Rockland’s “Stand Again” is pure defiance turned into song — an anthem about getting knocked down and roaring back louder than ever. Built on smoke-and-fire synth beds, soaring guitar bends, and a chorus made for fists in the air, it’s the kind of track that belongs on every mixtape labeled “play when life kicks you down.” It’s Rockland at their biggest: resilient, raw, and ready to blow the roof off.

Rockland show their reflective side with “Easy Way Home” — a road-weary ballad about heartbreak, headlights, and the silence that follows someone you can’t shake. Built on acoustic guitar, a warm synth bed, and an aching chorus, it’s less about the miles passed and more about the weight carried. This one feels like driving through the night with the windows down, knowing you won’t outrun what’s in the rearview.

A soaring mid-tempo rocker built for big stages and bigger dreams, “Don’t Look Down” is Rockland at their most anthemic. With shimmering guitar arpeggios, rising synth swells, and a chorus that feels like open sky, it’s a song about leaning into fear and finding flight. Equal parts grit and grace, it lands somewhere between a stadium rocker and a midnight drive soundtrack — proof that sometimes the only way forward is up.

Rockland turns up the neon on “Can’t Stop This Feeling” — a hook-heavy rocker where crunching guitars and punchy synths collide. The verses strut with swagger, the chorus explodes with singalong fire, and the bridge slows just enough to make the final lift hit harder. It’s part dance floor, part stadium, and pure Rockland — the kind of song that makes you roll the windows down and shout every word.

Rockland dig deep with “One Second Flat,” a soaring rock ballad that feels equal parts heartbreak and arena thunder. It starts with fragile piano and clean guitar, then rises into a wall of sound where every chord hits like a memory that won’t fade. The chorus cuts sharp — love gone in a flash, no warning, no goodbye. By the final key change, it’s pure catharsis: Rockland at their most vulnerable and powerful all at once.

Rockland fire off another up-tempo anthem with “On My Own,” a defiant rocker that burns with freedom and release. It kicks open with a climbing guitar riff and pulsing synth stabs before breaking into verses about shedding weight, masks, and chains. By the time the chorus explodes — “On my own, louder than before…” — it’s pure catharsis, built for fists in the air and voices shouting back. The solo rips like a sky cracking open, and the final lifted chorus seals it as one of Rockland’s most triumphant songs yet.

Rockland flex pure swagger on “She Knows It,” a guitar-and-synth strut built for neon nights and sideways glances. The riff kicks in tight, the beat locks down, and the verses paint the picture of a woman who doesn’t need the spotlight — because it follows her. The chorus hits like a mantra: “She knows it — no need to ask.” With a chrome-burn guitar solo and a chorus that grows bigger each time, it’s a song that struts, shimmers, and stays stuck in your head long after the fade.

If Rockland have an anthem for second chances, “In the Morning” is it. From the shimmering sunrise of the synth intro to the guitar-fueled chorus, this is pure AOR firepower — equal parts grit and uplift. 

Rockland know how to take a moment of hesitation and blow it up into an anthem. “Make the Call” is the band at their most vulnerable — piano-led verses that feel like confession, swelling choruses that beg for one more chance, and a final key change that pushes the emotion to the edge of heartbreak. The guitar solo doesn’t shred — it pleads, every note sounding like a voice cracking on the word “sorry.” For fans of Rockland’s ballad side, this one’s going to hit deep.

“Race to You” is Rockland at full throttle — a song born from urgency, hope, and the pull of love you can’t ignore. Written late one night after a long rehearsal at Grant Street Studios, the band captured the sound of headlights tearing down a highway toward something worth fighting for. It’s equal parts guitar grit and keyboard glow — the kind of anthem that makes you roll the windows down and sing until your voice gives out.