Batu & Donato Dozzy Exhale 2xLP (!K7)
Strikingly similar to the techno fantasy draft that exists only in my mind, !K7 brings us the unexpected alliance of Italian techno maverick Donato Dozzy and British bass specialist Batu. Their individual stylistic preferences differ greatly, but I’m not shocked that Exhale is such a fruitful collaboration – both artists are seekers of the unknown and eager to tease out any intriguing possibilities, not stubborn closed-circuit conservatives stuck in their respective ruts. Dozzy is known for a steely, methodical approach to formalized electronic dance genres – acid-, dub-, minimal-, industrial-techno forms and beyond – whereas Batu’s practice has helped push dubstep into dexterous new forms far beyond stereotypical bass wubs. I can’t claim to know precisely who did what here, but Exhale certainly bears evidence of Batu’s thrilling bass pressure mixed up with the relentless locomotion of Donato Dozzy. Within this consistently uptempo album lies a controlled frenzy, grid-based techno sequences bursting at their seams from Crossfit pacing and dynamic hydraulics. I can attest from personal experience that Exhale is one of those albums that will have you driving well beyond the highway speed limit without realizing it. Batu and Dozzy transformed my Obama-era Rav4 (Sport edition) into a Bugatti Chiron, if only for all of “Drift”.

Holt Bodish Gorgeous LP (Celluloid Lunch)
Let’s hope that Holt Bodish’s Mordecai bandmates are safe and accounted for – most likely, they were passed out on the couch a few feet away while he recorded Gorgeous in the driest corner of the basement. Mordecai’s music has progressively unraveled with each subsequent album, and while Bodish’s solo material is new to me, a similar form of puzzle logic is on display here. Bodish’s multitracked guitars all kind of resemble each other – rough-housing siblings, let’s say – their half-licks and rhythmic strums fashioning a rickety ship to carry Bodish’s lyrics to the other side. It’s a lo-fi affair of course, so even though Bodish opts for casual plain-speak over a more traditional singing voice, you might miss out on lines like “precariously timid flashes of your hearts cock / opulent meanderings may you fly far in association”, the sort of cuckoo wordplay that blurs the line between stoned nonsense and scholarly erudition. That’s the sweet spot, isn’t it? The overgrown path back to The Velvet Underground is clearly visible (which I guess could be said for at least a third of all guitar bands that pass through these pages), but with plenty of hairy detours along the way, to include poetic hippie pranksters like The Fugs, early ’80s New Zealand bedroom recordings, all those Homosexuals side-projects and the questionable “shit-gaze” moment of the mid ’00s. I don’t know how Bodish figured out when these songs were finished and complete, what with their inherently confusing layers of guitars and unconventional arrangements, but he did, and he was right.

Morgan Buckley & Ben Donohoe Sworx LP (Wah Wah Wino)
I hope that some intrepid music journalist eventually untangles the knotty web of Dublin’s Wah Wah Wino crew, but until that investigative report drops, I’m content to just go with their flow, buying on sight (“site” actually, usually Boomkat or Phonica) and enjoying the tunes for the tunes’ sake. No matter how you slice it, Morgan Buckley has been central to Wah Wah Wino, producing, guesting, editing and encouraging, most recently under unattributed aliases (or so I’m led to believe). For added confusion, Sworx is attributed to Buckley and Ben Donohoe, a duo previously (or concurrently?) known as Little Movies, whose prior LP of experimental noise provides few clues. (There I go again, trying to shoehorn their disregard of convention into some legible sense of order!) Sworx acts as a compendium of forward-thinking electronic styles, never quite on the dance-floor but occasionally sliding across it en route to somewhere more interesting. Imagine Aphex Twin and Kraftwerk kidnapping Alva Noto and Edgar Froese for the first night of actual fun in their entire lives: I’m talking paintball, Jägerbombs, those straight-down water slides where you get dropped through a trap-door, selfies with dangerous wildlife, the whole shebang. The funny robot voices are a nice touch throughout, though it’s those bass-/guitar-centered tracks (“statecellar [ 641Amix ]”, “Mastering The Internet” and maybe “sWORxism_noclocks_notimekept”) that scramble my brain in the way that only Morgan Buckley can. No need to answer any questions when you’re dropping gems like this!

emer feat. Ugnė Uma You And Me LP (Stroom)
You And Me very well might be the Stroomiest album that ever Stroomed. The Belgian label is responsible for an ever-growing stack of left-field prizes both new and old, and while part of the label’s appeal is its defiance against clean-cut categorization, this new collaboration between Marija Rasa (AKA emer) and Ugnė Uma ticks most of the label’s aesthetic boxes. The songs are miniature and personal, little whispered secrets between two artist-friends materialized into song-form. The moodiness of Euro trip-hop is ever present in both rhythm (fractured) and voice (sultry), with jazzy keys, electronic squiggles popping like carbonation, samples of voices over voices and of course plenty of dub-inspired processing to smear any fine lines. You And Me carries itself like the sophisticated endpoint of a young adulthood listening arc starting with The Weeknd and Drake, then Burial and The Xx, and now NTS radio. It’s starting to feel a little codified, this modern deconstructed arthouse R&B trip-hop style, but it hasn’t gotten stale quite yet, at least not with folks like emer and Ugnė Uma at the helm. Their tracks drift in and out like nighttime daydreams, a stylish haze of smoke illuminated by the flicker of neon club lights.

