Young. Polished. A little dangerous.

Cora Del Mar grew up with money in a small town. The country club, the good-daughter dress, the smile that works in every room. Then she came out to Los Angeles. Santa Monica on her skin, Malibu evenings, LA nights that do not end when they should. She is class on the surface and heat underneath. Pretty on purpose. A little lonely. She knows the good restaurants and the parking lots after midnight, and even when she is smiling she is already halfway out the door.

She writes because looking right never explained the night. These songs are how she tells the truth without making a scene. Lipstick on a cup. Neon on wet pavement. A pier after everyone else went home. That is where she could hear herself. The shine was never the whole story. It was just what got her through the room.

Start with Wave, Concrete. Wanting motion when the city only gives you pavement. That is why she started writing.