Pigeon Spins Featuring an Interview with Exzenya

Exzenya - V.I.P.

Forget bottle service and velvet ropes—Exzenya’s latest single “V.I.P.” takes the acronym back to its rawest reality: Victims Impact Panel, the mandatory program for DUI offenders. In this high-energy rap track, Exzenya turns a sobering consequence into a bold, biting anthem that collides humor, sharp lyricism, and a club-ready bounce.

Both funny and defiant, “V.I.P.” challenges how we think about status, consequence, and nightlife culture. Fans of Eminem’s wit, Megan Thee Stallion’s confidence, and Doja Cat’s playful edge will find a new favorite in Exzenya’s unapologetic delivery.

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Interview with Exzenya

V.I.P. flips the typical meaning of the acronym into Victims Impact Panel. What inspired you to tackle this subject in a satirical way?

What inspired me was observing people close to me who’ve gone through DUIs and how deeply it changed their lives. I’m not even talking about accidents or injuries — though those happen too — but the reality that anyone can end up in that situation without realizing it. A lot of times it’s good people making bad choices because intoxication changes your sense of reality. You don’t feel “that drunk,” you don’t think you’re over the limit, and the judgment just isn’t there.

I don’t condone the behavior at all, but I’ve seen how quickly those choices spiral into self-condemnation. People stop seeing themselves as “a good person who made a bad mistake” and start seeing themselves as criminals or failures. The system piles shame on top of consequences, but what’s missing is education. Society tells you “no” until you’re 21, but doesn’t train you in how to handle alcohol responsibly. Then people hit adulthood — even into their 40s or 50s — without ever having those skills.

Punishment alone doesn’t work. Scared Straight programs don’t work. Reinforcement and education do. We need to start teaching people when they’re young, long before they’re legally allowed to drink, how to navigate intoxication responsibly and prevent these situations in the first place. Otherwise, all we’re left with is the aftermath — people feeling like their entire identity is ruined over one terrible mistake. V.I.P. is my way of satirizing that broken cycle while shining a light on the need for change.

How do you balance humor and social commentary in your music, especially on serious topics like DUI consequences?

For me, humor is the gateway that allows people to actually sit with uncomfortable truths. If you just lecture someone about DUI consequences, they shut down — it feels like another authority voice scolding them. But when you inject satire or irony, the message sneaks in under people’s defenses. Humor makes it possible to start a conversation about something that otherwise feels too heavy or shame-filled to touch.

At the same time, I’m intentional about making sure the humor never condones the behavior itself. I’m not laughing at the idea of drinking and driving — that’s not funny. What I am doing is using humor to turn a mirror on human choices, to show people that making a terrible decision doesn’t mean they are a terrible person. Humor lets them revisit that low point, laugh at the absurdity of human nature, and realize they’re not alone. It’s a universal mistake, not an isolated personal failing.

By framing it with irony or satire, people can feel lighter about themselves instead of being crushed by guilt or self-hate. They can learn from it, of course, but also accept that we’re all capable of saying or doing stupid things — whether it’s from intoxication or just heightened emotions. That shift helps people forgive themselves, see their humanity, and move forward instead of living trapped in shame.

So the balance for me is this: comedy creates enough distance from the pain to allow people to engage with it, while the social commentary grounds it in reality. That’s where the power of the music lives — making people laugh, reflect, and feel seen all at the same time.

Your style blends rap, pop, R&B, and comedy elements. How do you decide which genre influences to bring into a track?

I don’t approach a song by saying, “This one has to be rap,” or “This one has to lean pop.” For me, the story always comes first. Once I know the message, the emotion, or the satirical twist I’m trying to deliver, the genre framework naturally builds itself around that.

If the track needs raw intensity, rap becomes the vehicle because of its precision and rhythmic punch. If it needs warmth or seduction, R&B gives me space to stretch out melodies and invite people in emotionally. Pop, on the other hand, is a tool for accessibility — it allows the hook or the humor to hit fast and stick in people’s heads. Comedy isn’t a genre in itself, but rather a lens I overlay across areas of life that need a little emotional unplugging — using irony, exaggeration, or clever wordplay to highlight the human absurdities I want to point out.

