Suggested:
Meet Hurst, the singer-songwriter who’s turning vulnerability into his superpower. With a sound that floats between anthemic pop and the warmth of acoustic intimacy, Hurst is redefining what it means to write “emotional music.” He’s not afraid of being soft, being real, or being the guy who wrote a dramatic heartbreak song in kindergarten and never looked back.
Born to Feel Deeply
For Hurst, music wasn’t just a hobby—it was a lifeline. Raised in a conservative religious environment while coming to terms with his queerness, he found sanctuary in melodies and lyrics. From daydreaming on the swing set to belting out ballads inspired by Jesse McCartney-level crushes, songwriting was how he made sense of the chaos. “Music has always been my safe space,” he says. “It’s how I processed the messy, vulnerable parts of life.”
Now, that same emotional honesty is what sets Hurst apart in the indie pop scene. His songs don’t just talk about love—they dive into longing, identity, awkward confessions, and those quiet internal battles we all pretend not to have.
Pop with a Pulse
Hurst’s music feels like a late-night text you wish you sent, wrapped in synths and cozy guitar strums. He calls it “somewhere between anthemic pop and cozy acoustic,” but what really hits is the lyrical depth. Themes of queerness, healing, and introspection are stitched into every verse—sometimes playful, sometimes painful, always human. Think Taylor Swift’s storytelling, Julia Michaels’ confessions, and Omar Apollo’s boldness, all filtered through the lens of a queer romantic who’s unafraid to cry in the club.
“I just want to be everybody’s cozy little bestie,” he jokes—but there’s truth in that. There’s a softness in his work, even when it tackles hard stuff. That balance makes Hurst’s music feel like a mirror: personal, but universal.
From Voice Notes to Visual Worlds
Hurst’s creative process is as intuitive as it is cathartic. Songs often start with a 2 a.m. voice memo or a lyric that lingers for days. Some tracks pour out in a rush of emotion; others come together only after he sits down and makes himself do the work. But whether he’s writing about heartbreak, mental health, or the freedom of coming out, the goal stays the same: “I want people to hear my lyrics and say, ‘Wait...did you read my diary?’”
He’s also a sucker for the visual side of storytelling and enjoys using visuals that complement the project without fully revealing everything. He loves to think with a synesthetic sort of lense. “What color does this song feel like?” isn’t a rhetorical question for Hurst—it’s part of the process. Hurst is also a huge fan of dropping easter eggs for his fans, so keep your eyes out...always.
Unfiltered, Finally
The most powerful shift in Hurst’s journey? Dropping the mask. Early on, his songs were crafted to please—to keep up the golden boy image, to hide the parts of him that didn’t fit the mold. But now? “I’m an introspective, romantic, weird, goofy, queer mess of a man and I want my music to represent that,” he says. And it does.
Live performances are where that realness hits hardest. He thrives in smaller, intimate venues—places where the lyrics echo back at him from the crowd, where every chorus feels like a collective exhale. There’s a semi-secret EP release show coming up this year, and if his previous sets are any indication, it’s going to feel less like a concert and more like group therapy—with synths.
The Message: Stay Soft
Hurst isn’t here to be the loudest or the flashiest. He’s here to remind you that softness is strength. That your weird, messy, beautiful truth is enough. And in a world that’s constantly trying to harden us, Hurst’s music feels like an open door—a space to feel deeply and be fully yourself.
For fans, new and old: you’re not alone in your feelings. And for aspiring artists? Keep writing. Your story matters—just like Hurst’s.
