You know how some albums feel like a desperate attempt to sound “authentic,” but come off more like a curated mental breakdown in 4K audio? Yeah, Believe is the opposite of that. Instead of trying to sell you pain like it’s a hot NFT drop, singer-songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and emotional endurance athlete from Southern California Ehson Hashemian quietly drops his fourth solo album like it’s no big deal, and then proceeds to emotionally roundhouse kick you in the chest.
Believe is not here to change your life with a chart-topping banger. It doesn’t arrive with fanfare or a viral TikTok dance challenge. Instead, it shows up quietly, like an old friend who knows you’ve been spiraling but doesn’t bring it up right away. It’s the kind of album that sits beside you at 2 AM, uninvited but deeply welcome, while you try to convince yourself that maybe, just maybe, things won’t be this heavy forever. There’s no big cinematic payoff, no overly polished production trying to distract you from the lyrics. It’s not chasing your attention. Rather, it’s earning it.
The whole record feels like a series of internal monologues that have finally decided to go public. But not in a dramatic, oversharing way. More like: “Hey, I’ve been quietly falling apart in the corner for a while now. Thought I’d put it to music in case anyone else relates.” These songs sound like the things you only admit to yourself when you think no one’s listening, except Hashemian is, and he’s brave (or reckless) enough to turn those vulnerable fragments into melody. And somehow, that makes the weight a little lighter. Because when you hear someone else articulate what you’ve only half-admitted in your own head? That’s not just good songwriting. That’s emotional alchemy.
Let’s start with “Feel.” It doesn’t “open” the album so much as emerge from the emotional mist like a particularly tender boss fight. It’s quiet, patient, and deeply sincere in a way that would be unbearable if it weren’t so goddamn earned. Hashemian isn’t trying to dazzle you with production. He’s trying to remember what it’s like to trust himself again. And, against all odds, you feel it.
Then comes “Comes And Goes,” a song that could’ve easily slipped into the indie-pop Spotify abyss, but instead sticks the landing by remembering that dance music can actually be about something. Like, plot twist: it’s okay to have rhythm and emotional consequences. What a concept.
But the real flex? “It Is What It Is.” It’s a polyrhythmic mind maze that sounds like someone trying to mathematically explain their feelings using only vintage synths and existential dread. Somehow, it works. It’s the kind of song you hear and immediately assume the artist is either a genius or completely unwell.
The title track “Believe” is basically the thesis of the whole album. And no, it’s not some forced inspirational poster. It’s subdued, elegant, and almost painfully honest. You don’t listen to this and think, “Wow, he believes in himself!” You think, “Oh no, I also need to believe in myself and I’ve been procrastinating that for, like, years.”
Other tracks like “Through The Dark” and “When It’s Time” feel like tiny therapy sessions disguised as songs. You’ll be sitting there vibing, and suddenly realize you’ve been emotionally audited. Hashemian has this way of writing that doesn’t scream for your attention, it just kind of lingers in your brain until it’s emotionally inconvenient. It’s great.
Musically, everything is tighter than your grip on unprocessed trauma. Hashemian’s multi-instrumentalist talents are everywhere, but not in a “look at me, I can play 900 instruments” way. It’s subtle. Tasteful. Intentional. Like someone actually thought about how each sound contributes to the feeling, instead of just adding reverb and hoping for the best.
And yeah, it’s produced beautifully. But not overproduced. You can tell every element is there for a reason. Even the moments of silence feel like they’re staring at you. Judging. Encouraging. Both?
But here’s the real twist: this album isn’t just “good for an indie record.” It’s just…good. Full stop. Because Believe doesn’t try to be everything. It picks one lane, whether it be resilience, recovery, refusing to give up when you feel like giving up would be easier; and it just owns it. It’s not loud about it. It’s not self-congratulatory. It just is. And that, weirdly, feels radical.
In an era of artists screaming “LOOK AT ME I’M SAD” over algorithmically optimized beats, Believe is a rare, refreshing thing: an album that quietly asks if you’re okay, and then sticks around to hear the answer.
Ehson Hashemian’s Believe is emotionally devastating in a way that’s somehow also motivating, like getting punched in the heart by someone who just wants you to grow. It doesn’t wallow in despair or sell you empty optimism; instead, it sits uncomfortably close, hands you a mirror, and gently suggests you take a long, hard look. The songs don’t scream for your attention. Rather, they whisper, linger, and then absolutely wreck you with one chord change and a lyric that hits too close to home. Would recommend listening while journaling, doomscrolling, or trying to convince yourself you’re fine in the grocery store parking lot. It’s the kind of record that reminds you healing is nonlinear, that doubt is inevitable, and that sometimes believing in yourself feels less like a pep talk and more like emotional guerrilla warfare. And yet, by the end, you do kind of believe. Or at least want to try. And that’s the whole point.
Follow Ehson Hashemian
About the Author
A tenured media critic known working as a ghost writer, freelance critic for publications in the US and former lead writer of Atop The Treehouse. Reviews music, film and TV shows for media aggregators.