Katie Alice Greer Perfect Woman Sound Machine Vol. 1 LP (GAK)
Now firmly ensconced in Los Angeles, Katie Alice Greer continues to forge her solo calling with Perfect Woman Sound Machine Vol. 1, released on her newly-christened GAK Records imprint (coincidentally also one of the Nickelodeon network’s most successful toy products). The enumeration helps ensure that we haven’t missed any prior Perfect Woman Sound Machines, and offers hope for future installments, as the songs here explore a variety of easy-to-enjoy arty styles. Opener “Expo ’70” might be the hit of the lot, delivering a ghostly girl-group phenomena similar to Cindy Lee, but then “Unglued” stage-dives in a babydoll dress like vintage Hole, stinky Doc Martens leaving their print on someone’s forehead. And how about the glossy trip-hop sheen of “Talk To Leslie”, which sounds like an alt-radio chart sensation that DJ Food coulda-shoulda produced in 1999? Whereas much of Greer’s solo debut Barbarism felt like it was being figured out in real time (with so much magic uncovered in that trial-and-error sensation), these songs display that same level of who-but-KAG artistry, those strange rich ideas no one else has, with the added muscle of streamlined songwriting and pop-friendly production. Much like covering Leonard Cohen (which she does here in a retro-synth-styled “I’m Your Man”), it takes an unshakeable confidence (or at least some insouciant bravery) to bare one’s teeth for up-close inspection. The cover’s dentist’s-eye view of her chompers is well suited to the beautifully weird, beautifully vulnerable music of Perfect Woman Sound Machine Vol. 1.

Inweys Inweys 12″ (Absolutely Loud)
Cover Mom’s ears: Conal Blake and Murray Collier dragged their gear into the studio! Inweys is the first formal appointment of these two Glaswegian chaps, and it’s a prickly affair, full of sparring electronics, rhythms disjointed until no longer classifiable as rhythms, and live-action energy. These four tracks, titled in the standard “A” “C” “A” “B” formation, offer a sweaty handshake between the hand-soldered tone-creep of classic Wolf Eyes and the hyperactive, hostile beats of Powell’s early run. The opening “A” track creaks like one of those resin-embalmed American Tapes releases from the mid ’00s, before “C” tortures an 808 with cattle-prods – the beat is so disfigured, you’ll want to hide any nearby mirrors lest it catch sight of its own ghastly reflection. By the b-side “A”, a groove somehow emerges, marrying the crispy static of Cotton Museum to Jamal Moss at his most crowd-antagonizing. “B” is probably the most Wolf Eyes-esque of the lot, a meager rhythm lurching with a limp as the airplane’s black box blinks itself alive amidst its wreckage in the tundra. I appreciate that Inweys sounds live, DIY and punk, that you can hear Blake and Collier developing bad posture over their respective electronics as opposed to comfortably reclined with laptop in hand. A fitting maiden release for a label calling itself Absolutely Loud.

Jazz Der Irrtum Hat Mal Wieder Gewonn! LP (Turbo Discos)
Naming your punk band “Jazz” is a purposely self-inflicted handicap. It’s a joke where there’s nothing to “get” besides inconvenience, which they extend to the vinyl itself – this is one of those inside-out-pressed records, where you have to drop the needle near the center sticker instead of the outer edge, and you have to figure it out on your own. Does Jazz want anyone to hear them at all? Perhaps the revolution against our algorithmic passivity needs to start with a jolt, so if you’re willing to jump through this German group’s hoops, you’ll be rewarded with their gaudy and chaotic post-punk. It’s like a self-poured Slurpee where all three flavors are mixed into a brownish mauve: post-punk, egg-punk and no-wave. Like many modern-day punk acts, Jazz doesn’t sound like a band in a room so much as a wild confluence of WAV files overlaid on each other. A toy keyboard here, some freeware sound-effects there, noisy guitars at every angle, and not a single moment of space that isn’t inhabited by at least three conflicting sonic elements. It’s a clear sign of our times, this overabundance of cheap-everything resulting in collective dissatisfaction, and Jazz are here to ringlead the madness, a messy conga line of The Mummies, Vintage Crop, Parquet Courts and Geza X. With “Schmerz”, they distill this perception to its essence, a catchy lil’ synth-punk zinger that doubles as a commercial jingle for pain.

Jake Muir Pareidolia LP (enmossed)
Sound artist Jake Muir tends to start with a concept and work outward from there, which shakes out nicely thanks to his keen conceptual vision. His prominence extended beyond the ambient tape-label underground with 2023’s Bathhouse Blues, a musique-concrète queer-cruising tribute assembled from musical and field-recorded sources, and the premise of Pareidolia is sure to excite a different (though not without overlap) segment of listeners: metalheads. Muir constructed Pareidolia from a rich sound-bank of death-metal and black-metal intros, outros, instrumental interludes, ambient passages and dungeon keys (both kinds: synth keyboards and crusty keys clanking on an iron ring). He warps, elongates, distorts and layers these samples, though their inherent spirit remains: frostbitten, God-hating, isolated and mournful. With today’s DAW technology, Muir probably could’ve fashioned the exact same sonics out of field recordings from Denny’s and Waffle House, but a good part of the fun is knowing that he immersed himself in kvlt metal to extract the dozens (hundreds?) of samples that comprise this album, rendered unrecognizable even to the Fenrizes and Mortiises that originally birthed them. It’s true to the originators intent, at least: Pareidolia makes for a cold day in Hell.

