September always arrives with a chill, as if someone quietly opens a window in a dark room. Here in Ukraine, that chill feels heavier, carrying not only the breath of autumn but the constant weight of war. The air is pierced by sounds no season should ever know — distant explosions, echoes that settle into your chest. And in such moments, the only comfort left is music, capable of building a fragile but real oasis of warmth amid the chaos. That is exactly what Lushmo’s Brooklyn Nights has become for me.
It plays like a hidden corner of the city, one not everyone knows. As if beneath the dark sky, among soot-stained facades and deserted streets, you stumble upon a door with soft light seeping through the cracks. Inside — hushed voices, the clink of glasses, and a saxophone pouring smoky heat into the air. You’re still at the threshold, yet already certain: here, you are expected.
The drums hold the rhythm like a heartbeat that stubbornly refuses to surrender hope. The saxophone — strange, seductive, a little restless — but in that imperfection lies its charm. It lures you further, into a space where each note is a step down a shadowy hallway toward a light that doesn’t burn, but warms.
Brooklyn Nights reminds me of a neon sign from childhood: it was always there, even when everything else changed. A sign you could recognize among thousands of others, drawing you in not so much by its glow, but by the feeling of home it carried.
This track is more than music. It is a nocturnal refuge, a place for those walking solitary roads who refuse to forget that warmth still exists. And perhaps that is its greatest magic: to remind us that even in the coldest, most anxious nights, there is always a small island of warmth, beating in time with your heart.
