Alien Eyelid Vinegar Hill LP (Tall Texan)
Houston’s Alien Eyelid continue their march through rock music’s bell-bottomed past with their third LP, Vinegar Hill. Like previous efforts, this comes from a large ensemble of players, a necessity to produce any sort of cosmic-country worth its weight in hash. It’s incredible how their music seems utterly unaware of the last, say, fifty years of rock music – in the world of Alien Eyelid, Metallica never existed, and Jethro Tull rightfully deserved that Grammy in 1989. Flutes and and pedal-steel often take center stage, as Alien Eyelid’s songs are more laidback than ever, slow-burners whose embers glow late into the evening hours. It’s really kind of eerie how out-of-time Alien Eyelid come across here – Fleet Foxes sound like Interpol by comparison – but it never feels like artifice or an ill-fitting costume. Maybe they really do live and breathe this classic style and the lifestyle it entails? Tall Texan offered a few distinctly Americana records recently (the undiluted Texas country of Shinglers and Garrett T. Capps is admittedly way more cowboyish than this Yankee writer can handle), and I’d say Alien Eyelid are the cream of that unfiltered crop. I’d also say they unfortunately missed the chance to open Kansas’s headlining 1976 tour, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Kansas are still touring the American midwest summer-fair circuit today, to many of the same folks that saw them originally. Would it kill them to bring Alien Eyelid along for the ride?

Applejuice We All Dissolve LP (no label)
The recent Steve Peffer / Jayson Gerycz creative collaboration keeps paying dividends, now in the form of Applejuice. Peffer deserves his own Cleveland Rock N’ Roll Hall Of Fame at this point, but rather than dwell too long on past accomplishments I’ll remind you that he did the great Peer Pressure Zombies album earlier this year (menacing synth-punk recorded by Gerycz, who’s otherwise known for his band Cloud Nothings). I’m still singing “Reeking Garbage Pile” to myself in the shower, but now I’ve got this great Applejuice record to reflect upon, and reflect I shall. On first blush it has a “Gary Numan playing Flipper songs” vibe, particularly in the opener “Lovestreamz” and its Will Shatter-y chorus, but We All Dissolve is far more nuanced than it has any right to be. The bass is big, the synth is bigger, and they fit some guitar in there too, almost like a Rentals album if Matt Sharp had an intense period of Sheer Terror fandom but mostly kept it to himself. Peffer tends to muffle his words one way or another, be it vocal mix or listener comprehension, but We All Dissolve strikes me as a high-point in his lyrical career, flashing modern life’s mundanities back in our faces like a laser pointer at an airplane. It doesn’t hurt that the songs sound so good, Gerycz’s punchy recording making everything pop a little harder, right through the unwittingly dance-y closer “Freeware” (featuring Gerycz’s fellow Cloud Nothing Dylan Baldi on sax). The vinyl is limited to one hundred copies, and once they’re all sold, I’m fixing to get all one hundred of us together to hang and talk about how great this record is. And drink apple juice.

Aweful Kanawful Endless Pleasure LP (Folc)
Help! It would appear from the cover photo that Tom Petty’s Heartbreakers kidnapped one of the Aquabats. Or is the Aquabat now an evil Aquabat, a fallen-from-grace Judas who took up cigarette-smoking and sports-betting with some new “friends” he met in the big city? I could fantasize about this crew for a while, and as Endless Pleasure spins, I feel like I’ve got nowhere else to be anyway. While the cover (and let’s face it, band name) will turn off certain serious listeners, they’re missing out on some pretty swell power-pop, if they even care. These songs are energized and with just enough dirt under the nails, feeling like authentic early-’80s skinny-tie nuggets without the sense that Aweful Kanawful set out to specifically replicate a historical vibe. (They probably wouldn’t have done the whole Aquabat look if so, for starters.) The guitar playing is nimble in an Albert Hammond Jr. kinda way, and for a style as shop-worn as power-pop, their songwriting doesn’t take any cheap shortcuts. Back when The Beat and 20/20 were gigging, there was still a reliance on live bands for nightlife entertainment, and Aweful Kanawful seem better suited to that era, where good songs on the bar’s back-room stage mattered more than video-clip influencer-tainment. Maybe the costume will come in handy if they ever decide to pivot?

Brainbombs Die LP (Riot Season)
Depending on your particular point of view, a new Brainbombs album might cause you to race to the internet in hopes of procuring a copy or roll your eyes and go back to bed. I think my own perspective falls somewhere between those poles – while I’m still willing to fall on the “Brainbombs rule” sword, it also feels like there’s already simply enough of their music to suffice. They’ve variated on the same theme for decades now – if you aren’t already intimately familiar with their work, a song from 2009 sounds much like a song from 1996 (or 2020, or 2004, or 1994), a testament to their durability and staunch lack of outside interference. Even so, some of their typical “I Wanna Be Your Dog” riffing has felt less-inspired on the last decade’s worth of albums, a seemingly unavoidable dip in quality for any one-track-minded band. Maybe I’ve just taken enough time off, or maybe Die is simply a cut above, but for whatever reason it’s been a pleasure spinning this one, more so than I anticipated. The vocals are delivered with moderate-to-severe indiscernability, our favorite unrepentantly sadistic Swedish serial-killer delivering his snuff-film plots with the halfhearted bloodlust we’ve come to expect, and the riffs drip with sweat and sleaze. Like any good horror franchise, Brainbombs keep coming back, even after their grisly demise seemed certain and complete. I wonder if Rob Zombie has ever heard them?

Call Super A Rhythm Protects One 2xLP (Dekmantel)
London’s Call Super is nostalgic for the minimal tech-house of twenty years ago, and much like civil war re-enactors who ensure every final detail is period-accurate, Call Super has fabricated (get it? Fabric-ated?) his own little petri dish of club sounds in A Rhythm Protects One. What is credited as a mix of various artists such as Ondo Fudd, Conny Slipp and Clam1 is all the work of Joseph Richmond-Seaton (AKA Call Super), creating new characters to fill out his fantasies ala Fucked Up’s David’s Town (or the entirety of Killed By Death #11). In the A Rhythm Protects One cinematic universe, the towers of Villalobos and Luciano loom large, with springy, rubbery beats, grid-phasing effects and plenty of offbeat cameos, from lonely jazz horns to crooning female vocals seemingly unaware of the track they’re sharing (a Villalobos trick if there every was one). While not replicating tracks of old, the sound, style and demonstration are all rich with the vivid RGB shine of Perlon and Playhouse. It nails the assignment, though I’m a little surprised such a retro feel was Call Super’s goal to begin with, as his previous records struck me as more curious about the future than the past. Contemporary producer Jorg Kuning uses similar influences to springboard himself onto new levels of expression, but A Rhythm Protects One is content to stay right where it is.

Carrier Rhythm Immortal 2xLP (Modern Love)
Guy Alexander Brewer has struck gold with his Carrier alias, releasing some of the most intriguing post-dubstep / post-post-techno productions over the last few years. His sound is immediate but hard to define, and it’s within that sweet-spot that we get Rhythm Immortal, the project’s first full-length. Whereas previous releases focused on dazzling percussive flurries (Fathom and In Spectra) or unexpected hooks (“The Fan Dance”), Rhythm Immortal delves into the deepest trenches of sparse percussive sound, apparently scrutinizing the album’s title as its own mission statement. Most tracks consist of little more than “kick and snare” in the general sense, with organic / unintuitive rhythms relaying some sort of natural element while the sounds themselves, processed down to the very strands of their DNA, are alien in origin. Take opener “A Point Most Crucial”, which feels content to investigate the inner-workings of a cavernous kick and a scratchy hi-hat in what sounds like an abandoned chemistry lab (a lone Bunsen burner flickering in the corner). This is music that rewards focused listening; the deeper you concentrate on Carrier’s meticulously refracted percussion tracks, the richer the experience. In a way, it makes me sad that The Spaceape is no longer with us – his vocals would’ve absolutely slayed on these – but Rhythm Immortal is a stark reminder that less can be so much more.

Chat Pile & Hayden Pedigo In The Earth Again LP (The Flenser / Computer Students)
One could easily peg In The Earth Again as a hyper-contemporary sludge/doom album from a couple pieces of evidence: one, the collaborative effort between two artists with contrasting fanbases, and two, the fact that there are no fewer than eleven vinyl variants (fourteen if you want to include the cassette, CD and digital versions). On one hand, I find these aspects to be turn-offs – the recent trend toward artist collaborations can feel like a desperate ploy for greater social-media reach, and the shameless collector-bait is certainly lame – but on the other, I don’t fault dirge-y noise-rockers Chat Pile or acoustic guitarist Hayden Pedigo for existing in the time we’re in. Unlike other collabs of recent years (especially in the metal/hardcore realms), I get the impression that this one came about organically, a random idea between new neighbors (Pedigo relocated to Chat Pile’s Oklahoma City) who dug each other’s vibes. And as for the vinyl thing, all these labels seem to think it’s the only way to actually sell records, and if it works, it’s surely a better result than the few remaining underground-supporting labels going bankrupt. Finally getting to the actual music, this album pretty fluidly combines Pedigo’s expert guitar-wrangling with Chat Pile’s slow tilt towards desolation soundtracking. I’d presume the average Chat Pile enthusiast wants to sprain their lower backs headbanging to stuff like “The Matador” and “Fission/Fusion”, but this band has gathered so much goodwill over the last couple years that it would seem fans of their Korn-derived aspects are perfectly content to stand with their hands in their hoodies through the extended Godspeed You! Black Emperor-esque passages here. Even the acoustic guitars are overtly depressive (in a comforting way), though when it comes to the heavy stuff, Chat Pile follow a timeless rule of show business: leave ’em wanting more.