Raya 13 Bardo Rafting LP (Protopost)
Nina Harker, Ssabae, France, City Dragon, Troubadours… the list of truly out-there French artists actively releasing records continues to grow like a mysterious vine no one recalls planting. My newest infatuation from this fine country is Raya 13, a fresh trio with some electronic affiliations: member Alan Briand releases new-age ambient as Shelter; the other two contribute to the electro-acoustic collective MOAB. Raya 13 is a guitar and bass-guitar band though, and their trip is one of a kind. Operating percussion-free, Raya 13 take their sweet time winding through mystical-yet-approachable riffs and melodies alongside vocals muttered (and effected) beyond comprehension. I’m reminded of that recent Cancer House album in its similarly mysterious, bare-bones presentation, though Bardo Rafting never raises its temper or shows any sign of stress… this music is deeply subdued, unconcerned with our earthly squabbles. How about this: imagine the surprise eighth Wooden Shjips album from the distant future (recorded on Mars), some sort of secret slow-core Clikatat Ikatowi session that they didn’t invite Mario Rubalcaba to, Shinji Shibayama attempting and failing to make an emo record, and Moin fully supine after digging into the bag of downers that produced Frigate’s Dreams Of The Deep. My mind would be spinning with questions if Bardo Rafting didn’t coat me in its thick, viscous syrup, a bizarre yet calming presence to which I keep returning. Highly recommended!

Reckonwrong How Long Has It Been? LP (New Year)
We must protect Reckonwrong at all costs! This charming man blew me away with the brow-raising mix of left-field house and heartfelt vocals that appeared on his twelve-inch EPs – the last two Whities releases are particularly stunning – before disappearing like an early-morning dream. Did he wander off into a maze of cosmopolitan skyscrapers, or perhaps a remote cabin in the lowland forests? Whatever sojourn or lack thereof, Reckonwrong has returned to christen his label New Year with his first full-length, How Long Has It Been?, and he turns the tenderness up to eleven. Eschewing techno and house moves entirely, the music here is low-key singer-songwriter pop performed on Rhodes-like keys that twinkle with the warmth of Edison bulbs. Singing to friends and lovers (and, in my best guess for “Winter Visitor”, perhaps a beloved cat?), Reckonwrong’s miniatures cut straight to the heart of the matter, an effortless exhibition of low-lit torch songs. A stylistic heritage can be found in the softer side of Christopher Cross and Michael McDonald (two notoriously aggro tough guys), but there’s no layer of fancy studio bloat or radio-chart aspirations here, no name in lights on the marquee. From start to finish, these songs burst with the unguarded emotional sincerity of private correspondence between beloveds, what must’ve been cathartic to write and perform even if artistic liberties were taken to protect the innocent. The title track is particularly naked and yearning, but I’m not going to look away – Reckonwrong guides us through this tour of his heart with confidence and grace.

The Sleeves The Sleeves LP (12XU)
The experimental tide seems to have turned – rather than seeking to push away timid audiences through shock-based aesthetics, confrontational sounds and violent affects, the current underground vanguard is more interested in the ways that vulnerability, serenity and compassion can be innovatively wielded. Alongside the rise and dominance of neo-new-age ambient, I’m thinking of groups like Still House Plants, Chronophage, Schatterau, Tara Clerkin Trio, A Happy Return and now The Sleeves as well, the quietly charming London-based duo of Jack Cooper and Tara Cunningham. The Sleeves’ dual-guitar / dual-vocal style seems to reduce Chicago’s ’90s post-rock scene to its emotional and melodic core, kind of like what Young Marble Giants did to post-punk. The Sleeves’ guitar phrases are as pleasant to listen to as they are atypical – I can’t help but picture the soft rise and fall of sleeping cats’ bellies during “You, Now, Again”, or Sam Prekop tucking Tim Kinsella under the covers in the Goodnight Moon bedroom during “Procedure”. The comfort and familiarity Cooper and Cunningham show towards each other through their music isn’t something that can be forced or faked or shortcutted; it’s a large part of why their music together is so remarkable and unique. Maybe we should force Bill Orcutt and Chris Corsano to cover “Rip It Up” – the essence of their performance will reveal once and for all if they genuinely love each other or have been faking it all along.

