Young

A coming-of-age anthem that wears its emotional ambition openly, built on a wide-open production with strummed guitars sitting alongside glassy synth pads and a drum arrangement that feels more rock than EDM. The track breathes in a way that many Chainsmokers productions don't — there's space here, a sense of expanse that mirrors the lyrical preoccupation with time, memory, and the anxiety of watching your youth become your past. Andrew Taggart sings lead in his most unguarded register, the voice carrying a roughness that reads as genuine rather than performed, like someone actually working through something rather than narrating it from a safe distance. The song meditates on the weight of expectations — from family, from yourself, from the sense that life is supposed to look a certain way by a certain age — and it does so without arriving at easy resolution. That unresolved quality is part of what makes it land: it doesn't pretend to have figured things out, just names the confusion honestly. It fits into the post-EDM pivot where major electronic acts were reaching for rock instrumentation and emotional weight to sustain careers beyond the club. You'd listen to this on the last night of a trip you didn't want to end, or the morning after a milestone birthday when everything feels simultaneously larger and smaller than expected.