CANCEL THIS: South Florida’s Underground Heavy Duo.

Whenever South Florida’s heavier music fans start buzzing, we pay attention. And lately, the whispers have all pointed in the same direction: Emery and Devin —the former minds behind Ares and later Ghost In The Room — were back, somewhere in the region, quietly working on something new.

No announcements, no promo, no rollout. Just vague messages, old fans resurfacing, and fragments of information that made it clear there was music happening again behind closed doors.

The old community still remembers their earlier run: the almost-signings, the Rise Records hopes, the early scene-era recognition, the songs that lived longer than the band itself. But Emery and Devin both disappeared from the spotlight for years, wiping most of their online presence and avoiding any kind of public update.

So when a new name — Cancel This — started making the rounds, our publication went looking.

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THE STUDIO THEY DON’T WANT ANYONE FINDING

The address they sent us wasn’t a venue or a commercial studio. It was a converted space somewhere off the beaten path, half rehearsal room, half production suite, and — according to Emery — “probably cursed, but whatever.”

Inside, the lighting was low and blue, the walls lined with treated panels and gear stacked in clean rows. The place felt like a cross between a modern home studio and something you’d stumble across in a Florida backroad urban legend.

And there they were:

Emery and Devin, sitting in all-black outfits, Florida camo hunting caps low over their eyes, tattoos visible, both of them comfortably slouched in chairs with joints in hand like this was just another Tuesday.

If they were excited to be interviewed, they hid it flawlessly.

“Hey,” Emery said, barely above a mumble.

Devin nodded once and took another slow draw.

The room smelled like loud and sounded like potential.

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CANCEL THIS: A BAND FORMED OUT OF SHRUGS AND SLAMS

“So what started Cancel This?” I asked.

Emery didn’t move much.

“Just felt like making heavy shit again.”

Devin added, “Yeah… we didn’t overthink it.”

Neither of them offered more.

Neither of them seemed interested in offering more.

The band’s creation was less of a decision and more of a shrug — a quiet, mutual agreement to plug in, smoke up, and see what kind of chaos came out of the speakers.

Their drummer friend, a respected studio player, drops in when needed. According to Emery, “He could be in a touring band if he wanted, but… who cares? We’re not doing all that.”

Cancel This isn’t chasing stages or headlining any scene.

They’re just building something heavy behind closed doors.

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THE ROOM AND THE ENERGY

The converted studio felt alive. Cables, synth racks, drum triggers, bass rigs — everything was set up for creation, not presentation. Emery tracked guitars through a stack of analog gear. Devin dialed in sub frequencies on a synth pad that buzzed the floor.

“Sometimes this place sounds like it’s breathing,” Devin said at one point.

Emery laughed. “Yeah, or haunting us.”

Both explanations fit.

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THE INTERVIEW THEY MOSTLY IGNORED

As interviews go, this one was easy — not because the band was talkative, but because they really weren’t. They answered what mattered and dismissed what didn’t.

Questions about the past?

Emery: “Old shit. Doesn’t matter.”

Devin: shrug.

Questions about the future?

Emery: “We’ll still be doing this.”

Devin: “Pretty much.”

Questions about their writing process? “Yeah, we smoke and let the metal flow” Emery said, pointing lazily around the room.

They didn’t posture, didn’t sell themselves, didn’t deliver dramatic artist monologues. They were two musicians who clearly love creating but don’t care to explain it.

And that’s exactly why the interview worked.

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THE SOUND OF CANCEL THIS

Between questions, they went right back to playing. Emery would lean forward, twist a knob, rip through a filthy slam pattern, then sink back into his chair like the riff had already left his body. Devin’s bass tone was deep, shaking, almost physical — the kind that hits your chest harder than your ears.

“You guys planning shows?” I asked between blasts of noise.

Emery shrugged. “We’re not worried about all that.”

Devin nodded. “We smoke, make music, go to work, do it again.”

There was no bitterness in their tone — just peace. A rhythm. A lifestyle.

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POSSIBLE FUTURE? MAYBE. MAYBE NOT.

I asked whether they could see themselves catching the attention of local cannabis brands like The Flowery — companies known to quietly support Florida artists when something interesting bubbles up.

Emery seemed indifferent but not opposed.

“If someone notices, cool,” he said. “If not… also cool.”

Cancel This isn’t chasing opportunity, but they aren’t dismissing it either. Their relationship with the future is simple: let whatever happens, happen.

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THE EXIT DEMONSTRATION

Eventually the conversation ran out — or rather, they ran out of interest in answering. I started to gather my things when Emery finally stood up, stretched, and said:

“Aight… check this out. This is the future of the band.”

Devin stood too, cracking his knuckles, adjusting his hat.

They exchanged a quick look that basically said, let’s blow the walls off for a minute.

Emery tapped a few buttons. Blue lights kicked in around the room. Surround speakers armed themselves with a low hum that felt like the air pressure dropped.

Then — without warning — they detonated into a slam so violent it felt like a structural violation.

Everything in the room shook.

The walls vibrated.

Loose items rained off shelves.

The cursed energy of the place actually seemed to wake up.

Devin’s bass thundered so hard I felt it in my teeth.

Emery’s guitars carved the air like machinery.

I could only laugh — a mix of shock and “holy shit, I should’ve seen this coming.”

“All right,” I said, holding onto the doorway. “Cool, cool… HOLY shit.”

They didn’t hear me.

Or they didn’t care.

Either way, Cancel This had officially ended the interview their way.

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THE FINAL IMPRESSION

Cancel This isn’t trying to be mysterious.

They’re not cultivating an image.

They’re not aiming for press, virality, stages, or anything beyond that room.

They smoke, they write, they slam, they exist.

Whatever happens after that isn’t their concern.

And maybe that’s why the music already feels heavier than anything they’ve made before.

Some bands seek attention.

Cancel This doesn’t seek anything.

They just turn everything blue, crank the volume until the walls move, and trust whoever’s meant to find them… will.