Smog Marines Opus LP (Obsolete Universe)
Seems like every month I’m beside myself with surprise at the latest instance of an unknown punk rock gem brought to light, and at this point, I’m going to have to apologize for my naivete. This is simply the world we live in now, this endless bounty of incredible undiscovered-until-now punk and hardcore artifacts, and I am simply going to revel in it. Even considering the high quality of other recent discoveries, Opus by Smog Marines is the finest punk relic in a while. Formed from the ashes of the band called Opus (check the Discogs price history of their sole seven-inch and weep softly to yourself), Smog Marines are first-stringers who somehow failed to make the team. Recorded in 1980, Opus is the missing link between the classic Dangerhouse sound, the earliest Dead Kennedys material and the formative death-rock style (meaning a more theatrical spin on brooding post-punk). I really can’t believe songs this good sat around gathering dust all this time: “Neon Full Of Fear” (what a title!) calls to mind the greatness of The Cheifs (sic), feeling like some punk classic I’ve known my whole life (but only heard for the first time like a week ago). Even when they get a little new-wavey, it works: “Between A Dream” and “Bright” are darkened power-pop ala The Sound’s early work, deserving of its own sleeveless Ork release. I hate that I had to wait ’til middle age to hear the Los Angelean punk song “Dilated Bullshit”, but I guess that’s why we bother to keep living, right?

Team Work Somebody’s Gotta Do It LP (Feel It)
Odds are strong that any given Feel It debut might very well knock your socks off – it’s happened to me before and I’m sure it’ll happen again with this stalwart punk label. The latest incidence comes care of Team Work, which is not a recontextualization of the New Jersey youth-crew hardcore label of the same name (where is their Numero boxset??) but an intercontinental collaboration between Maraudeur’s Lise Sutter (in Leipzig) and Spllit’s Ronni Bourgeois (in Baton Rouge). Both of their ‘main’ groups are responsible for some of the most authentically-cool dance-y post-punk of recent years, and while evidence of their shared appreciation for Lizzy Mercier-Descloux and Y Pants can be found within Somebody’s Gotta Do It, Team Work’s sonic boundaries are pushed far beyond, maybe even dissolved entirely. They deconstruct the genre with curiosity and glee, each subsequent move less obvious than the next. In that way it’s similar to Lavender Hex and This Heat, as the duo utilize their absolute freedom to create something intentional, not aimless. Tricky musicality appears out of nowhere and cuts off abruptly; minimalist dance grooves U-turn into quiet acoustic-guitar emo(?) or Lolina-esque studio chicanery; clipped samples and cut-and-paste keys slap up against live instruments like a wet kiss. I don’t care if Somebody’s Gotta Do It will be toured live or banished to the hard-drive on which it was conceived – it’s one of this year’s brightest post-punk offerings.

Twisted Teens Florida Water Blues LP (Going Underground)
My sources are reporting that Twisted Teens are on schedule to release three albums in twelve months, this being the second. With more than a little hype behind them and plenty of good-natured wind in their sails, this New Orleans group are simultaneously on a roll and in the zone. I still can’t get enough of their prior full-length, Blame The Clown (how long do you have to wait before you can describe an album as “timeless”?), and now I’m quickly settling into Florida Water Blues as well. If you’ve somehow managed to avoid Twisted Teens Fever thus far, I can briefly explain that they play an extremely palatable form of swampy, Southern-fried blues from a DIY punk frame of mind. It’s not a style or aesthetic I find myself typically drawn to, but guitarist / vocalist / captain Caspian Hollywell is downright captivating in both tone and lyric (raspy and quick-witted like a true son of a gun). The man is drowning in casual rizz to the point where his songs won’t simply take your mind off the disgusting soles of his feet when he kicks them up, they’ll make you want to lose your shoes too. The songs here wander a bit further outward than Punch The Clown – imagine discovering Swell Maps and Neu! records in George Thorogood’s personal collection – but they maintain the same high caliber of songwriting finesse and unpretentious grit. “Florida Water Blues” is gorgeous (and has the most vibe-establishing music video I’ve seen for a band in years). “Javelina” is a tender swine-riding fantasy, whereas “Business” is a righteous screw-you delivered to a deserving target. It’s more grade-A material from this unique group, almost enough to warrant a reassessment of the crusty oogle train-hopper lifestyle – let’s just be sure to stop before anyone brings up the possibility of a Soophie Nun Squad retrospective boxset.

Franck Vigroux Sonnailles 2xLP (Raster)
We call him Big Franck around these parts: master electrician Franck Vigroux has been pumping heavy weights for years now, each new release seemingly more robust and domineering than the last. His 2015 collaboration with the late-great Mika Vainio brought him to my attention and I’ve tried to check up with his busy release schedule at least once a year ever since – it’s like going to see a doctor who punches you in the arm instead of checking your blood pressure. Good thing I did, as Sonnailles is absolutely monstrous! I expect the lights to flicker and dim as opener “Mordor” hits, as vigorous (Vigrouxous) as Ben Frost at his angriest but a deadly rave weapon for club DJs. Vigroux somehow manages to maintain a dynamic field of sound while absolutely bludgeoning at near-gabber speeds, with all the exquisite sound-detail one comes to expect from a Raster release (and friend / former collaborator of Phil Niblock). It’s too industrial in a ’90s dance sense to be considered techno, too meticulously designed to fit cleanly under the industrial tag, and far too physical to be filed next to all those bespectacled professors in the “modern electronic composition” section. Vigroux’s path is his own! I’m reminded of that great Merzbow quote about his practice which I’ll paraphrase as “trying to create a continuous Jimi Hendrix guitar solo” and imagine the same sort of approach for Vigroux, if you substitute the moment when “March Of The Pigs” kicks in for Hendrix. Across two LPs, the IMAX helicopter-chop and midnight-metallic sheen of Sonnailles is enough to windburn your face, cinematic yet unfit for film – his music is so striking that the visual component wouldn’t stand a chance.