Cowgirl Clue Total Freedom LP (Vada Vada)
It’s rare I get to share a phrase reaching the mystification of “Baby “Gronk rizzed up Livvy Dunne” here, on account of my generational standing, but this might come close: hyper-pop maven Cowgirl Clue is dating The Garden’s Wyatt Shears, whose Vada Vada label released Total Freedom. If none of that means anything to you, join me in the senior’s lounge, but I’m hoping to hip you to the fact that Cowgirl Clue rules. I got hooked on 2023’s Rodeo Star last year, beguiled and entranced by her combination of small-town rural anomie and trance-pop aspirations, and Total Freedom scratches a similar itch I didn’t previously know I had. Her music is busy and overloaded, like the newest iteration of a Sonic & Knuckles arcade game, filled with unforeseen arpeggios and high-speed digital motion. It can sound like Cold Cave’s Cherish The Light Years at 1.5 speed, though we’re never far from Cowgirl Clue’s signature pedal-steel twang (synthetic or otherwise) to bring us back to a dusty parking lot in the Southwestern countryside’s flat expanse. Her singing is unenthusiastic and moody, never even attempting to belt one out or compete with the recognized pop divas. No, the Cowgirl Clue vibe comes from the cool girls vaping gross flavors in the back of someone else’s car, her thoughts turned elsewhere as the rest of her friends venture inside the club, phone battery at one-percent and completely unbothered. I wish her and Shears the best, if only because I don’t think I could handle a Cowgirl Clue breakup album; the black-hole force of its unmitigated disaffection would pull the flesh off right my bones.

Efdemin Poly 2xLP (Ostgut Ton)
Can we get more of this? I’m talking about techno producers who take years between albums, and when they do, the results are worth the wait. Minimal techno is a style of music that can easily be pumped out, assembly-line-style, without necessarily suffering in quality, but you can also tell when someone has tinkered with their work until it attained a glorious final form. That’s certainly the case with Poly, an immersive double LP that refines, rather than reinvents, the style. Efdemin’s first full-length since 2019’s unexpectedly folk-tinged New Atlantis, Poly seems to be a tribute to the thrill of sound itself, the unpierced ear on the cover offering a clue. Like most Ostgut Ton techno, it plays out stoically with clinical details, from the residual echoes of “Lost Somewhere In The Day” to the nocturnal purr layered within “Signal To Noise” (imagine a cat gently sleeping on your lap inside Berghain), but Efdemin’s tender heart is always on display. It might be as close to emo-techno as a German could get (which isn’t close at all of course), a reverence for beauty that takes time to fully unfold. I get the impression that Efdemin is someone who has cried ecstatic tears while listening to techno music more than once in his life (and not just because of the drugs); Poly is a masterfully-rendered love-letter to those moments.

Endless Joy Endless Joy LP (Iron Lung)
Iron Lung has had a few great “house bands” in its lengthy tenure – Iron Lung the band, I guess, being the most obvious – and I’d like to add Endless Joy to that shortlist. They’re a new concern from old men, namely Nick Turner, Jensen Ward, Shaun Dean and Ian Jefferies. You’ll recognize the first three names from Cold Sweat (and the first two from Walls), and if there are any concerns in your head that their current tastes may have wandered from ferocious, unmarketable hardcore-punk, you’ll need to banish those this instant. Cold Sweat is one of those “gone too soon” hardcore bands (rare after, say, 1983), and Endless Joy feels like a fresh tank of gas in that old violent machine. It’s hardcore with a working knowledge of both power-violence and My War that doesn’t particularly sound like either. I love when they go completely hog-wild: “The Future Is Now” delivers a moshy amuse-bouche, takes a breath and then rips into a cacophonous speed-race with guitars so mangled, Nick Blinko might give Endless Joy a call to make sure they’re okay. Vocalist Shaun Dean has always had a knack for handling dirges – not every hardcore screamer knows what to do – and his band provides plenty of bleak, toiling slow-parts for him to pop every last forehead vein through. As it’s running you over, it won’t matter if it’s a brand-new wheel or a somewhat-familiar old gnarly one – you’ll still be a wet stain on the concrete.

False Persona & Mall Grab Crazy 12″ (Fragrance Recordings)
The cover image of DJ/producers False Persona and Mall Grab has a certain “Live at CBGB” je ne sais quoi that I feel deeply appealing. If Bold and Gorilla Biscuits were twiddling knobs on synths instead of playing guitars and drums, it would’ve looked like this, which is appropriate as these upbeat dance tracks from the two UK-based artists conjure images of windowless clubs rippling with the savage energy of youth. “Crazy” goes hard from the drop, upbeat Euro-dance with an incessant vocal hook running through Burial-esque filters. What else do you need? Not sure it’s possible to play this one loud enough, but we can (and must) try. The b-side features two versions of “It’s Time”, a galloping UK-garage cut that overloads the vocal samples in the manner of Baltimore club, ensuring every t-shirt is soaked through no matter if Balenciaga or Primark. Released a good number of months after the digital version, it was clear that “Crazy” needed more than a Soundcloud URL, so while this twelve-inch is decidedly no-frills, let’s hope it’s getting blasted from the decks of your favorite club basement this weekend. Maybe Don Fury can produce the next one?

Felinto Festa Punk / Festa Block 7″ (Bokeh Versions)
Bristol’s Bokeh Versions label is closing up shop at the end of the year, some ten years after first delivering their mischievous, noisy and omnivorous takes on bass-forward sound-system music. What better way to wrap things up than a seven-inch single from São Paulo baile scum-rockers Felinto? These two party tracks are vehemently anti-fascist in nature, the red-hot glow of their rage leaping from the grooves. “Festa Block” hurls all sorts of wet electronic chunks, replete with gang vocal chanting, dub-reggae effects, brittle drum-machine beats, layers of lo-fi synths, and what’s that, an undistorted guitar playing a Discharge riff at the end? “Festa Punk” gets aggro with the breakbeats, offering an even more imposing soundscape for the same vocal melody, a disfigured robot recalling FNU Ronnies at their prime. It feels like a no-budget South American analog to Atari Teenage Riot, with more at stake and a clarified purpose. You know with certainty that Felinto’s fans dance to this stuff, and I really need to see it in action: unless it’s some unholy new twerk / mosh hybrid bursting with joy and violence, I’m going to have to lock myself in the basement and workshop such moves on my own.

Greydini Freakdini LP (Celluloid Lunch)
Consider us forewarned: the album is not titled Normaldini. Greydyn “Greydini” Gatti is a Toronto local who might someday become a local legend, depending on how long and at what frequency he continues his musical exploits. Unlike lots of solo projects, Greydini could really only ever be one person, a mad-scientist of tape-hissing synth-punk with a singular point of view. And just in the way that Screamers and Cabaret Voltaire utilized the cheap technology available to them, Greydini works with a grody free-ware sound befitting his own generation. Drum loops, Casio-sounding synths and digital-everything all collide in the corner of his bedroom with the most electric outlets, like Atom & His Package and Half Japanese trapped together in a tangle of USB cables. “Outsider” can be used as a marketing term, but in the case of Greydini it’s simply the truth: there is no fanbase being developed here (and even less money being made). It’s simply one frazzled gentleman trying to make sense of the world in the form of sticky, splattered electronic punk. My favorite part might be the fact that Greydini thanks no fewer than three different family members in the credits (and possibly more – I only could verify those with the same last name), one of whom painted the hallucinatory cover art back in 1974. How far back does the Gatti family freakery extend?

Headache Thank You For Almost Everything 2xLP (PLZ Make It Ruinz)
Joseph Winger Thornalley produces music under the wretched moniker of Vegyn, whose profile has blown up care of a James Blake co-sign and Frank Ocean production credits, but it’s his Headache profile that resonates with me most. (Certain readers might be amused to learn that Thornalley’s dad was in Powerpearls staples The First Steps, whose “The Beat Is Back” is prime-cut British power-pop.) As Headache, Thornalley crafts heartstring-pulling trip-hop enhanced with a digitally-rendered British male voice reading the poetry of one Francis Hornsby Clark (whose existence remains curiously unverified online). The instrumentals are clean and well-fashioned, a Balearic take on the Brit-pop sound we might associate with The Verve and Charlatans UK, full of hold-music pianos, soul-stirring strings, blissful synth pads and stadium-quality drum loops. Like the first Headache album, Thank You For Almost Everything comes with a vinyl LP of the instrumentals, but it’s the spoken-word originals that make it pop. Hornsby Clark’s prose can be disarming, funny and sad, often in the same track (or phrase), an incisive observer of life’s follies delivered with the unnerving artificiality inherent in a computer-generated voice. I can understand if the “is this somehow AI?” feel turns some people off – I dry-heave at the thought of computer-generated “creativity” myself – but Headache’s combination of panoramic trip-hop wonder and cheeky prose came from the mind of a guy whose dad once played in The Cure and his low-profile-keeping wordsmith friend.

Her New Knife Chrome Is Lullaby Deluxe 12″ (Julia’s War)
Let me start with a confession: earlier this year I actually wrote Her New Knife asking if I could release Chrome Is Lullaby on vinyl, to which they kindly explained that it was already in the works care of Julia’s War. It’s not the sort of impulse that usually comes over me, but I couldn’t stop listening to this EP from late last year, and it felt like, well, if no one else was gonna memorialize these MP3s into a permanent physical form, I might as well be the one to do it. Their music is a fantastic combination of the quieter end of Y2K-era emo (I’m thinking of the artsier side of labels like Crank!, Southern and Doghouse at the time), the hooks that arise from Sonic Youth’s inscrutable guitar-tunings and a touch of the nu-gaze scene they’re most generally aligned with, all delivered by young adults who probably grew up watching Adult Swim and making many of their real friends online. Take “Purepurepure” for example, which sets a miserably sludgy bass-line against shimmering minor-chord melodies and hushed vocals. It’s glitchy, deviant and weird, like a Manga whose cute cover betrays its supernatural-sex-horror storyline. The whole EP is fantastic – no two songs sound the same but it all sounds like Her New Knife, which is the mark of a great band. Padding out this vinyl version are remixes of each of the six originals on the second side, coming from artists with names like Angel Emoji and Silicone Valley (as well as local pals They Are Gutting A Body Of Water). They’re mostly what you’d expect to hear in chopped-up electronic remixes of moody indie guitar music, offering a nice moment to ponder what Her New Knife might share with us next.

