Track By Tracks: Stone Sea - Ad Astra (2026)

1. Stain:

Stain opens the album already split in two. Lyrically, it lives in ambiguity—the uncomfortable space where love and hate blur into the same color. There’s no moral high ground here, just contradiction: frozen bodies, burning souls, and the quiet question of which side we’d choose if forced to pick.

Musically, the song mirrors that tension. Crisp guitars lock in with punchy drums and bass, while the vocal melody keeps evolving, never settling. The bridge sways nauseously up and down, almost seasick, before the chorus opens up with harmonies that separate and reunite on a single note. The outro strips things down to a straight, driving rock pulse, shifting between double and half-time, before ending with an emotional solo that feels less like resolution and more like release.

2. Time to Change:

This is the sound of resistance cracking. Time to Change wrestles with responsibility—owning your reality without pretending you’ve got it figured out. The lyrics speak from inside confusion, not beyond it: refusing to play the game, fearing what must die for something else to live, and rejecting easy sides.

Musically, it’s direct and groovy, rooted in classic rock ’n’ roll energy. The structure is tight, but the ending vocal harmonies stretch outward, reflecting the dissociation that comes with change—the feeling of watching yourself become someone else before you’re ready to accept it.

3. Age of Tears:

At the core of the album sits Age of Tears. Lyrically, it’s about transformation through decay—the idea that becoming something new requires dissolving parts of who you were. There’s violence in that process, but also inevitability. You don’t escape it; you shape it or drown in it.

The music carries that weight. Heavy, dissonant, and emotionally charged, the song moves like a storm that knows exactly where it’s going. Tension builds and collapses, rage and vulnerability coexisting rather than canceling each other out. It’s not cathartic in a clean way—it’s honest in a messy one.

4. Alien:

Alien turns its gaze outward—and inward at the same time. Lyrically, it confronts technology, social media, and addiction as something almost alive: an intrusive force shaping desire, identity, and need. The “plastic reality” traps the self, while tribal introspection—music itself—becomes a path back to control.

Sonically, the track feels restless. Emotions cross-fade, sounds collide, and the groove pulses with unease. There’s a sense of relapse and awareness happening simultaneously, like knowing the trap while still standing inside it. The warmth of the sun breaking through near the end hints at escape—but not without cost.

5. Left to Be:

This is one of the album’s most vulnerable moments. Left to Be is built on self- accusation—drug use, comparison, stagnation—and the painful awareness of a better self waiting on the other side of fear. The river isn’t crossed yet. The question is whether you’ve got the courage to step in.

Musically, the song leans into grunge-soaked melancholy. The dynamics breathe, leaving space for reflection rather than force. When the chorus arrives, it feels like someone calling from the opposite shore—not demanding, just waiting.

6. Ad Astra:

The album closes by zooming out. Ad Astra is about cycles—life and death, meaning and meaninglessness, ascent and collapse. It accepts that nothing is permanent, yet everything is connected. The lyrics move between cosmic detachment and sharp human critique, touching on power, corruption, illusion, and shared endings. Musically, it’s the album’s longest and most meditative piece. It begins slowly, almost ritualistic, before erupting into a low, distorted C-rooted riff reminiscent of drone metal bands like OM. The song mutates several times, shifting energy and texture, before dissolving into a calm outro filled with layered vocal harmonies. Just when it feels settled, it surges again—then ends where it began, grounded in that massive drone riff. Full circle. No escape. No final answer.

Ad Astra doesn’t offer solutions. It documents motion—inner, social, cosmic. Rounds and rounds. Change that hurts. Change that’s necessary. And the quiet hope that somewhere between collapse and renewal, something honest remains.