City Dragon Smokes And Mirrors LP (Bruit Direct)
Parisian trickster Max Kaario empties out his junk drawer as City Dragon, offering thirty tracks in thirty-four minutes with Smokes And Mirrors. Or, if not an actual junk drawer, at least a pile of unlabeled USB sticks, full of half-remembered ditties, acoustic noise-improv, cheap keyboards mixed liked rocket engines, incomprehensible off-key singing, domestic clatter and layers of itchy effects dropped like water balloons on essentially every track. It seems City Dragon has tried every method of ruffling the good taste of middlebrow society he could conceive of here, if sometimes only for a minute or so. I prefer the jarring flurries of unfamiliar and unexpected noise to the purposely-bad singing, though much like a bag of kitchen trash, there’s no separating the individual pieces that inhabit Smokes And Mirrors from each other: your hand is going to get sticky no matter what you’re trying to pull from it. Reminds me of something Yamatsuka Eye would randomly release on a street-corner without warning… preposterous music from the margins. I’m not sure it even makes sense to its creator, but who said anything about making sense anyway? This is a Bruit Direct joint.

The Drags Set Right Fit To Blow Clean Up LP (Total Punk)
Total Punk continue their self-appointed mission to dredge up all the Drags albums for reassessment, and I for one am glad they did. The Drags weren’t a group I really thought about in their heyday or since, but I’m kicking myself for having missed out on Set Right Fit To Blow Clean Up until now. Their third and final full-length is an absolutely wicked brew, starting in trashed-out garage-punk but boiling over into a variety of dangerous directions, clearly too combustible to sustain. It sounds like someone is accidentally sitting on a theremin for the duration of this album, which would be a wild enough distraction on its own, but it competes with a constant stream of sweat-soaked guitar solos and amp-scalding riffs. It’s bonkers, especially when considering the dark period of underground rock in which it arrived (1999). Imagine Nebula, Mudhoney and The Hospitals all crammed into a station wagon with their gear and a bag of Comets On Fire’s speed – even with four dudes stuffed in the windowless trailer, someone has to ride on the roof. Really, truly blows my mind how great this record is, so far beyond the typically conservative retro-garage moves of its time. “Modern Man” goes so hard on the harmonica that I can only assume C.J. Stritzel accidentally swallowed it following that take. I wonder if you can still hear it in his esophagus when he laughs.

Eddy Current Suppression Ring In Light Of Recent Events LP (Suppression)
As proof that the world isn’t all bad, Eddy Current Suppression Ring have shaken off the dust of the 2010s and the early 2020s, now playing shows with increasing frequency and offering up their fifth full-length album, released on the band’s own Suppression Records. It’s like the reassuring hand of a loved one on your shoulder, this gentlemanly garage-rock band that has more of a trademarked sound than pretty much any of their peers, thanks to the inventively-colloquial riffs of guitarist Mikey Young and the guileless lyrics and vocals of Brendan Huntley. I don’t think they’ll ever top Primary Colours as far as pound-for-pound hook-laden glory is concerned, but this is a band that has never been engaged in competition, even with themselves. These new songs are as disarming and tender as newborn babies, with Huntley going misty and nostalgic (“Turtle”, “Swimming Hole”, “Past And Future”) while crowdsurfing like he’s still in his twenties. “Swimming Hole” is the insta-classic – you just know The Chats looked up to Eddy Current because of songs like this – but my favorite is “Empathetic”, thanks to Huntley’s stupefying vocal performance. He repeats single words over and over like Tom Green doing an impression of Axl Rose covering Flipper’s “Ha Ha Ha”. I’m filing it away in my “exuberant Eddy Current moments” folder, which was already bursting at its seam.

Fake Dust Decrepitizing Din Of The Cerebral Psyopticon LP (Iron Lung)
Oh a decrepitizing din indeed! Precisely when I assumed grind-core had given me all it could give (which, for the record, is already a life-affirming abundance), Iron Lung went and released what is in serious contention for best grind-core album of the 2020s, Fake Dust’s Decrepitizing Din Of The Cerebral Psyopticon. It’s a masterclass, really: this relatively new Portland band read the grind-core playbook from cover to cover and didn’t simply memorize it, they had each word trepanned into their skulls. The father, son and holy spirit (Discordance Axis, Arsedestroyer and AC) are communally summoned to perfection, with a whirlwind of immaculate blast-beats, technical riffs that are too down-tuned and muddy to tell what’s happening, and a vocalist with two settings: acid shrieks and guttural barks. Truly the definition of sonic brutality! Drummer Brennan Butler is just too good – at this level of talent, he probably has his own popular YouTube or TikTok “drum channel” – but rather than fall into anything lofty, divergent, gimmicky or (gasp) musical, Fake Dust are devoted to true underground grind-core as an ethos and practice, bringing a single tear to the eye of every last member of Napalm Death, all three hundred of them. It’s enough to scare the carbonation right out of a case of Liquid Death (Grimm Thrashberry flavor).