JJulius Vol III LP (Mammas Mysteriska Jukebox / DFA)
Double-Jay Oolius refuses to abide by typical genre constraints – that’s how he’s / they’ve always been – but never has it felt more comfortable, more natural than on this third full-length volume. While “guitar pop” is as fitting a blanket term as any for the music herein, every aspect is considered, then reconsidered, until the various paths JJulius has taken to get to “guitar pop” are indecipherable. No element is safe from dub effects, from the drums (care of Viagra Boys’s Tor Sjödén) to the Fender Rhodes, the field-recordings, the synth, the sax, the vocals. Never all at once, though – every song has its anchor, be it a syrupy bass-line or school-yard vocal hook, while other instruments fade in and out of focus. This has become the trademark JJulius sound, where the studio mix is having as much fun as the musicians themselves, and it has me imagining Orange Juice, Belle & Sebastian and Arthur Russell sharing a pot of tea at This Heat’s Cold Storage studio, working on an album that they will keep entirely to themselves. I’m not sure what anyone associates with the DFA label anymore, but production has always been high on their list, so it’s no surprise the playfully raw sounds of JJulius have found a steady home there. Vol III might be the most easy-listening experimental album (or most experimental easy-listening album) you catch this year.

Erica Dawn Lyle On Fire 12″ (Half A Million / Feeding Tube)
Layers of meaning can be found in the title to Erica Dawn Lyle’s new EP. Recorded in a time when both Los Angeles and Canada were on fire (okay, one of the many recent times), Lyle dedicated this music to the resilient communities affected, the self-immolating activist Aaron Bushnell, and also Van Halen, whose “On Fire” she interprets as a “hot trans girl anthem”. In practice, this means that Lyle picked up her electric guitar and shredded the hell out of it in a free-wheeling, volcanic approach akin to Bruce Russell and Keiji Haino. The b-side goes even harder, as if Lyle is trying to carry the weight of all of Acid Mothers Temple at once, a prickly choogle running a gauntlet of cattle prods and barbed wire. Both shred-fests are buffered by soft renditions of David Lee Roth’s “On Fire” lyrics, brief cracks of light between dark storm clouds. The second take expands that segment with live drums and a subdued, seasick guitar melody, an ecstatic alt-rock send-off for what was otherwise a scalding pipe-burst of guitar. Even for the most privileged and healthiest of us, it’s been a rough couple of years to process – Lyle’s coping technique of tormenting her guitar and daydreaming about Van Halen lyrics is something worth considering.

Matthew Smith Group Matthew Smith Group LP (Tall Texan)
Look at this Matthew Smith Group, smugly poised like the party of six in line ahead of you for the best brunch in the city. Yeah, I know, I know, it’s at least an extra hour wait because of them… we’ll go somewhere else, thanks. There are probably a million Matthew Smiths wandering the United States right now, but this particular one played in the beloved Detroit rock outfit Outrageous Cherry, and now he’s moving forward with this group under his own name. His ensemble brings an airy touch of fried psychedelia to whimsical paisley pop in the spirit of Pernice Brothers, The Beach Boys and Rain Parade. A ghostly reverb lightly hovers over every sound, bestowing the proceedings with an aura akin to daisies sprouting up alongside train tracks within a mountain tunnel. It was cool to see Chris Pottinger on synth duties (his illustrations are as gloriously mind-bending as his analog noise under the name of Cotton Museum) but he read the room, delivering understated, mellow contributions. At times, it can feel too translucent and lightweight for me to really grasp onto, like powdered sugar in the wind, but when I stop demanding such sober and terrestrial behaviors from Matthew Smith Group’s dreamy indie strum, the satisfaction slowly but surely ensues.

Midnight Mines Feel I’m Slipping Away Now LP (Minimum Table Stacks)
You ever find yourself furious that a song ended? It’s not a sensation I frequently experience, but “Parts & Pieces”, the opening cut on Midnight Mines’ newest album Feel I’m Slipping Away Now, should still be going. It should be the whole LP! An outlier in their repertoire, “Parts & Pieces” locates a firm bed of two-tone ska and splatters and sputters all over it, horns and dubbed-out vocals and whatever else in wild druggy abandon (yet also well-suited for a lively Sunday barbecue). It’s essentially perfect music, and as you can see, I’m still coming to terms with the group’s decision to abandon this style for eight other songs. Thankfully, the rest is cool too – this London-based duo haven’t met a guitar style from the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s that they don’t like, or at least like enough to bend, twist and demineralize. You might find some similarities in that manner to The Jesus & Mary Chain, Cindy Lee, Cheater Slicks, Cramps and Black Time (the latter of which shares some sort of personnel with Midnight Mines), though Midnight Mines don’t care if their pyramid of champagne glasses comes tumbling down in a jagged, dangerous mess. It’s a raucous trip through the rusty pipes of party-rock history, though maybe it’ll take an extended twelve-inch “Parts & Pieces” single to calm me down…

Tony Molina On This Day LP (Slumberland / Speakeasy Studios SF)
If you’re at all like me, you expect your baroque indie-pop songsmiths to carry a deep appreciation for the music of Excruciating Terror, which is one of the many reasons why Tony Molina is the greatest pop troubadour of our times. If you’re already familiar with him, I assume that not only are you a fan, you’ve also already been alerted to the release of On This Day, Molina’s newest and most comprehensive album, but if not, I’m excited to share the good news! Molina’s music moves in a few time-tested directions: when electrified, Weezer and/or Guided By Voices (feat. Slash on lead guitar) are clear comparisons, and when acoustic, images swirl of mop-topped Beach Boys and bespectacled Apples In Stereo dancing like sugar plum fairies. On This Day leans towards the latter – sorry, the screaming lead guitar solos are absent – with Molina’s signature under-a-minute song lengths to keep us on our toes. It’s a whirlwind of timeless pop perfection, pared down to the essentials (which should (and does) include bells, Mellotron, piano and trumpet). Fans will rejoice, and newcomers will quickly fall in love for the first time. On a side note, Molina’s rendition of the Shirley Collins-popularized “Just As The Tide Was Flowing” here reminded me of Home Blitz’s version, which has me thinking: is a duet from the two of them too much to ask? For Christmas??

Optic Sink Lucky Number LP (Feel It)
Memphis’s Optic Sink leaned on their countrywide punk network for Lucky Number: Reigning Sound’s Greg Cartwright provided input on the songs, Sweeping Promises’s Caufield Schmug produced the record, and Cincinnati’s Feel It released it unto the world. They certainly seem like a band worth rooting for, ever since Natalie Hoffmann picked up a synth and realized she was making music befitting something other than her minimalist garage-punk group Nots. With Keith Cooper and Ben Bauermeister on bass and additional synth respectively, Lucky Number is poised to be the next step in the group’s evolution. Unfortunately for me, I’m not really vibing with the album, no matter how much I will myself to. The songs are uniformly on the slow side of mid-paced, and Hoffman’s vocals, given a bit more room to stretch out and steal the show, are delivered in a distant, consistent monotone. It’s not particularly different from the Optic Sink approach of prior records, but a song like 2023’s “A Face In The Crowd” has some bite to it, an appealing desperation that’s generally absent from this album. There are some cool playful bass-lines, and plenty of that same-old retro drum-machine sound that we all enjoy, but can you sense me grasping to put a positive spin on Lucky Number? If there’s a catchy hook here, it hasn’t caught me yet, but I’m gonna keep trying – check back in after another dozen spins and see if my tune hasn’t changed.

Out Of The Blue Shut Up Shut Up And A Double Fuck You 7″ (no label)
Is that a Happy Gilmore quote? It’s certainly a robust insult, but I get the impression that new Massachusetts punk band Out Of The Blue are only having a lil’ bit of fun with their debut seven-inch’s title. At least that’s how these three songs hit, a garage-tinged hardcore-punk sound that I’d slide somewhere between the earliest recordings from White Lung and Carbonas. It seems as though they intended to sing these songs but the energy often pushes them over into screams, a dual-vocal attack with stabby guitar and a drummer who plays too skillfully to be recorded this poorly. Tough luck – go join Pink Floyd if that’s what you’re after! Out Of The Blue cover “Up Front” by The Wipers on the b-side – a gold-standard songwriting influence in modern punk rock, to be sure – and I hope they don’t mind me saying that it’s my favorite of the three. They’re legends for good reason, right? In what is exceedingly rare these days, I can’t find any Out Of The Blue presence on the internet after a few dedicated minutes of searching. This is the sort of hot tip that brings you to this corner of the web, though… with a noble tear in my eye, I am here to reveal to you that Out Of The Blue features ex-members of Funeral Cone and Bone Zone. To unlisted regional punk rock, I am but a faithful servant.

