Some music feels like it belongs to a particular time of your life. A certain summer, a late-night drive, a rainy evening, or a memory you cannot quite explain. Daeui’s debut EP SHAM lives in that space, bringing together unrequited love, digital overload, global warming, and nostalgia in a project that feels both imaginative and deeply personal.
Following his earlier singles Pacifier and Jace’s Request, the Korean-Australian artist from Western Sydney introduces a world that is slightly strange, quietly emotional and full of curiosity. Daeui draws from indie folk, alternative rock and ambient textures, creating music that often feels like looking through an old photo album with an adult understanding of everything that happened after the picture was taken.
The story behind SHAM is just as interesting as the music itself. Rather than simply announcing the EP, Daeui used bizarre news headlines and internet memes across Instagram and TikTok to gradually reveal its narrative. It is a fitting approach for a project concerned with the noise of the online world and the distractions that come with living in it.
What makes SHAM work, though, is that beneath all of those ideas is something very human. Daeui is interested in the uncertainty of relationships, the pull of nostalgia, and those moments when you are caught somewhere between what you feel and what you are willing to admit.
One of the EP’s central moments is DRIVE, a late-night love song built around the awkward excitement of being with someone when neither person quite knows where things are heading. There is something wonderfully cinematic about that situation. You are in a car, the night is moving past the windows, the conversation is probably saying less than the silence, and suddenly every little detail feels important.
Musically, DRIVE leans into the Japanese and Korean city pop tradition, taking inspiration from Mariya Takeuchi’s Plastic Love, Light & Salt’s Fairy of Shampoo, and Sharp’s After the Play is Over. Daeui gives those influences his own bedroom-produced treatment, combining shimmering synths with warm, textured drums to create a sound that feels nostalgic without simply trying to recreate the past.
The journey behind the song is almost as memorable as the track itself. Its first chorus appeared during an early morning shower in 2022, but it would take another four years of experimentation and studying city pop before the song reached its finished form. That long development gives DRIVE a sense of patience, but the collaborative process keeps it from feeling overly polished.
Joner contributes vocals and co-writes the Korean verse, while woorini’s harmonies add another layer of warmth. Their involvement also connects the song to The Tuesday Service, the Australian music collective based at Anjo Studio in Meadowbank, where musicians meet every Tuesday night to write, record and share music. DRIVE therefore feels like more than a studio collaboration. It reflects a creative community growing around Daeui and the people he works with.
Then SHAM takes a quieter turn with its closing track, can we pretend. If DRIVE captures the nervous energy of something that might become love, the closing song sits with the uncertainty after the excitement has faded.
The track is a melancholic ballad with muffled production, restrained instrumentation, and a recurring guitar motif that gives the song its emotional centre. Its atmosphere feels almost like staring through a bedroom window while rain falls outside. Nothing needs to be dramatic. The mood does the heavy lifting.
Inspired by Cigarettes After Sex’s Cry, SE SO NEON’s Winter, and The Black Skirts’ EVERYTHING, ‘can we pretend’ finds its strength in simplicity. The song leaves plenty of room for longing, vulnerability, and feelings that have not been resolved. Interestingly, while DRIVE spent four years evolving, this song arrived almost instantly. Daeui wrote it in around 30 minutes on a rainy night, recorded the guitar and vocals the next day, and had the final version within a week.
That difference says a lot about SHAM. Daeui is not tied to one particular way of creating. Some ideas are allowed to sit, change and grow over years, while others arrive fully formed and demand to be captured immediately.
The EP’s independent nature is another important part of its identity. Daeui wrote, produced and mixed SHAM himself, allowing the project to retain a personal quality throughout. The record also extends beyond the music, with an interactive listening party featuring an accompanying film, artwork creation, complimentary CDs and a mini-zine. It makes SHAM feel like a creative world rather than simply a collection of songs.
The involvement of fellow Korean-Australian artists woorini and Joner further strengthens that sense of community, while the connection to Anjo Studio shows how collaboration has become part of Daeui’s creative process.
At its core, SHAM feels like a snapshot of modern life viewed through a nostalgic lens. There is love, confusion, technology, environmental anxiety and the constant stream of online information, but there is also a sense of innocence underneath it all.
That contrast is perhaps what makes Daeui’s music so appealing. He can take the messy realities of adulthood and present them with the wonder of someone discovering the world for the first time. The result is music that feels youthful without being childish and nostalgic without becoming stuck in the past.
SHAM is an intriguing debut because it does not pretend to have everything figured out. Instead, it embraces uncertainty and turns it into part of the experience. From the glowing night-time atmosphere of DRIVE to the rain-soaked intimacy of can we pretend, Daeui creates a project that feels personal, slightly dreamy and unmistakably his own.
For a debut EP, SHAM is less about making a grand entrance and more about opening the door to Daeui’s creative world. And judging by what is inside, there is plenty more worth exploring.
Daeui’s SHAM transforms young love, digital chaos and bittersweet nostalgia into an imaginative debut that feels intimate