Googoosh Dolls A1000 LP (Drifting Boat)
For a cheap laugh, Ariyan Basu and Ramin Rahni referenced the immortal Iranian pop-star Googoosh in the name of their intermittent dance-music project, and that same cheeky-yet-benevolent attitude is present in their music, which celebrates Y2K Iranian banquet tunes by retooling them for today’s metropolitan cognoscenti. Rendered almost entirely on the Yamaha PSR-A1000 workstation, Googoosh Dolls craft high-energy party music with distinctly Middle Eastern melodies and syncopations, ready to electrify any given family reunion or wedding reception in Tehran or its global diaspora. One gets the sense from A1000‘s rigorous, meticulous design that Basu and Rahni could be making Autechre tracks if they wanted to, but they apply that precision to gaudy pads and ostentatious thrills, the sort of full-throttle, keyboard-controlled jams that might inspire Legowelt to dunk his head in the punchbowl. As a bonus, they share their process via “keyboard playthrough” videos on Instagram, textured in the style of ’80s VHS music lessons with a similar A/V sensibility to my beloved Torn Hawk. At six tracks and over thirty minutes, you’ll break a sweat just sitting in place with A1000 cranked, not only because the air conditioning has been on the fritz, but also from those last few dazzling minutes of “Movement”, where the music transcends higher than any of us could have thought possible.

Iceage For Love Of Grace & The Hereafter LP (Mexican Summer / Escho)
Post-punk princes Iceage have hit album number six, once a nearly inconceivable feat considering the feral recklessness with which they first appeared. For those of us who first fell in love with New Brigade and the scowling youths that made it, that image of Iceage is an everlasting one, akin to Jonathan Taylor Thomas – sure, we logically understand that he’s a grown-up now, even if the idea of that doesn’t make any sense. I’ve enjoyed all the Iceage records I’ve heard (though admittedly spent the least amount of time with 2021’s gospel-choir-enhanced Seek Shelter), and appreciate that they’re still self-serious enough to agree on For Love Of Grace & The Hereafter as an album title. They’ve long since aged out of their youth-center flailing fury and into the Bad Seeds-esque sport-coat-sex-god whiskey bar (it suits them too!), and with this new one they settle into what might be their easiest listening yet, tailored closer towards American indie-rock of all things (not that you’d ever catch them wearing sneakers on stage). While I’ve seen this album’s similarities to Pavement suggested and concurred with, I’m hearing it as their timely spin on the newish crop of Madchester-genuflecting indie ala Fontaines DC and Shame (and to a lesser extent, Dazy and Geese?) alongside the secret-weapon influence of Sort Sol’s jangly cow-punk (whose songs they’ve covered and ex-members they continue to work alongside). Disco beats and snare-rolls used as rhythms (not accents), manic “do do do”s, post-punk funky guitars… it’s all that Elias Rønnenfelt needs in order to shine like the too-sexy stepson of Conor Oberst and Tim Armstrong. These sly devils are going to age like Keith Richards, aren’t they?

Ruth Mascelli & Mary Hanson Scott Esoteric Lounge Music Now LP (Disciples)
I appreciate the urgency here: who wants to wait around for esoteric lounge music?? You might recognize Ruth Mascelli as one of the more mild-mannered members of Special Interest, and their ketamine-flavored sensuality is a perfect match for the soothing reeds of Mary Hanson Scott. Together they make narcoleptic, fiendish trip-hop in that Coil sorta way, a calming resort getaway with champagne sweating in the ice bucket, satin sheets on the bed and, if you pan out a little further, a gimp in heavy rubber bondage quietly laying on a nearby tarp. Certain songs, like “Vaseline Lens” and “The Fool”, go down so smoothly that their intoxicating properties can sneak up on you, like that gummy you forgot you ate an hour ago. Hanson Scott’s horns are the guiltiest culprit, as she adds a new-age jazz flair to Mascelli’s low-lit synths and nonchalant drum loops to makes the affair irresistible. In its own way, Esoteric Lounge Music Now subtly queers up Air’s Virgin Suicides score, Thievery Corporation and some Badalamenti, freeing those gloomy dream-sounds from a humdrum heterosexuality. Kinda surprised they didn’t throw in at least one downtempo dance-floor banger here, but I get it: dancing is a vertical practice, whereas Esoteric Lounge Music Now is primed for horizontal behavior.

