“People always tell me my music feels calm,” he says. “You can light something, sit down, watch the sunset. But it’s also a movement. It’s love. It’s life.”

Rooted in Diaspora, Raised on Fusion, Casa Mira Mar is far more than an album; it’s a world. Twelve tracks, four languages, and a thousand textures. Cape Verdean Creole, Portuguese, Spanish, and English braid themselves through verses like DNA strands.

“It’s the whole diaspora,” he says. “I have artists from Nigeria, Ghana, Morocco, Brazil, Spain. This is bigger than me.”

The album honors that space, San Filipe, on the island of Fogo. It honors the sound of water and wind, the smell of salt in the air, and the way time slowed down there. It also honors his grandfather, who owned one of the first stores in the city. That building was called Casa Mira Mar.

This body of work doesn’t chase trends. It speaks in four languages and follows instinct rather than an algorithm. The textures shift, but the heart stays steady. June doesn’t separate his identity into categories. It all lives in the same room: Afrobeat rhythms, Latin phrasing, R&B tones, soul-rooted harmonies.

“I didn’t want this to feel like a playlist,” he says. “I wanted it to move like a journey.”

The production choices are deliberate. BPMs aren’t just numbers; they’re emotional temperatures. Mid-tempos invite stillness. Percussion keeps the body engaged. Some songs linger. Others glide. The flow matters.

“The goal was to make it honest,” he says. “You can play this at the beach. On a drive. Holding your kid. Watching the sky turn pink.”

The result is an album that lets you stay a while. A space that opens up and holds you in. Everything in Its Right Time. Many of the collaborations happened by chance, not by strategy. While working in Holland, he met Ella. They shared energy, not deadlines.  “We jammed for hours,” he recalls. “I just played the beat on loop and told her to record ten takes. I like working that way, open, with no pressure to perfect it on the spot.”

“I like people to be energetically in it. I don’t say ‘let’s make a song.’ I say, here’s a loop—run it. We might get magic by taking six.”

Other features followed a similar path. A woman named Luisa Santana came to a show in Spain. They didn’t know each other. A friend brought her. Later, June found her vocals on Instagram. “I was like, wait, that’s you?” She ended up on the track “Dorama.”

“It’s not about chasing numbers. It’s about when things align. The right voice. The right spirit. That’s what I look for.” That intention threads through every choice. Whether it’s tempo, tone, or who’s in the room, June listens to what the song wants before deciding what to give it.

June is also preparing to take Casa Mita Mar to the stage at Afro Nation in Lisbon, a performance he doesn’t take lightly.

“It’s the crème de la crème of this Afrobeat space. To be on the same lineup with all these greats. It’s a dream come true. Now I gotta keep working so I can headline it in a few years.”

The moment marks a full-circle return, not just to sound, but to spirit. From the islands to the world stage.  The View Beyond the Window. The title Casa Mita Mar isn't just literal. It’s also symbolic. “It represents peace,” he says. “Solitude. Being present. When I was a kid, I wanted to leave the islands, but when I look back, that time grounded me. I was living moment to moment.”

In an era of speed and overstimulation, June leans toward the slower, deeper current. He’s not interested in fast fame. This isn’t fast food. This is a slow meal cooked with memory and care. And yet the reach is global. The album bridges continents, but it does so organically. Not through formulas, but through feeling. His voice is Cape Verdean. His perspective is universal.

“Some people said I should write more in English to hit certain playlists,” he says. “But the world is multilingual. The soul doesn’t need subtitles.”

“Sometimes I’ll freestyle, just mumble over the beat. And then I realize I’m saying something in Spanish or Creole. The song decides.”

Again with the project including artists from Nigeria, Ghana, Morocco, Brazil, Spain. He doesn’t call it fusion. It’s just his reality.

“I didn’t ask the Portuguese to come to Africa and make a new people. I’m just being exactly what I am.”

The Shape of Freedom June’s name tells its own story. “June” comes from being a junior, son of his father. “Freedom” was scribbled on a guitar case by a cousin who watched him play and felt something open up.

“Playing music gave me that space,” he says. “But freedom’s tricky. You might feel free in one way but be stuck in another. Real freedom comes from knowing that—and still being able to create.”
When I ask what legacy means to him, he pauses.

“To take care of people,” he says. “Not just my own. Anybody I can reach. That’s what I want.”

That care is evident in how he talks about his circle, about his roots, about the friends who’ve stayed close through it all. It’s in the way he keeps things simple, even when the world gets loud.

“I can’t wait to take care of people. Not just mine. I want to help families. Whole families. That’s what legacy is to me.”

When I ask what “tomorrow” means to him - a nod to our magazine’s ethos—his answer echoes like a prayer:

“An opportunity. A chance to do better.”

And that’s June Freedom. An artist who’s as generous with his spirit as he is with his sound. A man building not just songs, but sanctuaries. In a time when everything feels like it’s burning,
June offers water. Salt. Light. And a House with a View.