How JMSN Turns Heartache Into Theater on …it’s only about u if you think it is.
JMSN glides between ruin and reverie, making heartbreak his signature move. His newest work traps you in the echo of desire and self-sabotage.
In the blurry 45‑second clip that turned Christian Berishaj into a meme, he is a slip of a man in a white tank top and jeans, hair hanging over his face. The lighting is bruised purple. An 808 kicks through the air while synths flutter like they were pulled from an early Miami Bass club jam. He sways out of rhythm, arms loose, moving between awkward and entrancing. At first glance, it looks like a rehearsal outtake—a B‑roll scrap salvaged from the cutting‑room floor. But the way he holds his pose—jaw clenched, cigarette smoke threading the frame—hints at a deliberate performance: a “soft spot” offered to the algorithm. The internet devoured it. Posted to TikTok in 2023 to help promote a tour, the clip quickly amassed around a million plays across platforms. Memes and remixes multiplied. The man in the video, known professionally as JMSN, later said he wasn’t sure why it worked—“I just dance like that,” he shrugged. Yet the reaction exposed how easily a moment of vulnerability becomes a public spectacle.
The viral “Soft Spot” moment is the thread that runs through JMSN’s forthcoming ninth album, …it’s only about u if you think it is. Due on his own White Room Records, the project is described as heavy and groovy, minimal but emotional. It arrives almost two years after Berishaj and his small team capitalized on the unexpected success of “Soft Spot”; they kept promoting the track long after the clip peaked, letting the algorithm keep his heartache circulating. If his social feeds show a preternaturally relaxed singer leaning into memes, the songs reveal an artist testing the limits between authentic feeling and performance, tenderness and self‑sabotage. This profile traces his trajectory from Eastpointe to internet virality, to the architecture of his new music, and asks what it means to turn one’s softest spots into theater.
Christian Berishaj was born in Dallas in 1987 and grew up in Eastpointe, a Detroit suburb with a rich musical lineage. His parents are Albanian immigrants, and he was drawn to music from an early age. As a kid, he took piano lessons, but he mostly taught himself by listening to those he admired. At age ten, he received a guitar; by twelve, he was using Pro Tools to record his own songs. He learned to play bass, drums, keys, and percussion “out of necessity” because “no one is going to do it for me,” he told Radio UTD. The do‑it‑yourself ethic stuck. In his teens, he formed a pop‑rock outfit called Love Arcade, recorded every part himself, and landed a deal with Atlantic Records. When that group dissolved, he relaunched as Christian TV, chasing radio‑friendly singles. That iteration never sat right with him. By 2012, he had rebranded as JMSN, started his own label White Room Records, and self‑released his debut album Priscilla.
From the beginning, JMSN balanced craftsmanship with emotional risk. Priscilla was dark and atmospheric, drawing comparisons to The Weeknd’s early work. On later albums like It Is. and Velvet, he refined his marriage of throwback R&B and modern electronic textures, singing about heartbreak, obsession, and spiritual longing. “I don’t want to chase trends or hits,” he said in 2015. Instead, he built his songs in solitude, layering guitars, bass, drums, and vocals into lush arrangements. “We live in a world where everyone wants to blow up…be like, ‘am I still relevant?’ I don’t think about that. I just want to make good music.”
His independence extends beyond the music. Berishaj oversees album art, merch design, and even edits his own videos. He once told Clash he’ll watch YouTube tutorials to learn a new skill rather than hand his vision to someone else. Touring light rigs, Instagram posts, and product packaging all bear his aesthetic. This hands‑on control means he can respond quickly to creative impulses—like when “Soft Spot” started to trend, he used the increased attention to sell more clothing and advertise shows. Yet his devotion to craft also shows in the advice he gives younger artists: build your skill set before chasing a label. “Develop your craft first. The technology is there to help you…don’t worry about the money yet,” he advised.
If the viral clip hinted at vulnerability, the new album explores vulnerability with surgical detail. …it’s only about u if you think it is. comprises ten tracks. The songs were written mainly around the time of the “Soft Spot” release, but recorded and mixed over the last two years. Berishaj challenged himself to start with bass lines and use fewer tracks, creating more space in the arrangements. The result is rawer, heavier, and slower than his past work.
“Blow the Spot Up” —flirting with collapse
The album opens on an explosive note. “Blow the Spot Up” rides a gritty funk bass and distorted guitars over heavy live drums, while JMSN sings through reverb‑drenched layers. Lyrically, he teases the impulse to self‑sabotage: “Should I blow the spot up? Should I make a scene?” The track feels like a dare to the listener—and perhaps to himself—to lean into messiness. The production leaves imperfections in the mix, using raw guitar squeaks and not‑quite‑locked drums to highlight the thrill of losing control. It’s as if he’s cracking open the first “soft spot,” inviting us to witness the possibility of implosion.
“Click Bait” —performing pity
On “Click Bait,” a mid‑tempo groove with a brittle snare, JMSN writes about someone who treats him like trending content. “U eat off me like I’m breakfast. You bury pop stars for sport,” he sings. The song satirizes the way personal pain becomes currency when packaged for the internet. He flips the gaze outward, accusing a lover or the public of consuming his vulnerability. “U say I’m shallow in front of all these people,” he adds. Sonically, he pairs the critique with earworm melodies. His voice is thin in the verses, then blooms in the chorus, mimicking how a quiet confession might become a shout once it hits an audience. When the track dissolves into scattered vocal samples, the sensation is like scrolling through endless comments—disorienting, addictive, and emptying.