Permanent Opposite Permanent Opposite LP (Inscrutable)
Jared Leibowich has built up a pretty substantial body of work over the last fifteen years or so, from The Zoltars to The Infinites, a couple solo albums, and now Permanent Opposite. This one is also a solo album, now with a more enticing moniker than “Jared Leibowich”, and like everything else he’s done, his conspicuous voice guides this little ship through the sea at night. He has a gracious, wearied warble, and it takes us through eleven songs of mild jangle and patient psychedelia, the typical full-band setup studio-assembled. It certainly fits in with Inscrutable’s roster of offbeat indie-pop, as Permanent Opposite is poppy while avoiding typical pop-music behavior. Permanent Opposite adheres to typical Jared Leibowich behavior, however – he’s been toiling with his own form of introverted, melancholic indie music for as long as he’s been putting out records, and Permanent Opposite does not deliver any sort of stylistic jump or unexpected new development. Fine by me! I’m not particularly desperate to hear his personal takes on drum n’ bass or Oi, though if you’re sitting on any unreleased tapes…

Pyrex Slugman 7″ (La Vida Es Un Mus)
Goo-goo g’joob! Brooklyn’s Pyrex head over to the hardcore-for-the-hardcore La Vida Es Un Mus label for a quick EP, confirming that their noise-punk is rubber-stamped by the underground hardcore elite (in addition to rabid celebrators of the Total Punk catalog). Makes sense to me, particularly on these four songs, which rip forward like a Lime scooter straight into the East River. Play to your audience, that’s what I say: no dirges or sadistic cover songs this time around, only four fast cuts that might lead you to believe that Pyrex were raised exclusively on Discharge and Die Kreuzen, not Halo Of Flies and Action Swingers. I probably need to see them live to fully understand Pyrex’s deal, and I’m overdue in making that happen – my understanding is that they’re a trio, and I’m always a little fascinated by aggro punk/hardcore with a lead-singing guitarist. It’s tricky territory, especially when you can just recruit your biggest idiot friend to scream into a bent-up Shure and solve that problem. Pyrex keep it tight though, clenched even, these songs providing not the satisfying release of a well-delivered fart so much as the tense discomfort of holding one in. And now they’ve got a new mascot, if they want one: assuming that’s the Slugman himself on the cover, he’s positively jacked.

William Scott / BJ Armour Peace Makers In The Summer Time LP (Beauty Music)
Studio Route 29 is an art studio / gallery in the lovely burg of Frenchtown, NJ. It’s also the home of the Beauty Music label, which “centers the musical practices of people with intellectual and developmental disabilities”. This collaborative split between visual artists William Scott and BJ Armour is the label’s first physical release, and if you aren’t enamored by these two, I will light a candle for your shriveled heart. Both artists worked with musician Hop Peternell to bring their musical ideas to life, discussing moods, melodies and sonic directions. Peternell put together the instrumentals (guitar, synth, drum machine, computer) and Scott and Armour jumped right in. Scott isn’t shy in front of the mic, as he seems to sing the guitar lick to “Whole Wide World” (which I believe is precisely how Pushead helped write Septic Death songs). Scott’s tracks are nice and slow for the summer heat that I do not currently miss. Armour’s music has more of a youthful touch (in a post-Y2K way), with autotune vocal processing and a sweetly melancholy singing voice that seems to exist squarely in this post-Frank Ocean world. “Swimming In The Spa” goes raw-confessional in a Lil B way, to name another modern visionary invoked by this music. Adorned with a striking William Scott painting on the cover, there’s a sticker on the sleeve that quotes kind words towards BJ Armour’s “Fall Is Coming” from none other than… Vashti Bunyan. We’d have such a beautiful world if we could only get rid of these miserable little fascists running around.

Twenty One Children Twenty One Children 7″ (Slovenly)
For their three-hundredth release(!), the globetrotting Slovenly label finally offers us some African punk. Is Antarctica the only continent they haven’t tapped? From Soweto, South Africa, Twenty One Children are a drums / vocals / guitar trio that sound like they could’ve come from any given Southern Californian suburb in 1983, which is a-ok in my book. Opener “Ice Cube” is one of those punk songs so gloriously simple that it glimpses toward perfection – over a stop/start riff, they shout “today was a good day” before hitting the sing-along chorus of “Ice Cube! Ice Cube! Ice Cube! Ice Cube!”. It’s one of the purest distillations of punk-rock as I understand the form, and you really ought to do yourself a favor and give it a listen. The other three songs are just as rough and ratty, somewhere between that first-wave So Cal sound ala Circle Jerks and the Gilman St. scene that followed some ten years later (ala Corrupted Morals), rambunctiously, joyously amateurish. The guitar tone is cheap-heavy in that SOA No Policy sorta way, all the way through “Looney Bin”, whose lyrics “here I am at the looney bin” are repeated at least a hundred times. Please join me in trying to manifest this scenario: once Greg Ginn ditches his current Black Flag zoomer bandmates, he enlists Twenty One Children to replace them, and they kick him out and only play new material going forward.

Ugnė Uma Strange Love / Someone Call Donna 7″ (Somewhere Press)
It only takes three sonic elements for Ugnė Uma to whip up the thrillingly dour “Rage Love Strange Love”, proving once again that less is more, so long as the less you’re working with bears some element of magic. Her drum machine ticks like a malfunctioning Kit-Cat Klock, her piano chords are barely visible through the unventilated smoke, and her voice is almost comically deep, steeped in the Anohni school of vocal drama. And the only lyrics are the song’s title, over and over! “Rage Love Strange Love II” turns off the clicker and finds her digging deeper into a mournful jazz / R&B style, as if Sade was a mortal human being who hung out with Sam Gendel and Schatterau (Uma in fact has worked with both). For a third distinct flavor, “Someone Call Donna” sets up a downtown NYC funky bass-line with telephone-conversation voice and R&B vocals that waft in through the loft’s open window. Taken as a whole, these three songs are unstoppably charming, the work of a busy mind that never takes an errant step, even if there are footprints scattered all over the place.

Jim White Inner Day LP (Drag City)
As a collaborative drummer, Jim White has given us so much: records from Dirty Three, Venom P. Stinger and The Hard Quartet; tours with Cat Power, Will Oldham and Bill Callahan, to list a few big-name highlights. I first saw White perform with Callahan a few years ago and he nearly stole the show right out from under his bandleader – a more charismatic drum performance I don’t think I’ve seen this side of Han Bennink. So we know he’s good with other people (and on stage), but the man’s internal monologue deserves some time as well, which is what we get with Inner Day, his second solo full-length following last year’s All Hits: Memories. On his typical drum-kit accompanying synths and keys, he doesn’t sound particularly rehearsed, or that he considered what he would be playing before he started playing it. His synths wander, and the drums tend to follow like an off-leash dog on an empty trail, running up ahead, lagging behind, mostly just sniffing around. Inner Day is a daydream meditation in that way, with the exception of “I Don’t Do / Grand Central”, featuring saxophonist Zoh Amba. Apologies to all the other songs released this year, but “I Don’t Do / Grand Central” is my favorite of them all: alongside a calm percussive tumble and hypnotic, Natural Information Society-esque strings, White and Amba interact like Statler and Waldorf, their dialogue inexplicably shifting in and out of the unexpectedly catchy lyrical hook. They’re the odd couple I desperately need in my life, intergenerational true-blue weirdos who just wanna sip coffee on the subway and eat oysters before the gig. I’ve been playing this tune for everyone I know, really sitting them down and making them listen, and if you finish reading this without pulling up the accompanying music video, please understand that you’ve hurt me.

Who’s The Technician? ? LP (Wah Wah Wino)
The latest blink-and-missed Wah Wah Wino release comes from Who’s The Technician?, an unidentified producer whose name you may recall from the label-defining Absolutely Wino compilation (I know I did!). It’s ridiculous that these records are so difficult to come by, as ? is a wild rumpus of live-action techno, as deliriously fun as the rest of the label’s 2025 releases – they should be teaching this stuff in public school, not limiting it to whoever is online within the first fifteen minutes of it hitting digital shops. Anyway, for those of us lucky enough to hear these tracks one way or another, the charm quickly soothes those gripes. The general template is an athletic, all-hands-on-deck sort of acid techno, frequently enhanced by what sounds like an Otamatone (that child-friendly Japanese mouth-sound synth shaped like a music note). It’s an addition that immediately cracks techno’s seriousness to pieces, as Who’s The Technician? is in fast pursuit of fun no matter how many pretentious brows are raised and/or furrowed. “I’m A Klepto” might be my favorite of the bunch, its gnarled vocal line recalling something grown in Beau Wanzer’s dungeon laboratory, but the whole thing is gold, ending with the self-explanatory “Live Excerpt OE Festival – Sherkin Island, Co.Cork ’18”, which offers an intimate glimpse into Who’s The Technician? live gigs. Spoiler alert: it sounds nuts.

Yu Su Foundry / Bonita 12″ (Short Span)
Yu Su has been a premier name in the ever-expanding field of ambient dub-techno since the mid ’10s, and for good reason. EPs like Preparations For Departure and Roll With The Punches are as unique and fresh now as when they came out, all signs pointing to Yu Su as a restlessly creative spirit. Now on this new twelve-inch single, the copy references her Polyphonic Eating series(!?), what is described as “a transformative approach experimenting with modern culinary environments”(?!) – see what I mean about the restless creativity? She’s apparently out there thinking deep about music and food, and while I could’ve gone for more of her ruminative ambient electronics, she goes and throws us two club bangers instead – precisely what I didn’t know I needed. “Foundry” sashays into view with some upstroke hi-hats, 8-bit synths simultaneously tooting / swirling and a delirious pulse. Mid-paced with plenty of bounce, I can picture her deploying this at one of her non-culinary engagements to the delight of dance-floor crowds. “Bonita” is a little chillier – if I can picture the vegetables dancing in her fridge to “Foundry”, I’m now picturing the contents of her freezer vogueing in line. It’s downtempo but not to the point of total relaxation, even if those ice-drip melodies hit like the strongest peppermint candy allowed on the market. I’m not trying to butt in and offer her menu suggestions for the next Polyphonic Eating event, but if she’s asking…

A Happy Return Hamewith LP (Spillage Fete)
The onslaught of kitchen-sink experimental-ambient records continues, but it’s nice to know that proverbial kitchen sinks have never been more accessible to the amateur noise/music-making public. A Happy Return have been at it since the pre-Covid era, as the Scottish domestic duo of Aimée Henderson and Mat Fowler have chosen to process their lives together in the form of music. Hamewith is an enchanting new story in the book of their lives. For as much as their home-life is built into the record – the sounds of creaky rooms, dusty old gear, and even the presence of their daughter (a recurrence from prior albums) – Hamewith isn’t a collection of oddly-edited field-recordings but a highly musical affair, at least relative to the rest of this scene where The Shadow Ring can be considered ground zero. Synths and guitars are barely recognizable as themselves, as A Happy Return find new and exciting ways to masquerade their fine music, somewhere in the vicinity of Memotone’s alt-reality daydreams, Idea Fire Company’s bizarre conceptions, Schatterau’s autumnal creeping and the dirty strings of Miradasvacas. Like I mentioned, there’s a lot of this nebulous, busy-ambient, quiet post-punk home-experimentation happening these days, but Hamewith is a real highlight, right down to the cover art, which was individually hand-painted by Henderson herself – all three hundred of them!

