Miguel’s “New Martyrs (Ride 4 U)” lands like a night signal and marks the true start of his CAOS era after seven years without an album.
The single, written and produced by Miguel, dropped on 5 September 2025 and anchored the build to CAOS, due on 23 October, which is his 40th birthday.
The timing fits a frame he has set around rupture and remaking, and he is assertively steering the rollout himself via his S1C.LA site, which premiered the album’s title track for fans ahead of traditional channels.
This move towards artistic self-determination mirrors the song’s own thematic insistence on defining one’s own terms.
On first play, “New Martyrs” feels tactile and a little dangerous, like you’re inches from the drum machine and the bass amp is breathing back.
The beat sits lo-fi and close to the chest, the bass carries a gentle overdrive, and guitars smear across the stereo field while synth pads hang like a siren behind fog.
Miguel keeps his voice forward and human, a breathy, talk-sing cadence in the verses, a firmer lead when the chorus locks in.
And stacked harmonies that feel less like studio polish and more like a small crowd gathering behind him – a closeness akin to the intimate pull of SZA’s “Snooze.”
Stereogum hears the song “sauntering” with high-risk sex appeal, a clean shorthand for the way the groove keeps its hips while letting grit show at the edges, while Clash hears intent and stakes and places the single as a decisive return rather than a soft reset.
The title does a lot of work. “Martyrs” reframes loyalty as a chosen cost, and the parenthetical “Ride 4 U” pulls big-picture conviction back into an intimate frame.
The single’s cover art appears to echo a widely circulated surveillance still connected to the December 2024 killing of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson.
Several outlets have noted the resemblance to imagery of Luigi Mangione, who has been charged and is awaiting trial; neither Miguel nor RCA has officially identified the source of the art.
The association matters because the case drew intense, polarised reactions around the U.S. health-insurance industry.
Read this way, the artwork sits alongside the song’s questions about loyalty and cost, without asserting any motive or outcome in the ongoing case.
The love he demands is framed not as romance, but as complicity; a shared willingness to become ‘lawless’ new martyrs for a cause, mirroring the divisive public reaction to Mangione’s alleged act.
The language is clipped and direct; in an opening couplet, he asks a partner if they’re with him and admits to a chip on his shoulder, a neat pivot from invitation to defence.
The hook drills a question that sits at the core of the CAOS idea: how much can you lose without changing who you are.
The lines don’t read like slogans; they read like someone interrogating himself in real time, letting tenderness sit next to anger.
What compels is how the personal and the structural keep bleeding into each other. It’s conviction music you can move to.
We feel the texture is deliberate, a conscious scuff that trades sheen for closeness, with a lo-fi drum knock and slightly overdriven low end used as mood, not mistake.
On some platforms, it can run a little hot, which a few will hear as a compression artefact, but to us it sounds like a production choice that fits the stakes.
The temperature around the release is warm overall. What grips us most is how near the vocal sits, almost conversation distance, more body heat than radio gloss, and the coverage we’ve seen so far treats the single as a marker of intent rather than a casual drop.
You can hear the decision to leave the edges in, to let the drum pattern feel like a room rather than a grid, to sing like there’s a person two feet away who needs convincing.
If War & Leisure flirted with sunlight and pop buoyancy, this is heat without the gloss, a darker flag planted nearer to Wildheart’s scuzzy freedom than to his airbrushed hits.
It’s not a repudiation of seduction; it’s a repositioning of seduction as solidarity.
This violent scrubbing away of polish aligns perfectly with Miguel’s own stated mission for CAOS: “To rebuild, I had to destroy myself.”
The controlled chaos of the production and the raw vulnerability of the performance are not just aesthetic choices; they are the sound of that deconstruction in process.
“New Martyrs” is both message and method, a love song that doubles as a principles check, a club-ready sway scored to a question about cost and self.
