Nine Petals' *Turn It Up Now! Hey Hey* is built from a rare and slightly ridiculous origin story. It began with a dream, the sort that follows you into the kitchen and hums at you over the kettle. The tune would not leave, so the artist stopped resisting and began recording: humming, "la la la"-ing, then returning to the screen to see what those wobbling lines revealed. The method is eccentric, and the music lands with the warmth of a lifelong pop obsessive. Reggae's unhurried sway meets Latin brightness, and you can trace the family tree without strain: Marley's easy rhythmic gravity, the Latin pop shimmer of Shakira and Bad Bunny, Bon Jovi's unembarrassed love of a chorus you can bellow at a ceiling.

That chorus is the point. The title track is a rallying cry with its sleeves rolled up, a song about permission, specifically permission to revisit good memories without apologising for the nostalgia. In a culture that treats wistfulness as a mild embarrassment, this is almost radical. The singing bowls give the opening a hushed, near-ceremonial glow, as though you have wandered into a meditation class and found it has quietly become a party. That is, in fact, how the project began: meditation tracks that kept sprouting limbs and demanding to dance. The seams of that transformation remain audible, and they are charming ones. The calm never fully leaves; it simply learns to swing.

Then come the vocals, and here the record's most discussed detail demands honesty. Having approached human singers and been met with silence or a polite refusal, Nine Petals turned to AI voices to finish the job. Sceptics will bristle, and the question deserves a proper argument elsewhere. On the evidence of the songs, though, the voices serve a vision that was designed, shaped and felt by a human being long before any software was invited in. The yearning in the writing is not synthetic, and neither is the stubbornness.

The wider release deepens the picture. "Angel" unfolds across five languages in a single song, a polyglot hymn for days when it feels as if someone invisible is walking beside you, and it manages the trick of sounding borderless rather than gimmicky. "Not Some Movie" is the quiet knockout: a love letter to the artist's children, written from the unnerving thought that they might never know how fiercely they were loved. Approach it with tissues in range and a stiff upper lip you will not need.

Behind all of it runs a story of being told, in effect, that one's voice did not matter. The pop charts are crowded with defiance manufactured by committee. This defiance arrived with a duvet-warm hook and no committee in sight, recorded by one person, one computer and a pile of chimes. The production is meticulous without turning fussy, each note apparently argued over until it could stand up unaided before joining the others.

*Turn It Up Now! Hey Hey* will not be to everyone's taste, which is the best argument for it. It is sunny, sincere, a touch idiosyncratic and quietly brave. Play it loud, as instructed, and let it live in the chest rather than the head. It has earned the space.