Rosa Anschütz Sabbatical LP (Heartworm Press)
Wes Eisold’s Heartworm imprint has essentially been a vehicle for his own music and writing (with the occasional friend’s band), so it’s noteworthy that Rosa Anschütz’s newest full-length found a home on the label. After spinning it myself, I can understand why Eisold would want to put his stamp of approval on Sabbatical, as it’s a well-oiled dark-wave production full of the eerie beauty and brutalist sophistication one might associate with a pair of leather Rick Owens trousers. While the atmosphere remains constant – a distant, dreary longing with morose synths and smoky reverb – her songwriting varies throughout, resulting in an album that feels like an album, not a collection of songs or subtle variations on an aesthetic theme. Opener “Eva” arrives on a squall of vocal glitch; “Plaster Copy” is solemn post-punk with an unexpected lyric hook of “you were overeating”; “Tacheles” is a striking spoken-word soliloquy, to mention three. Anschütz’s voice is confident and mysterious, somewhere between Tamaryn’s siren calls and Anika’s stern warnings, and she runs it through a wide range of expressions, singing exclusively in English for the benefit of us uncultured Anglophones. “Fire Lily” is a Warpaint-esque highlight, and “Burlap” channels the shadowy essence of Jarboe, two more angles from which Anschütz approaches her craft. I don’t have to check the weather report to know that it was raining in Los Angeles on Sabbatical‘s release day.

Baby Tyler Sucker With A Dream LP (Night Bell)
The cute-factor of a name like Baby Tyler doesn’t seem like it’s doing Tyler Fassnacht any favors, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s perfectly content with fighting upstream. Last year’s Baby Tyler Band LP ripped nicely, but I think Sucker With A Dream bests it, a real powder keg of punk for those who dare to glance in its direction. Returning to a solo studio-project this time around (though hopefully to be performed live with a quality roster of scabs), Baby Tyler is absolutely incensed, energizing these songs no matter if they’re played fast, medium or slow. There’s a lot of sideways action happening, recalling the rambunctiousness of peak Monorchid pushed to an agonized scream. Neither egg- nor chain-, Sucker With A Dream avoids genre exercise, comfortably synthesizing Fassnacht’s own strain of punk that leaves room for guitar solos, lobotomized backing vocals, poppy bass-guitar, violent hardcore vocalizing, garage-y riffs, one-note piano… you know, all the trappings that come together to constitute a distinct personality. If you ever wondered why there wasn’t a band that somehow managed to sound like Slices, Kid Dynamite, Stick Men With Ray Guns, Cold Sweat, Skull Kontrol and Wrangler Brutes at the same time, today is your lucky day.

Bar Italia Some Like It Hot LP (Matador)
The story as I understand it is this: after four albums of inscrutably lo-fi indie, London trio Bar Italia got sick of the “mysterious” tag that was following them around, and are now delivering the slicked-up alt-rock of Some Like It Hot. They still haven’t put a picture of themselves anywhere in the packaging, but the clarity of this album is undeniable, polished and ready for a feisty round of Jools Holland. I haven’t spent a ton of time with their prior records to confidently detail this evolution (I enjoyed Tracey Denim if I never quite figured it out), but I feel like Bar Italia are best enjoyed without thinking too hard about the whole situation. This is hip pop-rock with vocals that are immediately identifiable as British, like Damon Albarn trying on some of The Walkmen’s suits before a long night of thrilling social excess. I can see how this might turn off some of their coolest (read: most pretentious) fans, the band shifting from the enigmatic quarters of Dean Blunt’s World Music label and shedding their basement-flat fidelity for something that will immediately resonate with fans of Franz Ferdinand and The Strokes (and Wet Leg and Dry Cleaning, too). Those party-poopers can flock to the next, newest, most-unknown iteration of bands that will inevitably follow Bar Italia – as for me, I’ll be choking myself out with my skinny tie the moment “Cowbella” hits the club, doing a new dance I’m calling the indie-phyxiation.

Black Eyes Hostile Design LP (Dischord)
For a good thirty seconds into the opening track “Break A Leg”, Daniel Martin-McCormick squeals roughly a million lyrics over nothing more than a dance-y drum beat. Jacob Long’s three effective bass notes soon appear, and then by the time Hugh McElroy’s ooo-OO-oo hits, it’s like, damn… the Black Eyes I remember are back! The decades have done nothing to wither their energy, dampen their fiery spirit, lighten their mood or push them into any sonic territory besides even more righteous, thoughtful and combustible art-punk. Sure, “Burn” grooves in half-time dub, but Martin-McCormick is crying “kill your shitty parents” over McElroy’s steady lines of Greek, and by the time Martin-McCormick is screaming the song title at the top of his lungs, I’m having visions (alright, erotic fantasies) of Mark Stewart as Rage Against The Machine’s Svengali. Hostile Design shows no signs of typical indie-rock aging, but there’s a sharper wisdom in the reams of lyrics and a bolder confidence on display, angrier and with plenty to be angrier about. The songs themselves seem to flow naturally, less “written” and more unconsciously conceived, ebbing and flowing in a way that only a band that’s lived on the road together can deliver. Some of the more difficult free-improv elements that made Cough so beguiling give way to immediate rhythms, catchy vocals and spastic full-band freak-outs, though “Yeah, Right” skronks harder than anything in their catalog. It’s wild – six new tracks ready to become live staples and all-time favorites, flipping the phrase “scene elder” from images of kindly punk-rock grandparents to an energizing (if slightly balder) freak parade.

Blawan SickElixir LP (XL)
I still recall those thrilling childhood moments when the popular video-game console got replaced by its next generation: blocky Nintendo replaced by colorful Super Nintendo (replaced by the 360° worlds of Nintendo 64). That’s what it’s been like when checking out Blawan’s records through the years – he’s been on the forefront of electronic music since his early singles on Hessle Audio and R&S and has remained there for over a decade, teetering on the cliff-edge of uncharted post-dubstep territory while the rest of us marvel from down below. Even with a firm grasp on his last two fantastic XL EPs, SickElixir is another leap forward for which I found myself unprepared. It’s simply the sickest, no pun intended – Blawan’s technoid mutations are massive and outrageous, music that inspires giggling and fright in equal measure. These fourteen tracks are compact, taut, and filled with shocking sounds – to bring it back to the video game reference, listening can feel like your character being killed in three successive hits by some massive glowing sword you didn’t realize existed in the game. The vocals are inhuman in an Amnesia Scanner / Two Shell sort of way, growling digital interfaces ready to eat your face, and the beats are textured and searingly colorful – what gear did he make this music on, and why does no one else have access to it? You could recall aspects of early Ghostemane and Low Jack’s Lighthouse Stories in the cybernetic gore of “NOS” and “WTF”, but in the same way that elements of Duck Hunt can be found in Super Mario 64. If you don’t own a car, I suggest you gain access to one so that you might blast “Casch” at a red light – it’s one of the few original joys of 2025. Highest recommendation!

Buttechno X-Berg Dubs 12″ (Psy X)
Had to write this one up quick, seeing as I had an actual dream about this record last night! In it, I was handling a copy and the grooves curved in a U shape outward from the center hole, a sort of physical impossibility that only works in the dream-state, yet I was still able to play it on a standard turntable. I share this with the understanding that this is a safe space for minds irreversibly impaired by obscure musical obsessions, and also, y’know, there’s never anything wrong with some new Buttechno. Pavel Milyakov’s output (as Buttechno or otherwise) spans a wide range of styles and aesthetic choices, to the point where I can’t comfortably say any of his records “always sound like him”, but that’s a good part of the fun. His Pmxper project is a modern avant-slow-core masterpiece, that Masse Métal album under his own name is thrilling industrial… I could go on, but we’ve got X-Berg Dubs at hand. This EP’s apparently “Berlin-inspired”, and I can certainly hear that – while these four tracks take different paths, they all lead to Panorama Bar. “Tech March” probably inspired the dream, what with some fat grub-like synths and a drum n’bass shaker giving the false impression of “dance music”. “Dub 22” and “Hypno Dub” zip with the filtration of classic Basic Channel; “Grey Dungeons” aerates jungle in a tribute similar to Zomby’s Where Were U In ’92?. Sounds good on vinyl, but you should’ve heard it in my sleep…

Citric Dummies Split With Turnstile LP (Feel It)
The tomfoolery inherent in Citric Dummies naming their new album Split With Turnstile warms my heart. It was funny in a troublesome way back when Negativland released U2, and while I’m not sure that the average teenage Turnstile fan knows what a “split” is, I appreciate Citric Dummies’ similar eagerness to cause confusion and annoyance. This Minneapolis-based punk trio can’t refuse a good gimmick – their last album was given the awkward mash-up title of Zen And The Arcade Of Beating Your Ass – and it works well for them, as this is a band that need not rely on gimmicks to get by. It simply adds to the fun! Citric Dummies are on their way to perfecting speedy and melodic hardcore-punk, which seems to only get faster and more unrelenting as the band progresses. If you’ve ever accidentally played 33 RPM records by Adolescents, Screeching Weasel, The Vandals or Reagan Youth at 45 (or 78), you might recognize a similarly frenzied performance here. Vocalist/bassist Drew Ailes behaves like a modern-day Tesco Vee, a sarcastic punk-rock raconteur gleefully skewering himself and everyone around him (though he avoids any dumb old-fashioned bigotry to get a reaction ala Mr. Vee). You’ll want to refer to the lyric sheet – like I said, these songs fly by in a blur – and be sure to give “I Can’t Relate” your attention, which whips up half a dozen modern-day character portraits, ever painful in their accuracy. Ailes could’ve been one hell of a meme artist, but like a penniless fool, he took up rock n’ roll instead.

