Milkweed fold scraps of memory and folklore into lofi folk, running inherited forms through experimental circuitry. With detuned guitars, battered tape gear and intentionally unstable software, the duo assemble melodies that resemble repaired keepsakes. Nursery fragments and echoes of communal dances merge into a slow, glowing line where old rituals and handmade modernity blur. Tony Njoku shapes songs from clipped vocal grains and drifting unsettled chords. His world leans toward delicate synth sketches and microscopic percussion, all shadowed by a falsetto that feels half-present and aching. Whispered phrases can suddenly crack open into distorted bass and swarming metallic rattles, capturing the emotional whiplash he draws from r&b and experimental pop. John Glacier's music turns inward, giving her work a calm intensity. Her voice moves between rap and matter-of-fact narration, mapping a path that drifts, folds, and returns with quiet magnetism. Ambient warmth rubs against stiff beats, dry humor sidles up to lyrical weight, and rough edges settle neatly beside her clear-eyed craft.