Comfort Food There are some songs that don’t belong to a moment. They belong to you. They’ve followed me through different lives — from crowded rooms and late nights, to quieter mornings and familiar routines. Songs I once danced hard to, drank to, escaped into. Songs that now keep me company while I cook, clean, reset the house, and myself. This mix is called Comfort Food because that’s what it is. Not impressive food. Not fancy food. The kind of nourishment you return to because it works. This is soul jazz — music made by people who took their time. Before shortcuts. Before rushing to the hook. Before everything had to be loud to be noticed. You can hear it in the space between the notes. In the patience. In the warmth. Some days, this music holds me when I’m tired. Some days, it lifts the room just enough to keep things moving. Some days, it reminds me who I’ve been — and who I still am. I don’t listen to these records to go back. I listen to stay present. This is music ...

There’s a moment at the end of a hard day when you finally stop holding yourself together. Not dramatically. Just quietly. The keys go down. The bag drops where it drops. You sit before you even think about it. Your body knows before your mind does. Hard days don’t always come with big disasters. Sometimes they’re made of small things stacked too close together. Conversations you didn’t have the energy for. Noise you didn’t ask for. Being needed when you were already empty. By the end of it, you don’t want solutions. You don’t want perspective. You don’t want to be told tomorrow will be better. You just want the day to stop touching you. This is the hour for soft things. Low light. Familiar sounds. Music that doesn’t interrupt your thoughts or demand your attention. You don’t need to process anything right now. You don’t need to make sense of it. You don’t need to turn the day into a lesson. You’re allowed to just arrive. Let your shoulders drop without explanation. Let the...

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: