There is a very specific kind of music project that only exists in the modern internet era. It’s not quite bedroom pop. It’s not quite experimental electronica. It’s definitely not something a major label would know what to do with. It’s the sound of someone opening a laptop at midnight, staring into the digital void, and saying, “Okay, but what if I made something beautiful with this?”
That is more or less where Hidden Shores lives with Neon Silence EP.
Neon Silence EP treats artificial intelligence the way a Victorian child might treat a mysterious haunted violin they found in the attic. With curiosity. With caution. And with the absolute certainty that they are going to play it anyway, consequences be damned. AI here is not a shortcut. It’s not “press button, receive song.” It’s an instrument. A weird, slightly unpredictable one. Like a piano that occasionally decides it has opinions.
The result is an EP built around reinvention; around taking things that already matter like melody, atmosphere, emotional memory and asking, “What happens if I filter this through something that technically isn’t alive?” It’s the musical equivalent of staring at a familiar painting through warped glass. You still recognize it. But it feels… different.
Hidden Shores itself feels like a secret identity. By day, the creator is an elementary school teacher in Belgium. By night, they’re quietly experimenting with algorithms and soundscapes. There is something deeply funny and deeply charming about this dual existence. Imagine spending your afternoon teaching kids multiplication, then going home and creating moody, AI-assisted ambient rock. That’s range.
Neon Silence EP feels careful. Thoughtful. Almost shy. It doesn’t shout about being “AI music.” It doesn’t slap you with gimmicks. Instead, it approaches technology with respect; both for what it can do and what it can’t. There’s a clear reverence for human musicianship here. You can hear the influence of post-rock, ambient, and alternative music woven into every track.
“No-one Lives Forever” opens things with a sense of quiet inevitability. It’s reflective without being melodramatic. It doesn’t beg for attention. It just sits there, gently reminding you that time exists and it is winning. Which is always a fun way to start an EP.
“Rows of Houses” is more spatial, more cinematic. It feels like driving through a town at night where every window is lit but nobody is visible. There’s a loneliness here in the trance-induced noise, but not an empty one. More like the kind that invites you to think.
“Where the Light Still Reaches – Radio Edit” is probably the most accessible track. It’s structured, melodic, and emotionally direct. If this EP had a “gateway song,” this would be it. It feels hopeful without being naive, like someone choosing optimism while fully aware that things are complicated.
Then there’s “Stay Right Here,” which closes the EP in the most appropriate way possible: by refusing to rush. At over six minutes, it lets itself breathe. It lingers. It doesn’t want to leave yet. And honestly, by this point, neither do you.
What’s most interesting about Hidden Shores is what it doesn’t try to be.
It’s not here to replace musicians. It’s not trying to prove that AI is “better.” It’s not competing with human creativity. Instead, it exists in the margins. In the gray area. In the “what if” space between code and emotion.
This EP feels like someone gently testing the boundaries of what music can be, without tearing anything down in the process. It’s respectful. It’s curious. It’s quietly ambitious.
Hidden Shores isn’t trying to dominate playlists. It’s trying to haunt them. To slip into your headphones late at night and remind you that beauty can come from strange places. From classrooms. From laptops. From circuits. From hidden shores you didn’t even know were there.
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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.
