Imagine locking yourself in a dimly lit room. Not for dramatic effect, but because it’s 3AM and turning on the light feels like too much responsibility. That’s the emotional ecosystem Nate G cultivates on me myself i, a self-produced dive into solitude, self-awareness, and the unbearable tightness of being alone with your own thoughts for more than five minutes.
While the world outside demands more content, more performance, more brand synergy… Nate G has quietly opted out. What he’s made instead is the sonic equivalent of staring at the ceiling and realizing you might actually need to feel your feelings.
The title me myself i is both redundant and entirely appropriate. It’s not just about being alone; it’s about being too alone. The kind of alone where your inner monologue starts editorializing your day like a sad podcast no one subscribed to. Nate G captures that inner dissonance perfectly: the moments where isolation becomes reflection, and reflection turns into emotional freefall.
What makes me myself i work is that it doesn’t feel like a pastiche. Nate G isn’t borrowing aesthetics; he’s metabolizing them. Lo-fi hip hop, alt-R&B, sadboy SoundCloud minimalism, it’s all digested into something strangely intimate, like overhearing someone’s therapy session through a wall made of analog synths.
“Bringing Up My Past” is the album’s emotional nucleus: its thesis statement, its confessional booth, and probably the song most likely to catch you spiraling. It doesn’t so much start as hover, like a half-remembered conversation that never quite stops echoing. The beat is minimal, almost brittle; built around a lo-fi loop that sounds deliberately unfinished, like a memory you’re afraid to look at directly.
There’s no hook, no dramatic buildup; just a slow unraveling. Nate G spirals through verses like someone trying to describe a nightmare mid-panic attack. The lyrics land somewhere between emotional processing and passive rumination. You keep expecting something to catch you, but the track refuses to offer comfort. And that refusal? Weirdly honest.
There’s a kind of breathless vulnerability baked into every line, like Nate’s trying to outrun his own anxiety and not quite making it. The lo-fi aesthetic isn’t a trend here; it’s a narrative tool. Bringing Up My Past doesn’t want to be polished or profound. It wants to be real. And sometimes real means ugly-crying over a dusty hard drive beat from 2012.
Then there’s “Shine Bright”, the album’s most gentle offering, delivered in a whisper instead of a shout. If Bringing Up My Past is the emotional storm, Shine Bright is the quiet moment after, when your thoughts finally exhale.
The production is spacious, with ambient textures and soft piano trickles that make the whole thing feel like emotional architecture, with delicate, open, unfinished in the best way. Nate’s vocals are hushed, like he’s speaking directly to the version of you that doesn’t believe in yourself. He’s not trying to convince you with grand gestures; he’s reminding you softly, repeatedly.
Shine Bright doesn’t end in triumph. It ends in continuation. Not the victory of overcoming your demons, but the quiet act of living with them. In an era obsessed with glow-ups, emotional closure, and algorithmic self-care, that kind of ongoing-ness feels quietly radical. What’s remarkable is that it never tips into corniness. There’s no self-help cliché, no forced optimism. Just a gentle insistence that maybe, possibly, it’s okay to keep going. Taken together, these two songs define me myself i’s emotional spectrum: one rooted in chaos, the other in cautious compassion.
And that’s the thing: this isn’t music that begs for virality. It’s music that stays. The kind you put on at night not to escape, but to feel seen. Every track feels like it was recorded at 3AM on the last 2% of a dying laptop battery. That’s not a dig. Rather, it’s a feature. The lo-fi production isn’t some stylistic wink; it’s a cry for help that just happens to slap.
There are no guests, no algorithm-baiting beats, no PR-ready soundbites. It’s just one guy in a room, trying to process what it means to be that guy in that room. And that’s what makes me myself i such a quietly devastating listen. It’s not trying to be important. It just is.
This isn’t a statement album. It’s a survival album. The kind of record that won’t top charts but might top your personal playlists when everything feels like too much. Nate G isn’t selling catharsis. He’s documenting the attempt… and that might be the most honest thing a musician can do right now.
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About the Author
A tenured media critic known working as a ghost writer, freelance critic for various publications around the world, the former lead writer of review blogspace Atop The Treehouse and content creator for Manila Bulletin.
