Pridhvi Sunain Zoro Calls the Go Around on MAHA

Pridhvi Sunain Zoro was born in Guntur, in Andhra Pradesh, and grew up moving through Telangana, Tamil Nadu and Karnataka before the move to Santa Monica. That early life was already a translation job. Local rooms, expatriate rooms, then a California coast where the neighbors came from everywhere else. He worked in Hollywood filmmaking, studied entertainment management at UCLA, enlisted in the United States Air Force Reserve in April 2021, and took an interdisciplinary degree in AI management and data analytics at UC Berkeley. The debut album arrives out of that split schedule. MAHA (Make America Human Again) came out on 11 September 2026 through his own PSZ Records, in Dolby Atmos and hi-res lossless, written and produced by Zoro with a remote cast of players and engineers spread from Brazil to South Korea.

In military flying, a go-around is the call you make when the runway is no longer a place you should put the wheels down. Power comes on. The nose lifts. You climb out and join the circuit again. Zoro has published no flight log. The procedure still sits under the album with an odd fit. MAHA is built in three phases, Collapse, Humanity, Ascent, and the sequence behaves like a missed approach. The country, in his telling, keeps trying to land on a four-letter slogan. One version promises greatness. Another, attached to a very different politics, promises health. He borrows the letters and asks a plainer question. What does human mean in a place that prices a person by output.

Phase I does the unstable descent in public. “Fucking Dance” opens on a hard, post-grunge shove, distorted guitars and a barked chorus built for a room that wants to sweat the week off. The verse is a time clock. Clock in, clock out, friends with the life you do not have, a worth that gets counted by whoever is looking. The bridge is the first honest crack, education taken, every lie believed, the race as something that drowns. A clean vocal, “Freaking Dance,” sits later on the release with the same riff and a softened hook. Leaving both takes in the sequence is a filmmaker’s decision. The explicit cut is the body. The clean cut is the version you can play in company. Each one keeps the other audible.

“Falling Through the Fire” loosens the grip. The drums still push, but the vocal opens up, and the chorus asks a crowd to run into weather it cannot control. Zoro has described the fire as time, not romance, two people separated by the distance exhaustion makes. “Give Me a World” drops further, acoustic and prayer-like, greed named outright, trees offered as the counter-image. The writing here is blunt. Capitalism’s greed, markets, a suburban sign-off. What keeps the song from turning into a placard is the melodic modesty. He sings the request as if he expects no answer, only air.

“Human Again” is the center, and it knows it. The hum that opens the track sits under the guitar like a second opinion. Zoro has said the hum is peace and the electric line is the scream, and the arrangement holds both without tidying them into a single mood. The lyric borrows the national anthem’s first reach, then spends it on a class ledger. The poor shoulder blame. A dollar keeps the wealthy alive. “We broke from the crown / We rose from the chains” is stadium language, and the chorus earns the size only because the verse stayed specific. The last word, again, does the work the title promises. Another attempt, spoken in the open, with no golden decade attached.

The private record interrupts the march. “Love Just Fades Away” is the album’s best piece of writing, a theatrical rock ballad about a crown placed on someone who did not ask for the myth. “Through the poet’s eye you became divine / But art was a mirror, not a sign” is the line the rest of the record keeps circling. Projection, apps, a hollow queen, love priced like a debt. Then “Children of the Storm” slams the door back open. Tribal drums, a group chant, children born in wreckage who refuse to kneel. In his own note on the song, the storm includes gun violence and the children buried while a country argues about protection. On record, the chant carries more force than the argument. “Oh le ba, le ba” is body first, thesis second.

Phase III is where the temperature drops and the risk rises. “Shades With Ease” wants reconciliation at arena scale, neighbors fighting through screens, blood that does not sort by color, a chorus that repeats heal until the word thins. The intention is clear. The melody is open and singable. The lyric sometimes settles for the reassurance it has just earned the right to withhold. “Slash the Ghost” is sharper. Synths, a filtered verse, a colder bass, the modern habit of turning a person into someone who was never in the room. A female vocal takes the bonus version and changes the temperature without changing the charge. Distance becomes grief. “Live Beyond” closes on a brighter electro-pop pulse, Maxwell Maynard among the producers, a radio-ready invitation to stop fitting the shape on offer. The question of who he is returns as practice, which suits an album that refuses a landing.

The session is larger than a bedroom confession. Yago Marques mixed the tracks. Luciano Vassão led the mastering, including an Apple Digital Master. André Vasconcellos plays bass, Pedro Pardal drums, Han Jun Ryu guitar, with strings, cello and a small choir of harmony voices around Zoro’s lead. The scale fits a debut that wants civic size. It also explains the occasional reach for a chorus before the verse has finished its thought.

MAHA matters because the slogan never gets to win the mix. Explicit and clean, male and female, hum and guitar, oath and seminar, all stay in the circuit. Pridhvi Sunain Zoro does not hand the country a repaired flag. He calls the go-around, and he keeps the power on.