Lucrecia Dalt A Danger To Ourselves LP (Rvng Intl.)
Big pop swings can come from anywhere these days, which is fun if potentially precarious. I don’t necessarily want to hear what happens when a hardcore band enlists Chappell Roan’s production team in a plea to mainstream Taco Bell audiences, but Lucrecia Dalt, whose fantastic Aaron Dilloway collaboration still gets plenty of after-hours play around YGR headquarters? Let’s see what she has in mind! First clue that this might be cool is the David Sylvain co-production, an art-rock elder statesman too timeless to be trendy. He immediately makes his presence felt with a spoken part on opener “Cosa Rara” (best track of the album, if you ask me). It’s a mischievous, loose-limbed synthetic/organic groove, replete with a car-crash sound-effect that leads into Sylvain’s weather-beaten voice. Latin guitars, tuned percussion, richly layered synths, reality-twisting production effects and melodies upon melodies are at work throughout, and it rolls like Fiona Apple following David Lynch’s off-screen instructions, were both of them born and raised in coastal Europe. “Caes” makes fine use of stereo panning, as if a dozen different Dalts are fighting for my obedience – disorientation is a big part of the A Danger To Ourselves experience, though the ambrosian melodies ensure that any bewilderment goes down extra smooth.

The Drags Dragsploitation… Now! LP (Total Punk)
Dragsploitation… Now! is one of those records that seared itself into my sponge-like brain as a young punk without having ever heard a single note. Estrus had a relentless Maximumrocknroll ad campaign back in the mid ’90s, and while my numbers might be off, it at least felt like a half-page ad featuring this eye-catching Art Chantry cover art appeared in one hundred consecutive issues (or more). My Estrus money went towards that Teengenerate compilation CD instead (absolutely no regrets), and now I’m finally hearing The Drags, care of this 45 RPM twelve-inch reissue (a clear upgrade from the original ten-inch format on Estrus). I would’ve enjoyed The Drags back then, and I am enjoying them now – as expected, it’s Nuggets-inspired trash-rock, recorded in that ’90s mid-fi style (before garage-punk embraced intentionally-terrible fidelity in the early ’00s). They play these songs with more than their wrists, really leaning into their crazed personas with plenty of grating backing vocals, a surf-rock instrumental, a song about dating a spy (“My Girlfriend’s In The F.B.I.”), and probably my favorite of the bunch, “Teenage Invasion”, which goes so aggro as to recall the glory of Chain Gang. Props to Total Punk for dredging this stuff out of American garage-punk’s forgotten Clinton era and giving it a fresh coat of paint for one more devils’ night out.

Alex Freiheit & Aleksandra Słyź Ghsting LP (Maple Death)
Hard not to feel like a bit of a plebe, sitting here listening to Ghsting, a Polish spoken-word-centric album. It’s like watching a foreign film with the subtitles off, except I don’t have the benefit of any visuals to help shape my understanding of Aleksandra Słyź’s wicked, sultry, occasionally furious banter. I suppose that’s where the booklet comes in, as it provides English translations of these four lengthy tracks, detailing in word (and image) eerie and abstract scenes of sexual encounters in seedy hotel environs. Alex Freiheit gives Słyź plenty of room to work, her drones shifting slowly behind her voice like disfigured shadows on the wall, perhaps most poignant when they sound like violins screaming from the black ocean’s depths (“Another Stain”). Ghsting has the properties of a performance you’d be more likely to discover in the program of a city-wide contemporary arts festival than a music-based club show, as it’s focused and conceptual in a way that feels more in line with short works of fiction or featurette films. For best results, I’d hope to immerse myself in the world of Alex Freiheit & Aleksandra Słyź by attending an onsite reading / performance in a deserted motel alongside a crumbing industrial highway, illuminated only by an ancient box-screen TV that inexplicably shows Family Guy reruns on every channel. Until then, we have this record.

Gentleman Jesse I Wonder If You Would Even Notice LP (Beach Impediment)
Atlanta power-pop mainstay Gentleman Jesse has a fine body of work to his name, both solo and backed by His Men, so it only figures that some distinguished label would have the good sense to collect his singles, comp tracks and unreleased odds and ends on one sturdy black vinyl LP. I Wonder If You Would Even Notice goes as far back as 2006 and as recently as 2019, and while you might have fun trying to track his musical refinement as the tracks proceed onward, it sure seems like The Gentleman Jesse Sound was fully formed back when the second idiot George Bush was in office. He tastefully cribs from the greats, stomping out power-pop bangers with just enough atypicality to call them his own – “You’ve Got The Wrong Man” is a modern classic, to be sure. Elvis Costello and The Exploding Hearts spring quickly to mind, but that’s just a sign of excellent power-pop marksmanship. The listening experience is enhanced by the liner notes, which go all VH1 Storytellers with plenty of humorous insight and frankness. It’s how I learned that the She’s A Trap single was Jesse’s attempt at Mod following a fateful car-ride with the Forrest Gump of budget-rock, Mitch Cardwell. Back when Twitter was something you could actually look at, Gentleman Jesse had an appealingly funny presence on there, and he brings similar chuckles to these insightful liners. Maybe he should do it for other bands too? I’d love to read Gentleman Jesse’s inside-baseball take on that Rancid singles box-set.

Haram ليش الجنة بيتبلش في الجهنم Why Does Paradise Begin In Hell? LP (Toxic State)
Just ask your local FBI informant: there is no discussing New York’s Haram without including their politics. Led by vocalist Nader Habibi, the group act in direct opposition to the largest power structures currently ruining the world, and they do so courageously (but not fearlessly, as Habibi’s sincere voice attests). They’re outcasts within a scene of (alleged) outcasts, and that desperate sense of struggle permeates their first new music since 2019. Hardcore-punk fandom has its share of reality-denying man-children, but even those punks living in a comfortable vacuum would connect instantly with the high-powered aggression happening here. While Haram have carved their own sonic niche weaving middle-eastern progressions into their crusty modern NY hardcore sound, fans of Raw Power’s You Are The Victim and Double Negative’s Hardcore Confusion might recall some of the similar sweat-dripping, ceiling-crawling vibes happening in these songs… had the concept of the “mosh pit” not already existed, the drumming that sets off “The Last Night” would’ve had to create it. It’s direct and undiluted hardcore-punk, but it’s Haram’s commitment to the causes they (and any person with a sense of morality) are fighting for that really sets this on edge; one of the scarce hardcore bands that walk a personal and dangerous walk without compromise or capitulation. If you’re like me, you’ll come away from Haram questioning your own complicity in this hell-world, a slap of reality that hardcore music often promises but rarely delivers.

Kieran Hebden + William Tyler 41 Longfield Street Late ’80s LP (Temporary Residence Limited)
Feels like I woke up one day and Four Tet was the global #1 DJ in the category of hip, which is an extremely relative viewpoint, but perhaps you felt it too? He’s one of the few that seems to be able to sell records and entertain massive crowds, which I will chalk up to a good bit of talent and a whole lot of business savvy. He had the inclination to recently team-up with folk fingerpicker William Tyler in the form of 41 Longfield Street Late ’80s, adding this collab to the steadily-growing list of electronically-enhanced acoustic-guitar records. If it was the ’00s we’d call it “folk-tronica”, but we’ve mercifully stopped suffixing -tronica to other words for quite a while now, and I’d kind of rather not call it anything, lest we get inundated with a bunch of uninspired copycats. To be honest, I’m not really vibing with this album anyway – Hebden’s touches are soft and often imperceptible, an aerosol spritz of olive oil on a salad of greens in desperate need of some flavor. Tyler’s contributions take center stage, but I wonder if he knew that when he sent these files to Hebden – instead of being diced up, intriguingly layered or juiced to the heavens, we get what sounds like pre-show screw-around jams, from the Grandma’s Country Kitchen melodies of opener “If I Had A Boat” through the limp repetition of “Secret City”. “Spider Ballad”, the sole techno-forward track, matches the rest of the record’s lightweight superfluousness, an empty bus terminal between destinations. You can grab a used copy of Boothroyd’s Pure Country for like ten bucks on Discogs… why bother with this?

Histamine Quality Of Life LP (Convulse / Last Ride)
While us Americans remain unable to easily import the international hardcore records we long took for granted, it seems pretty clear that Histamine have been able to gather as much modern American hardcore as they’d like in their sunny Sydney home. Quality Of Life is their debut, and its sound is primed for an early slot on any Sound & Fury, Tied Down or FYA stage. This is to say that they pair mid-paced pogo-beat drumming with aggressive down-picking, echo-laden vocal squalls and at least one moshy breakdown per song, perfect for every out-of-shape Twitch-streaming teenager to get in the pit and immediate tear their ACLs doing made-up karate moves without having properly warmed up first. If I was frozen back in 2005, precisely when wacky-thrash bands were mocking George W. Bush on their record covers, and someone thawed me out right now, Quality Of Life might seem like a novel hardcore evolution, but unfortunately I’ve been room temp for these past two decades, and have been hit with enough Bibs, Gags, Spys, S.H.I.T.s and Gels for this sorta thing to pass through me as quickly as a seven-layer burrito from Taco Bell’s Y2K menu. There’s plenty of time for Histamine to develop their own particular sound, and every city across the world benefits from having a hardcore unit like this on hand, but I’m not going to be spending much more time with Quality Of Life, even if that makes me… hold on a sec… anti-Histamine??

