“Born to Go” unfolds like a ritual—a sonic elegy whispered through a fog of memory. With this release, Tarric is blurring the line between songwriting and emotional choreography.
This isn’t music for the club or the radio or even the bedroom. It’s music for that in-between space where you’re not sure if you’re mourning a person or the version of yourself that existed when they loved you.
From the first note, it’s clear Tarric isn’t operating within the usual architecture of pop. The synths are less instrumentation than atmosphere, diffusing slowly into the background like the dim glow of streetlights after midnight. The percussion is skeletal, functioning more as suggestion than anchor.
There’s an audacity in this kind of restraint. Tarric isn’t interested in “hooks.” He’s crafting a sonic moodboard. It’s the kind of track that makes you forget you’re listening to a song at all—it feels like an ambient memory washing over you.
The lyric—“You were born to love me / You were born to go”—lands like a benediction and a curse. It’s so simple it shouldn’t work. But in Tarric’s hands, it’s a spell. A closing of the book. It doesn’t ask for sympathy or spin tales of betrayal. It acknowledges the pain as something inevitable, cosmic even. And somehow, that makes it harder to shake.
Part of what gives “Born to Go” its hypnotic power is how disinterested it is in resolution. This isn’t a breakup song—it’s an acceptance song. And that’s far more radical. Pop music has trained us to expect some kind of arc. Tarric gives us a circle. The grief is never conquered; it’s contained.
Fans of James Blake, Rhye, or even Talk Talk’s later experiments will feel at home here. But even those references feel limiting. Tarric isn’t echoing anyone—he’s etching out his own sonic language, one of detachment, clarity, and emotional minimalism.