Why we are addicted to intensity
We couldn’t wait for a new Zekiizo release. Not because her songs provide comfort, but because they tend to arrive carrying new complications. Over the past year, Public Pressure has followed the New York artist through a series of contradictions: a performer who appears simultaneously exposed and self-protected, chaotic and disciplined, confrontational and precise. Her work has consistently resisted easy explanations. If previous releases explored the tension between visibility and control, her latest single “Shotgun” feels like an exploration of something even more contemporary: our growing addiction to intensity itself.
On the surface, “Shotgun” is about infatuation. The rush of a new person entering your orbit. The thrill of surrendering to something irrational. Zekiizo describes it as the feeling of driving too fast down a road at night, fully aware of the danger yet unable to resist the exhilaration. It is an image that feels instantly recognisable because most people have experienced some version of it. Not necessarily behind the wheel, but in relationships, friendships, careers and obsessions. The moments when excitement temporarily overpowers caution. The moments when the possibility of disaster somehow makes the experience feel more alive. What makes the song interesting is not the romance itself, but the attraction to risk hiding beneath it.
That feeling seems particularly relevant right now. Modern culture rarely rewards moderation. Social media platforms favour outrage over nuance. Dating apps encourage endless novelty. Algorithms push us towards stronger opinions, faster gratification and more immediate reactions. Boredom has become something to avoid at all costs. We are constantly encouraged to optimise, accelerate and intensify. The result is a culture increasingly drawn to experiences that feel extreme, even when we know they might not be good for us. There is a difference between wanting happiness and wanting stimulation, yet contemporary life often blurs the distinction. The emotional high becomes the destination. We know the road is dangerous. We accelerate anyway.
This is why “Shotgun” feels like a natural continuation of Zekiizo’s artistic world. She has never been interested in neat emotional resolutions or clean narratives. Her work thrives in ambiguity, finding energy in contradiction rather than attempting to solve it. Even her artistic persona seems to exist in a state of productive instability, moving between sincerity, performance, humour and confrontation without settling into any of them completely. Rather than offering answers, “Shotgun” embraces a question many people would rather avoid: what if the thing we are chasing is not love, success or fulfilment, but the feeling of intensity itself? For a brief moment, intensity can feel like proof of existence. It can make the world appear brighter, louder and more meaningful. Zekiizo understands that temptation better than most, and instead of warning us against it, she turns it into a dancefloor philosophy.