounded like Joe telling you he was ready, or Brandy letting you know that she wanna be down . That’s the era this mix pays homage to — the late 90s and early 2000s — a golden stretch for R&B, and a formative period in my own life. I was young, but already deep in the thick of grown-woman life — babies on my hip, a full-time job, bills, dreams, and expectations pulling me in every direction. But through it all, the music was always there. In my headphones on a late bus ride home. On the stereo as I cooked dinner half-dancing. In stolen moments of softness that reminded me I was still allowed to feel. This mix is for that version of me. The one juggling big responsibilities but still holding on to rhythm and romance. It’s Usher reminding me to let it burn. It’s Monica telling me...