JASSS Eager Buyers LP (AWOS)
Like Objekt and Kerridge, I associate Spanish-born producer JASSS with the harder-edged industrial/techno movement in the late ’10s, giving way to more unique forms of sonic expression into the ’20s. There has been a lot of development since her great 2017 iDEAL debut, Weightless, as her newest, Eager Buyers, is lavish without sacrificing its urgency or transgressiveness. The first two cuts highlight that contrast nicely: the title track feels like Sandwell District in a latex dress, seductive and sensual while packing a deviously powerful low-end. “Sand Wrists” dances around a gothic music-box before a grotesque acid line stalks in, like the gnarliest Errorsmith production techniques applied to the haunted reveries of classic 4AD. There’s dream(nightmare)-pop, Diamanda Galas’s icy gaze and Aïsha Devi’s frightening fourth-world incantations happening here as well, all with a meticulous sound-design that flouts traditional pop structures. I read a recent Mixmag interview with JASSS, and it was basically one big long gripe about how annoying and stupid it is to be an artist in this social-media-centered era where we all agree we hate it and we all refuse to stop using it, and it only endeared her to me further. Eager Buyers is an enemy of The Algorithm, in case you needed one more reason to check it out.

James K Friend LP (AD 93)
NYC electronic artist James K brings us Friend, prepped and ready to serve today’s inactive lifestyles. The trip-hop revolution of the mid ’20s remains in full swing, and while I question how much gas is left in its tank, no one is really screwing it up so badly as to accelerate the trend’s demise, James K included. Friend is sleek, sleepy and seductive, a come-back-to-bed album filled with cozy break-beats, Heaven Or Las Vegas guitars and a soft outer crust of IDM glitches. K’s vocals take center stage throughout, a breathy coo nestled in rich crinoline, entering the chat like a dream-pop Dido in a world of sound shrouded by the many layers of gauze one might’ve come to expect from the West Mineral Ltd. posse. It’s a vibe-forward album, not troubled with overt pop hooks so much as the top-to-bottom construction of a decadent world of sound, but it’s far from merely window dressing, or at least substantial beyond its ornate outerwear. I may not find myself recalling specific tracks by name or chorus, but whenever I throw on Friend I want to stay and linger in its reverberant waves, eyelids fluttering and balance off kilter. Even when the vibe is on-the-nose, AD 93 refuses to miss.

Milo Korbenski Sex Angel LP (Phantom Limb)
If not the undisputed title holder, Brighton is in the running for “freakiest boardwalk in the world”. That beach made of large pebbles is hard to walk on and harder to get up from, and then what, you’re gonna actually swim in the rough, not-not-polluted English Channel? I’d move there if I could, and I’d hope to eventually bump into Nick Cave at AllSaints and catch Milo Korbenski lurking in the Victorian sewers. His gimmick is that he wears a featureless white mask, like if Slipknot had a Frosty The Snowman character, though he’s peddling queasy lo-fi guitar pop, nothing suitable for the Family Values Tour. This presentation has me shivering with the memory of Orville Peck (he died of embarrassment a few years ago… right?), though Korbenski’s music is mercifully less tacky, recalling Milan W.’s Leave Another Day, Cindy Lee, Drab Majesty and John Maus, had they all recorded on a borrowed four-track. I like it least when he rocks out – “Mahalo”‘s Queens Of The Stone Age-style riffage is alright, but “Demi Mure” delivers a Kings Of Leon gas attack that I do not wish to repeat. It’s kinda scattered like that – he’ll find a riff here, then rely on vibes there, sometimes synth-y nostalgic, sometimes aiming to bring rock into the next millennium, always at the mercy of his fuzzed-out recording quality and lack of memorable hooks. That said, Korbenski’s music has that legit freak quality, verified as the caliber of artist I’d want to find inhabiting the alleys, stalls and shawarma shops of Brighton. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an eyebrow ring or two under that mask, and for that reason alone, I salute him.

Picture Mi Mi 12″ (Elektorni)
Danish producer Natal Zaks has, in my opinion, impressive first and last names, but he favors monikers that slip under the radar. Most notably operating as Central (or DJ Central), Zaks follows the proud Euro techno tradition of wielding multiple aliases, including the so-forgettable-it’s-beautiful Picture. Not sure of the precise logic that differentiates productions, but if I had to guess, I’d say that Picture is for his more unilateral techno productions, untethered to the deeper house styles and vocal hooks he deploys with Central. Mi Mi is an excellent case in point, opening with the soft-stepping groove of “Alf”, as determined as a caterpillar and as fuzzy as a peach. Business picks up with the Picture remix of Mesak’s “Ei Damagea” – it’s as snug as “Alf” but its swirling center delivers a form of trance that’s safe for newborn babies, the rhythm subliminally increasing in potency (presumably as the pills you took do the same). Thus the stage is set for the EP-closing title track, a dial-tone meditation whose upbeat BPM belies its unrelenting hygge. I’d say you should pick this one up now before it shoots up in price in a few months like many of my favorite Central records, but who am I kidding – in late 2025 in the United States, mail-ordering any European techno record is egregiously expensive (with the bonus possibility of a tariff invoice showing up after the fact).

Roméo Poirier Off The Record LP (Faitiche)
Experimental/ambient producer Roméo Poirier works with a site-specific frame of mind, from the Euro beach resort languor of 2020’s Hotel Nota to the charming domesticity of 2022’s Living Room. With Off The Record, Poirier sets his sights on the recording studio, editing hundreds (thousands?) of audio snippets into entertaining fly-on-the-wall collages. Mic tests, sound-board warm-ups, footsteps, gear cases opened and shut, noses sniffed, amplifiers left idly on… all of these pre- and post-recording sounds are woven together like messy braids. Poirier’s sonic sketches revel in these discarded scraps – had the sound of Quincy Jones shaving his goatee ever accidentally made it to quarter-inch tape, Poirier probably would’ve found a way to include it here. He repeatedly has fun with repetition on Off The Record, supercutting the sounds of engineers counting off on “One Two One Two” and even the word “studio” on “Steve A.” (ostensibly a collection of Steve Albini saying the word “studio”), his technique falling somewhere between Janek Schaffer’s mailed-recorder experiments and Matmos’s endlessly playful experimentation. The single-loops of “Ssttuuddiiooo” (is that also Albini?) recall the stained melodies of O$VMV$M, but any musicality feels accidental to Poirier’s intentions, revealing the teeming life that lurks within even the most inanimate of objects.

Rat Heart Dancin’ In The Streets 2xLP (Modern Love)
Boomkat has been pushing Rat Heart hard for the last few years, and while I’ve acquiesced and checked out one or two (or three) releases, none have left a lasting impression. There’s only so much smudged-out dance music (that no one dances to) that I can digest, but even so I decided to check out Dancin’ In The Streets, Rat Heart’s fourteenth(!) full-length release since 2021. The combination of Modern Love’s involvement and the cool cover image was apparently too strong to ignore, and I’m glad I gave Rat Heart yet another chance, as this one’s fantastic: smoke-curlicued R&B done in an exceedingly experimental style. Rat Heart assembled a crack team of vocalists here, whose voices are delivered over sparse guitar and piano, the performances inspired by folk / blues / jazz-standard modes. It’s like if instead of taking inspiration from Grateful Dead and Pink Floyd, Darkside were infatuated with Luther Vandross and Erykah Badu. Sparse and smooth, these songs fit in with the zeitgeist of talented electronic producers looking to dis- and re-assemble the most reputable forms of 20th century popular music with their post-modern scalpels, an Arca mindset taken to an ECM sampler platter with results in the league of John T. Gast. If any one detail were less than stellar, the whole thing might fall apart, but the playing holds up even under Rat Heart’s brutal floodlights, and the singers, while richly processed, are as ear-catching as any of the Copenhagen scene’s left-field pop stars. One of those albums that will inevitably end up on lots of year-end lists and fully deserves to be there.

Los Sex Sex Sex Control EP 7″ (Slovenly)
One wonders… is three Sexes really enough? Why not Los Sex Sex Sex Sex Sex? If Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs have taught us anything, it’s that the only acceptable limit to repetition is the one you’ve placed upon yourself. This Mexican quintet approach punk with a classic sense of style, wherein at least one band member is wearing a button-up polka-dot shirt at all times. Chilling inside on an overcast day? Tough luck – one of y’all needs to be wearing black Ray-Bans regardless of environmental conditions. They get the sartorial deal, and they get when it comes to playing jangled-up punk rock too, the strain that looks to Chuck Berry instead of Ron Asheton as the primary formative figure. Plugz, Crime and The Randoms are reasonable points of reference, and while there’s a touch of that ’77 British spirit ala Alberto Y Lost Trios Paranoias or Nipple Erectors, Los Sex Sex Sex bear a pessimistic cool closest in spirit to the early Los Angeles punk scene and its various Slash correspondents. To its credit, Slovenly Records has always kept an international eye on punk, ignoring typical pop-cultural hotspots in favor of regions with less of a global spotlight. Now I know what to do the next time I’m in Puebla, Mexico and in need of a punk-rock fix: I’ll sidle up to the nearest payphone and dial SEX-SEX-SEX.

Telesatan Telesatan 7″ (Phantom)
Don’t take the name too seriously – while German punk isn’t known for it’s great sense of humor, I get the impression that this Leipzig quartet aren’t sincerely endorsing Beelzebub, or television, for that matter. They seem to be good-natured, fun-seeking punks who want to goof off and slam, and if the neighbors get annoyed in the process, well, it’s a risk they have to take. Like many contemporary punk bands, Telesatan reconfigure some of today’s trendier styles to their own particular liking – in their case, it’s mean-mugging mid-tempo one-two-one-two riffing with revered-laden vocals, delivered sparsely and sassy by one Franny Dæmon Fränzen (excellent punk name). The melodic patterns are so simple as to be immediately unmemorable – it’s like trying to differentiate between bowls of oatmeal made from the same box – but reinvention does not seem to be their aim. Some bands just want to come along for the ride, and seeing as active participation is a key ingredient to any worthwhile underground scene, I’m right there with them… just don’t ask me to reference the specific details of “Cut n’ Slice” or “Bottlekiss” an hour from now.