Nirosta Steel My Skyscraper 2xLP (ULYSSA)
Truly fascinating document here from Mexico’s ULYSSA label: a definitive (at least for the moment) collection from one Steven Hall AKA Nirosta Steel. Let’s get the record nerd bat-signal out of the way first – Nirosta Steel was a long-time friend and collaborator of Arthur Russell (who appears both physically and spiritually throughout this collection), and if you’ve been longing for more of Russell’s non-discriminatory technicolor approach to art and life in general, this collection offers a shockingly fresh abundance. Nirosta Steel’s range is as varied and omnivorous as Russell’s, as you’ll encounter downtown mutant funk, low-lit acoustic balladry, red-wine pop-rock, avant glam and party sleaze here, and if you’re like me, you’ll be shook on two fronts: how it’s so good and how you haven’t heard it before. I can’t speak to the lack of Nirosta Steel’s recorded output, as he’s only been commercially releasing music in tiny editions since the 2010s; not sure what took him four decades, but regardless, My Skyscraper is far better late than never. I go crazy for the glam-funk of “Lost In Music” and shed a tear for “Go For The Night” (co-written by Russell), with images of pop’s fallen, forgotten and beloved superstars racing through my mind, from Patrick Cowley to Ariel Pink to Bruno Mars to Steve Hiett to Tatsuro Yamashita. And I haven’t even discussed the two extra-long acoustic strummers on side C; the label throws the term “Buddhist bubblegum” at them and I’d say it sticks. What a talent – I feel like I’ve been listening to this non-stop for days and have yet to appreciate the full depth of My Skyscraper.

No Peeling EP2 7″ (Feel It / Wrong Speed)
No Peeling wrote seven songs for their debut seven-inch EP and have now written seven more for this follow-up – you cannot deny their commitment to value. One could comfortably file this Nottingham group under the ever-expanding tent that is egg-punk, though connoisseurs like you and I could pick them out in a lineup of lanky guys with mullet-mustache combos and women in homemade miniskirts and day-glo tights (nerdy glasses and dangly earrings on the lot of them). No Peeling offer a distinctive approach, writing songs with rhythms that can’t be casually bopped along with, almost Melt Banana-esque in nature: riffs change abruptly, drum patterns rarely last more than a bar and the songs themselves seem eager to crack up with an abundance of energy, all signs of today’s baseline attention-deficit. If they weren’t so tight, their songs might be harder to cling onto, but No Peeling perform as a single-celled germ and are equally contagious. Each snare hit is perfectly matched by the strings; same goes for the vocal melodies with the synths. The debut EP had a bit more squeal to it, whereas these songs tend to lean ever so slightly towards a more digestible pop polish, due in no small part to vocalist Sophie Diver. She sounds effortlessly chic and in control no matter how nutty her bandmates get – when they tie her shoelaces together, she slips them off without looking down or missing a step.

Patois Counselors Protection Racket LP (Ever/Never)
The Patois Counselors in my mind are perpetually locked in the raucous jangle of “Repeat Offender”, “Terrible Likeness” and “Probably No One”. That can happen with bands we love; we unintentionally freeze them in an old moment that continues to resonate. Of course, the real Patois Counselors have continued to evolve into something more tender, less upbeat… they’ve always been mature for their age, but that maturity is even more outwardly visible in Protection Racket, their fourth full-length. I’m almost tempted to describe it as sounding “defeated”, but that implies a hopelessness that I’m not necessarily hearing – let’s just say that Patois Counselors have expertly assessed our current situation, and their conclusions are less than desirable. Across slower tempos and smoother melodies, they tackle modernity’s most pressing concerns with wit and acuity, both overt (“Cop City”) and nuanced (“Generational Riffs”). I still love their earliest material (a provocative Men’s Recovery Project sticker on a Parquet Courts guitar), but I’m settling into the subtleties and refinements of Protection Racket easily, something closer to Protomartyr spending a late night at Pere Ubu’s loft (and look, label-mate Richard Papiercuts just arrived with some top-shelf gin). Patois Counselors still have poison in their veins, it’s just that they’ve come up with some new life-hacks to keep from visibly frothing at the mouth.

Poguba Noč 7″ (Autsajder Produkcija)
There tends to be a manic chill inherent to Central European strains of hardcore-punk; it can often sound like music made by people locked in an industrial freezer who scrape the metal walls with their fingernails to escape. It’s an alluring vibe (and an undoubtedly authentic one), and Slovenia’s Paguba channel it here and now with Noč, their vinyl debut following two cassettes from last year. None of these six songs hit the two-minute mark, but their brevity does not translate to formlessness – a lot happens within these songs, the work of a band that can portray their strained, wit’s-end emotions through a few different hardcore-punk tactics. Much of it sounds like Die Kreuzen’s self-titled album hosed down with that Central European iciness, no doubt. The opening title track, “Tank” and “Darila” bring a merciless, herky-jerk speed to their frustrated grumble, like a pestilent creature freshly awoken from hibernation, and there’s no going wrong with that. “Hočm Bit Str” wrings some melody out of their blacks and greys, not unlike their Croatian pals Indikator B, whereas the false-start, false-stop of “Maximum Rokenrol” is outlandish in the way that early hardcore bands used to be – I’m reminded of Pillsbury Hardcore’s “Hey Bob What’s Up?” or Nihilistics’ “Appreciation” for how punk freaks did it before the rulebook was decreed. My sense is that this all deeply means something to Poguba, and like the basement mattresses in a Slovenian punk squat, that feeling is infectious.