“Not Good Enough” —the mantra of self‑doubt
Perhaps the album’s most visceral song is “Not Good Enough.” Over a moody, atmospheric soundscape, JMSN repeats “I’m cracking up. I’m not good enough” in a wavering falsetto. The lyric loops like a mantra, conjuring the feedback loop of intrusive thoughts. Each time the phrase returns, his voice strains a little more, until the chant becomes both confession and ritual. The arrangement builds gradually: a soft guitar riff, a distant synth pad, then layered harmonies. When drums finally enter, they feel like an exhale, a momentary release from the mental churn. Yet the song resists resolution, fading out on the repeated line. It’s self‑sabotage made beautiful—a willingness to expose the ugliest thought in the prettiest form.
“I Don’t Even Think About U” —denial’s cadence
Slow‑burning and soulful, “I Don’t Even Think About U” rides warm basslines and subtle guitar. The title phrase is obviously a lie: he sings about burnt toast and week‑old roses, small domestic details that betray memory. “Thought I saw your car, couldn’t help but check,” he confesses. The song title itself becomes a pleading self‑deception. Production‑wise, the track incorporates flanged guitar and faint background vocals that swirl like thoughts you try to push away. It showcases JMSN’s ability to dramatize denial and regret without melodrama.
“Sad Sack” —embracing abjection
The closing track, “Sad Sack,” is deceptively upbeat. It features a warm, soulful arrangement with saxophone flourishes and live drums. Over this bright backdrop, JMSN sings, “I’m just a sad sack of bones. Leave me alone.” The juxtaposition of self‑deprecation and celebratory instrumentation underscores the album’s core tension: vulnerability doesn’t always sound like a dirge; sometimes it’s framed in major chords. The lyric “Tragedy is what I need” hints at performative martyrdom—how we sometimes dramatize our suffering to feel alive.
The album also includes “Dirty Dog,” released as the second single last month. Built on drum and bass with rocky guitar riffs, it nods to garage rock and ‘70s psychedelia, blending raw edges with JMSN’s signature string embellishments. Starting with a bass line and minimal tracks, he pushes himself into new territory. If “Dirty Dog” sounds more aggressive than his previous work, it’s a pivot point on the record, reminding us that vulnerability can manifest as anger or swagger.
JMSN’s artistic persona has always been a paradox: he is both the meticulous producer who plays every instrument and the aloof singer who seems uninterested in external validation. Before “Soft Spot,” his audience largely came from the alternative R&B world, which prized moody introspection and analog warmth. He operated at the margins of mainstream attention by choice. Then, a B‑roll clip changed the narrative. In the video, his unguarded body language invites viewers to project onto him. The chain‑smoking, the awkward dancing, the world‑weary gaze—these become a cipher. Was it genuine heartache or a carefully staged performance? The internet decided it didn’t matter; it was content.
In interviews after the clip went viral, JMSN alternated between bemused and resigned. He insisted there was no strategy behind his moves; he danced that way. Yet he also recognized the opportunity. His assistant suggested cross‑posting the clip to all platforms. Merch bearing “Soft Spot” branding appeared. He continued to tour, performing the song with the same loose gestures captured in the video. He has no control over what gains traction online, he said, but he can control the art he makes. The episode exposed how precarious the line is between vulnerability and marketing, authenticity and meme. It also primed listeners for the new album, which plays with that line from the inside.
Contemporary R&B and alternative soul are full of artists who brandish emotional openness as proof of authenticity; the streaming economy rewards glimpses of fracture. JMSN’s story expands in a cultural moment where vulnerability is both prized and commodified. When every feed demands constant content, soft spots become valuable—pain can be packaged into trending audio clips, heartbreak into viral dances—and the line between confession and performance blurs. JMSN seems aware of this dynamic but remains ambivalent. “I don’t chase mainstream popularity,” he told Clash. He would rather inspire peers and push music forward than compromise his vision for a bigger audience.
His history shapes this stance as a self‑sufficient musician. The Eastpointe kid who learned every instrument and produced his own songs out of necessity has always valued independence. When he urges young artists to master their craft before seeking deals, he speaks from experience. Yet he also acknowledges the realities of the modern music industry. He cannot control when things take off, he told the Dallas Observer. The algorithm might catapult a random clip, but he still labors over ten tracks, mixing and mastering them himself. The stakes, then, are both creative and existential. By exposing his soft spots, he risks being consumed by a culture that rewards rawness while punishing vulnerability with memes. Conversely, by overprotecting himself, he risks irrelevance in a landscape obsessed with constant access.
…it’s only about u if you think it is. responds to these pressures by refusing to resolve them. It neither presents vulnerability as pure nor deconstructs it entirely. Instead, JMSN performs his emotional architecture like a stage set, aware of the audience but still invested in the genuine ache at its core. He flirts with collapse in “Blow the Spot Up,” mocks performative pity in “Click Bait,” chants his own inadequacy in “Not Good Enough,” denies longing in “I Don’t Even Think About U,” and embraces abjection in “Sad Sack.” Each song is both confession and commentary. The album’s title drives the point home: the feelings may not be about you, but if you project yourself onto them, you might see your own reflection.