They Are Gutting A Body Of Water LOTTO LP (ATO / Julia’s War / Smoking Room)
Philly-based nu-gazers TAGABOW have mastered the art of mid-’20s cool, a scraggly sort of impoverished hypebeasting that integrates Matthew Bellosi-inspired artwork, jailbroken software apps riddled with malware and a prevailing malnourishment – of mind, body and bank account. It’s hard not to think of Nothing, their style-forward hometown shoegaze predecessors, though whereas Nothing always felt like a professional operation, TAGABOW arrive on the constant verge of a breakdown, the type of band more likely to forget to bring records to sell at the gig than to have QR codes and card-readers ready to go. While “style over substance” can feel like a diss, style goes a long way in my book, and I’m figuratively (and yeah, also literally) buying what TAGABOW are selling, including LOTTO, their first record on an actual record label with employees and a paid promotional push. I’m not sure that it’s gonna make them stars, but I’m digging it at least – the group conjures sonic ideas similar to Hum, Death Cab For Cutie, Red House Painters and Horse Jumper Of Love and mangles them up via abrupt changes, cruel production tricks and a sincere overriding weirdness. Some of the vocal samples and electronic flourishes, like on lead single “American Food”, feel more in line with the fringes of cloud-rap or underground tech-ambient than anything indie-rock-related; this style-clash is one of their more distinctive musical traits. I’m a fan of their particular approach, where images of the Corecore art-schooler and the typical townie Eagles-fan crum-bum slowly blur into a singular pandrogyne.

Troubadours Everything Is Being Recorded All The Time LP (Few Crackles)
Few Crackles is one of a small handful of buy-on-sight labels for me. It helps that the French label doesn’t release much – one record a year, maybe? It’s not called Many Crackles, after all! I’ve absolutely loved the last few things I’ve heard from their perplexing crew, and Troubadours’ debut is giving me plenty to think about as well. Whereas the label has been laying into a post-modern form of avant-psychedelia recently, Troubadours is, hmm… prankish, avant-garde, accidental hip-hop? The music, while centering drum programming, is lovingly screwed-with in a post-punk sort of way, but the variety of voices tend to rap or verbalize in a non-singing way over top, no matter if it’s the sound of a ruptured dishwasher, North African guitars, sleepy-time chimes, ASMR bullcrap, unaccompanied funk bass, the mating call of frogs… if there is a limit to Troubadours’ sound palette, I haven’t been able to place it. In that way, there’s a bit of a cLOUDDEAD vibe happening – the rappers sound more like playful nerds, or at least more like art-school students, than gangstas – though the musical techniques don’t seem to reflect any history of hip-hop that I’m familiar with. When the vocals are sped-up like a commercial that has to quickly read off the legal fine print on “Realistic Avatar”, I came to realize that this is either a great new form of music or a horrible one (which, paradoxically, would also make it a great new form of music).

Trystero Humming Fuzz LP (Knekelhuis)
On their second full-length, Trystero deliver two excellent new tunes to file away in my personal “songs that sound like alternate versions of iconic TV themes” playlist. There’s “Green Flowers”, which sounds like Depeche Mode taking a stab at The Sopranos for European audiences, and there’s “This Is The Future And That Is The Past”, which sounds like Can attempting to recreate the Bones theme from drugged-out memory. It’s a true melting pot they’ve got cooking over there, a borderless and playful form of dance music, sounding like a real band using fake instruments or vice versa. Opener “Riviere Olivier” has plenty of that evening Mediterranean breeze I associate with Domenique Dumont; closing track “The Lubber Fiend” delves into Sabres Of Paradise / The Orb territory and pops out of the cake with some wild guest vocals from someone known only as “PussyR”. It’s a hard line, to actually let loose and have fun without having to sacrifice all that hard-earned cool, but Trystero are having it both ways, wearing designer sunglasses that stay on their faces even after getting tossed into the pool. I played Humming Fuzz three times in a row after first putting it on – it wasn’t intentional, or something I normally do, it’s just one of those albums that can casually take over a small portion of your life if you’re not vigilant.

Unchained Frontalier LP (Stern)
The rich sure get richer, but in Unchained’s case, the smooth get smoother, too! Nate Davis brought his khakis-in-an-elevator presence to the excellent Francisco Franco trio, and while that aesthetic was visible through his Unchained moniker’s Gabbeh last year, Frontalier goes down like a grown-ass date night, a perfect meal cooked from memory at home and enjoyed by candlelight. The guitar remains his current muse, and he’s clearly studied the 20th century jazz greats, from Wes Montgomery to Pat Metheny, to the point where his name might someday come up among theirs in casual conversation. Over drum-machine programming that takes the long way home, his guitars revel in a backstage cigarette handshake between the dapper three-piece-suit Blue Note jazz of the ’60s and the cream-colored resort-wear ECM jazz of the ’80s. Those guitars are frequently unaccompanied here as well, like the tear-stained “Saane”, well deserving of the Chet Baker vocal it will sadly never receive. Davis packed up his stuff and left the States some years ago, and as he’s fully settled into the French city of Grenoble, right there at the feet of the French Alps, you can hear the deep comfort of both his body and spirit in his music. Frontalier was made by someone who can comfortably fill an entire day with the task of eating a buttered baguette on a grassy hillside, in a locale where the free glasses of table-wine outnumber the unwanted surveillance cameras. If I close my eyes and let Frontalier wash over me, I can practically hear the faint rumble of Grenoble’s famous cable cars passing above.

Way Dynamic Massive Shoe LP (Spoilsport)
At first I thought the band was Massive Shoe, based on the cover design, and while I was disappointed to realize that no such band existed, a new Way Dynamic album is cause enough for a smile. Melbourne’s Dylan Young has used the project to satisfy his soft-rock urges, channeling his parents’ record collection into his own, from The Beatles to Boz Scaggs up through Of Montreal and Jens Lekman. His songs are unrepentantly smooth, working with a lengthy list of side-players to bring his compositions to life, whether it’s the soprano sax and double bass of Lehmann Smith or the harmonium of Marie Klaschka. Even if he’s being serious, subtle childlike elements constantly poke through, kinda like Kermit the Frog duetting a teary ballad with Barbra Streisand. Young has drummed in other bands, and I like his playing here as well, tight and dry like popcorn fresh from the microwave, though his melodies and breezy charm consistently take center stage. My favorite of the bunch is “Miffed It”, a beautifully Nick Drake-esque song without even the slightest hint of suicidal ideation. I should also note that Massive Shoe has the worst cover art of the month (maybe year?), a zoomed-in low-res JPEG that’s so unflattering that I can’t help but assume it was fully intentional. As far as I’m concerned, that’s another point in his favor: the sweetest guys I know have no idea how to take a proper photo.

Friends Of GG compilation LP (Scavenger Of Death)
No, not that GG – Friends Of GG is a touching tribute compilation to Atlanta punk stalwart GG King. This is the sort of project that almost always comes about posthumously, but I checked and King is alive and well, so he actually gets to revel in (or awkwardly blush at) his own celebration, with a wide web of bands, projects and connections all gathering in good will. Lucky for us, King’s friends are a talented bunch – this compilation of fourteen artists acts as much as a state of Atlanta’s finer punk-centered offerings as it does a personal exaltation. The record opens strong with Ryan Dino’s “Tunic”, a searing punk tune that proudly reveres the tunic as garment of choice, and things don’t get any more typical from there. Following Golem Protruding Orb’s weirdly No Age-ish “Self Surveillance”, Gentleman Jesse skewers the A24 film company, and then there’s King himself with “Encapsulation (Formless Days)”, the best song Interpol never wrote, one of the three guitars plucking a haunting single-note melody over six minutes that feel like two. The whole record is full of surprises, like the one-two punch of Despot Hut’s grind (recorded in 2002!) and Beatifyx’s black-metal-charged hardcore, or Whiphouse’s stenchy cold-wave. Somehow, King’s fingerprints are all over all of it, if not in performance then intertwined personal relationships. Seems like there are enough King-related bands who didn’t appear here to support a second volume (Mother’s Milk, Predator, Glittering Insects, Chaos OK, etc.), but perhaps an Enemies Of GG album would even the scales?

Weird Scenes From Inside The Droll Mind compilation 7″ (Celluloid Lunch)
Another seven-inch scene comp! I love the consensus that we’re sick of the way social-media and the internet at large have decayed and want to return to more meaningful (and traditional) forms of communication, so if cool labels like Celluloid Lunch interpret that into the form of a four-band compilation EP, I’m here for it. They’ve been championing their cool Montreal-based scene for a number of years now, and Weird Scenes From Inside The Droll Mind is a quick, sharp snapshot in time and place. Garden Of Love kick it off with “Easy”, a weird jangle that smiles with crooked teeth. I see they’ve got a new tape on the Ever/Never label too… that’s always a good sign! Private Lives must’ve had a clause in their iron-clad Feel It contract to allow them to stop by here with this upbeat punker, the bass working overtime while the guitar waits til the chorus to rock out. That G.I. Jinx album (also on Celluloid Lunch) was a special one, but unfortunately for me their contribution here (“Very Bad Dream”) already appeared in a modestly higher fidelity there. Great tune, but c’mon, us fans want new ones. The Wrong Sky are the surprise hit for me, a playful, are-they-joking delivery of scuzzy indie debauchery in vague spiritual alignment with Hickey and Sockeye, and if you’re willing to follow the astrological chart far enough, Ween. If it seems like they’ve having quite a bit of fun up there in Montreal, it’s because they are!