I think of it like painting: sometimes you need bold colors, sometimes softer tones, and sometimes sharp lines to contrast with fluid strokes. Each genre is a different brush. By blending them, I can reflect the complexity of the human experience — because life is never just one mood, one rhythm, or one perspective.

That’s why my songs move across styles. One track might lean heavily rap-driven, while another lets R&B smooth out the edges. Humor stitches it all together, making sure the message lands without ever feeling like a lecture. Genre is the palette, but storytelling is the canvas — the blend has to serve the narrative, not the other way around.

V.I.P. is based on observed situations rather than personal experiences. How do you capture authenticity while telling someone else’s story?

Authenticity comes from observing not only what people go through, but how those experiences reshape their emotions, self-image, and choices. When someone faces something like a DUI, the event isn’t just about the ticket or the courtroom — it’s about the shame and guilt that follow. They begin to see themselves differently, often through a negative societal lens, and that shift can become heavy to carry.

And it’s not just one bad decision. People make many bad choices over a lifetime, and often repeat them before they learn differently. That’s part of being human. When someone is depressed or not feeling good about themselves, it becomes even harder to make positive choices — the spiral of shame and guilt pulls them down further. But those bad moments don’t erase their worth, and they don’t make them a “bad person.” They’re still human beings deserving of understanding and redemption.

That’s the reality I try to capture in my music. By writing with empathy and shining a light on that universal struggle — the mistakes, the spirals, and the hard climb back — I create songs people can connect to. Even if it’s not literally my story, the emotions are real, and that honesty allows the music to resonate on a human level.

You’ve had impressive global reach with this release. How does international feedback influence your creative process?

The global feedback has been both humbling and motivating. Music is universal, but the way people respond to it varies from person to person. Some listeners immediately connect with the humor, while others focus more on the emotional weight of the commentary. That range of reactions shows how the same song can hold different meanings for different people, and that’s powerful.

What stands out most is that these struggles and themes are not isolated to one place — they’re human experiences. Making bad decisions, feeling shame, trying to recover, and eventually learning from it are things people everywhere can relate to. Hearing feedback from around the world reinforces that the message connects across borders, but more importantly, it connects across individuals.

On a creative level, this pushes me to keep my work inclusive, layered, and flexible. It encourages me to write in a way that reaches people wherever they are and whatever they’ve been through. Instead of narrowing down to one type of audience, the broad reach gives me permission to stay authentic to the bigger picture — blending genres, telling the truth, and trusting that honesty and relatability resonate with listeners no matter who they are.

Your previous track, Drunk Texting, was inspired by a real-life incident with your son. How do you approach writing songs based on real-life events without making them too personal?

When I write from real-life events, I treat them as starting points rather than the entire story. Drunk Texting came from a funny and chaotic moment that I witnessed — but once I sat down to write, the song grew far beyond that. I turned it into a satirical, universal situation that anyone who has ever sent, received, or regretted a late-night text could relate to.

The key for me is in transformation. I take the seed of truth and reshape it into something broader, more theatrical, and often more humorous than the original event. That way the personal moment doesn’t stay locked into one person’s life. It becomes a mirror that other listeners can see themselves in, but also a reminder that their situation reflects what so many others around the world have experienced. They’re not alone.

Everyone who has lived through moments like this — it’s part of being human. We all go through similar kinds of situations, but most people never talk about them openly. My goal is to bring those hidden, universal experiences into the light through music.

Another part of this balance is protecting boundaries. I never want my songs to feel like diary entries or direct call-outs of people close to me. Instead, I aim for that sweet spot where honesty, humor, and empathy collide. With Drunk Texting, the story was funny, yes, but it was also about human vulnerability — about how we lose control sometimes and then try to explain ourselves afterward. That’s something every person can relate to at some point in their lives.