Profligate Chewed Up 12″ (no label)
Profilgate left us much to chew on with his last two LPs, 2018’s Somewhere Else and 2020’s Too Numb To Know, genre-defying works of unsettling textures and emotions both raw and guarded. Now he’s chewing us up with this new self-released EP, going back to the project’s roots of bludgeoning techno and EBM. Chewed Up offers six different ways to die (all at the scene of the dance-floor), and I’m glad I’m not forced to choose only one. “Bin Men” doesn’t introduce itself politely, it immediately lands in a tumbling scuffle, rubber meeting steel like Phase Fatale remixing Portion Control (and apropos of Meredith Sellers’ gorgeous cover painting). “Hook And Pull Gang” is hyperactive ala drill n’ bass but punched down to industrial tempo, homemade Foley sound effects spronging against the bars of its cage. Noah Anthony (that’s the name on Profligate’s passport) has always demonstrated a novel approach to aggressive electronics (let’s not forget the crucial electro-crunch he added to the Disintegration album that topped this very blog’s 2024 best-of list), and though I haven’t heard much club-oriented material from him in a few years, he hasn’t lost a step, demonstrating the nimble movements of Objekt, the dark mischief of Peder Mannerfelt and the cyborgian gristle of Blawan. “Wrecked Exotic” isn’t just the name of one of this EP’s most slamming cuts, it’s a fitting shorthand for his musical ethos, too.

Sa Pa Girls On Tour EP 12″ (Dub Techno For Life)
Sa Pa’s recent releases on Short Span revealed a desire to redact techno down to its most cast-off frequencies: a clipping buzz or airy knock becomes the hypnotic centerpiece, not a rough edge to sand down. I love it! With his recent recordings veering far from the club network, the Australian producer wanted to remind us that he initially found his artistic footing via minimal techno, and has now inaugurated his own label, the cornily-named (on purpose or not?) Dub Techno For Life, with this four-track EP. It comes with its own rough title, the (presumably unintentionally) bro-ish Girls On Tour, and well, I’m fairly certain I didn’t need it. “Mokira Ultra Dub” opens the EP and is its finest offering, a 2016 rework of Mokira’s “Manipulation Musik” that pulls and sloshes like tide pools filled with amphibious creatures. Alongside a soothing chug, it flows like light filtered through cloudy water for nearly ten gratifying minutes. The rest of Girls On Tour leaves me underwhelmed. “Waiting For You” was slated for a Giegling release years ago but never left Sa Pa’s hard-drive, and I’m not surprised – it’s a bit undercooked compared to his 2015 FORUM debut. “Modular System” is a one-take jam that sounds like a one-take jam – far more fun to make than listen to, and “World Saving Banger” is more nonspecific dub techno; like “Waiting For You”, perfectly passable genre fare for the sake of genre fare. As Sa Pa has proclaimed that dub techno is for life, I’m hoping he’ll take the next opportunity to spice it up a bit.

Snailgun Glass Walls LP (UnDunn)
The proliferation of new Aussie rock bands leaving their stickers in dive-bar bathrooms is as consistent as the odor, and Melbourne’s Snailgun are here to claim their rightful spot. With the vast history of underground rock music to pull from, they deliver their own specific formula, one that gets more interesting the longer you return its glare. From a wide lens, Glass Walls sits comfortably among the many loud rock records that took inspiration from early ’90s grunge-adjacent indie, but dig in a little deeper and its idiosyncrasies start to become apparent. I’d point first to “Labyrinth”, a bouncy groove ala Deaf Wish-meet-Pixies that just keeps on going and going, a simple idea that manages to gain power, or at least a manic momentum, through its nearly six-minute runtime. “Midway I” sounds like Shellac wearing Dischord t-shirts, leading into “Midway II”, which sounds like something Dischord would’ve actually distributed (say, Maximilian Colby or 400 Years): hand-stamped, local-scene emo-core. And opener “SD” offers an alternate history where John Lydon forms Soul Asylum instead of PiL. Glass Walls reminds me how arbitrary and illusory all those critical genre distinctions of the ’90s underground were, that the difference between one band selling 100,000 CDs and another selling 500 seven-inch EPs was driven by marketing, aesthetics and personal values more than overt sonic differences. Luckily for Snailgun, they exist in an era where no rock bands really sell any records at all – the pressure is off!

United Stare Voice Of Change 7″ (Kill Enemy)
Anti-social punk and hardcore is a fact of life in Pittsburgh, with new bands (and new configurations of old punks) popping up like warts on toe. United Stare is one of the newer offerings from Pennsylvania’s second-best city, formed by Justin Danylko (of the very raging Speed Plans), and they refuse to be pinned down. Following last year’s tape of swaggery punk, this Voice Of Change single offers three unrelated songs that showcase the various ways they might stick you in the ribs – the EP’s sonic incongruity is reiterated with a picture of Stonehenge(?) on the cover. “Voice Of Change” is my kinda punk rock, chunky and Dead Boys-y but also with the street-punk mindset of those essential early Fucked Up singles or even a touch of the trendy Oi influence currently running rampant through La Vida Es Un Mus’s recent catalog. “Burning The City” slides even further from hardcore and into some of Johnny Thunders’ disgusting trousers – kinda makes me want to get the Chiswick logo tattooed above my bellybutton, but only if I’m the first guy to do it. Neither of these tunes prepare us for “Moon Landing II”: it’s nearly seven minutes of kraut-y proto-punk determination, incriminating evidence that they got into their older sister’s weed stash and forgot to put away her copy of Here Come The Warm Jets. No vocals on that one, proof positive they were zoned out in a, you guessed it… United Stare.