It’s also something I want to pass down to my son, my children, grandchildren, and so on — the ability to laugh at themselves when they make silly choices. That’s what Drunk Texting really represents: not a serious consequence like V.I.P. but an innocent, ridiculous moment of being too drunk and doing something silly. Nothing dangerous was involved — no drinking and driving, no life-altering mistakes. It was just one of those goofy, harmless situations that you wake up the next day cringing about. Instead of sinking into shame or wishing for a time machine, I want people — including my own family — to be able to laugh at themselves, shake their heads, and say, “Oh my God, that was hilarious.”

So, the goal is always to take real moments and elevate them into shared stories — making them relatable without crossing into something too private, and reminding people that even in our silliest mistakes, there’s humor, humanity, and connection.

Exzenya Productions is your independent imprint. How does being independent affect the way you release and promote your music?

Operating through Exzenya Productions keeps the entire process independent, which means complete creative control but also complete accountability. There’s no label dictating sound, branding, or timelines — the music, visuals, and strategy all come directly from the artist’s vision. That independence allows for risks that might otherwise get filtered out by executives — like turning a DUI consequence into satire with V.I.P., or blending rap, pop, R&B, and humor into something that refuses to fit neatly into a single box.

At the same time, independence comes with exposure to realities most label-backed artists never face. Labels often act as buffers, keeping artists shielded from the rejection, hostility, or dismissiveness that can come from playlist curators, press, or industry gatekeepers. As an independent, all of that lands directly on the artist’s desk. Playlist pitching means sending music into competitive, saturated spaces and hearing back every “no” firsthand. Negotiating features, campaigns, and even press coverage means running into difficult personalities and constant gatekeeping, without anyone smoothing it over behind the scenes.

While that can be draining, it also fuels resilience. Instead of hiding behind a label or blaming a team, independence forces ownership of both wins and losses. Every success feels more meaningful because it wasn’t manufactured by industry machinery — it was earned through persistence, strategy, and authentic connection. Independence also means staying closer to fans, building a community based on honesty and relatability rather than polished marketing filters.

In short, Exzenya Productions represents not just creative freedom but also a refusal to be filtered, censored, or dictated to. It’s about facing gatekeepers head-on, embracing both the negativity and the victories, and proving that satire, storytelling, and truth can carve out their own path without needing permission from an industry middleman.

Being independent under Exzenya Productions means taking full control — but it also means facing gatekeepers head-on. When pitching to playlists or trying to expand reach, these gatekeepers often block the way with dismissive comments, refusals, or even blacklisting tactics. Without a label to shield me, I deal with that negativity directly.

But that same independence is what gives me the freedom to keep creating on my own terms. I don’t have to conform to their boxes about genre, image, or how music “should” sound. I refuse to let them dictate my art.

At the end of the day, the proof isn’t in a gatekeeper’s approval — it’s in the fans, the streams, and the listeners. The public decides, and the public has shown time and again that the music connects. Every breakthrough is earned directly through that connection, not handed down by someone else’s permission.

How do you approach vocal layering and production to convey both energy and storytelling in your tracks?

Vocal layering for me isn’t just about making the track sound “big.” It’s about sculpting a mood. Every layer has to serve the story — whether it’s an echo that emphasizes a punchline, a harmony that adds tension, or a background vocal that drives home a sarcastic edge.

I don’t treat vocals like they’re just a performance; they’re instruments. Sometimes I’ll stack them to the point where it feels chaotic, but that chaos is intentional — it matches the energy of the story being told. Other times, I’ll strip it down to one raw vocal line to make the listener feel like I’m speaking directly to them, no filters, no gloss.

Production works the same way. The beat isn’t just a backdrop, it’s part of the narrative. If the track is satirical, the rhythm might be bouncy and playful, even if the subject matter is heavy. If the track is vulnerable, the production might be sparse so the emotion cuts through without distraction.

It’s a balancing act between power and intimacy. The layering and production together have to make the listener not just hear the story, but feel it in their gut. That’s what makes the music stick.