Arbor Labor Union Out To Pasture LP (Sophomore Lounge)
I appreciate that Arbor Labor Union decided to integrate bird-song into the instrumental opening track “Patch Of Violet”, as if the banjo and polite folksy strum weren’t enough on their own to convey the band’s staunchly rural presentation. I would’ve assumed this was one of them city-slicker metropolitan banjo groups otherwise! Right down to their name, Arbor Labor Union offers some unabashed bare-feet rock, and rock it does – more often than not, Arbor Labor Union plug into the big amps and lock-in so effortlessly, I start to feel as though I too could write and perform music like this (I cannot). If Steve Gunn and his band felt a little urgency for once, crafted some particularly nimble riffs in the style of Up On The Sun-era Meat Puppets, and shot it through the wide-eyed weirdo wonder of Will Oldham, the resulting music might resemble Out To Pasture. Or, if you dad was in a progressive folk-rock band who private-pressed a sole LP in 1972 that is now worth one thousand dollars on the collector’s market, that might sound like this too. Regardless, Arbor Labor Union are here with us now, with early-riser energy and so much cool guitar stuff that they sometimes have no choice but to layer it (behold the duel soloing within “Zodiac Man”). Before discovering that the bandleader’s name is Bo Orr, I had no intention of questioning their cred, but that detail sealed the deal. It’s a name fit for a man who pulls radishes out of the soil with his bare hands… how could his band be called anything but Arbor Labor Union?

Bashford Wannabe LP (Big Neck)
A large part of me refuses to believe that Bashford’s Wannabe is a new release. You’re telling me there are new, Covid-era bands partaking in this unadulterated form of small-town Nirvana worship?? When I was thirteen, the goal among my cohort was to possibly, if we were lucky, start a band that might someday sound as good as Bashford. We probably would’ve also been a fan of Wannabe‘s cover art, what with its various sharp-teethed comic-book monsters ready to be doodled on our homework folders. I looked it up and confirmed that Bashford are indeed grown, living men, and while this band might not necessarily be their pre-teen dreams coming true, their music hits me like the first demo tape ever heard from the older kids down the street (they are in high school – we are not quite there yet). At times, Bashford’s moaning and groaning takes on more of a Puddle Of Mudd shape (an inherent risk), and a song like “Lady In Black” (what a teenager-y title!) crumbles under its guest violin spot, but “Daze Of Doubt”, that’s Bleach-era Nirvana on a Pentagram trip, and it rocks. Perhaps those who experienced a different upbringing (and era) than myself might not think twice about local-stage Jack Endino-worship such as Bashford, but this mostly-crappo album has me caught up in some alternate-reality Mandela Effect and I’m not quite ready to leave.

Robert Bergman 9 Lives Of The Cat – Lives 1-5 12″ (Brew)
Upon a possessed computer-chip resides a tiny Robert Bergman, nestled deep inside the Sega Genesis in your attic, its power light glowing red even while not plugged in. Bergman’s been churning out analog, hardware-driven beats for over a decade now, and with tracks this craggy and sinister, you’d think his fingers would have blistered up from tapping and twisting all those plastic buttons and dials. Bergman persists, however, with an angry 16-bit sound that leaves bite marks in shapes redolent of the L.I.E.S. label and Jamal Moss. Like some of Moss’s best work, 9 Lives Of The Cat – Lives 1-5 comes as a hand-stamped white-label, with the same street-level, hand-passed feel as a flyer outside the club. All five tracks are great, chugging with ill intent and lo-fi fury. “Life 3” is a first-person shooter with the difficulty set to hard; a blustery, distorted voice recalls the wicked visage of Beau Wanzer. It’s perfect music for the smallest club possible – no windows, no booth, not even bathroom access. Thyssenkrupp should program “Life 4” to blast on a loop in its elevators whenever they malfunction, as it sonically compliments stressed-out claustrophobia perfectly. Stuck with a drunken stranger and security isn’t answering the emergency phone? Robert Bergman’s perilous dance music will set you free.

Building Instrument Kanskje (Villalobos Remix) 12″ (Sei Es Drum)
Sei Es Drum, the vinyl imprint run by Ricardo Villalobos, has consistently showcased Villalobos at his most uninhibited and fancy-free. This is saying something, considering the notoriously carefree DJ’s lengthy (and legendary) DJ sets (how many flights has he missed because he played for an extra five hours or more?). With Sei Es Drum, the only logical consistency is the Villalobos seal of approval – case in point are these two remixes of Building Instrument’s “Kanskje”. Building Instrument are a Norweigian jazz-improv group, and the original song was released in 2014; if you saw these Villalobos remixes coming, I hope you hit big on Kalshi. On these two sides, Villalobos tweaks the original’s Northern Euro occult-folk vibe to match his restless mind. The a-side is abstracted well beyond the confines of the club, with the enchanting vocals of Mari Kvien Brunvoll chopped, layered and folded like extravagant paper snowflakes; if you told me this was a new Shackleton collaboration I’d have no trouble believing you. The b-side remix delivers more of a typical Villalobos minimal-house pulse as Kvien Brunvoll’s vocals continue to mesmerize, perfect for the Midsommar forest rave scene that was edited out from the final cut. (Okay I’m making that last part up, but can you imagine?)

The Cysts Turn It Up Or Throw It Away / S.I.S.T.S. LP (Gilgongo / Vile Bile)
I sleep well at night with the knowledge that it’s physically impossible to experience the entirety of great hardcore-punk that exists on this planet. There’s simply too much of it, so much that will remain unknowable to even the most dutiful of its devotees, and while it’s unconquerable by any one person, this leaves room for constant surprises for the casual and obsessive alike. For example, I certainly had no idea that The Cysts existed back in the late ’00s, even though their surrounding scene is one I personally enjoyed: Discogs sleuthing reveals band-member connections to Lithics, Alarmist, and even a band that had a split EP with Friends Forever (Zombie Zombie) back in 2003! Two otherwise-unreleased sessions comprise this twelve-inch, and if you’re a fan of Hail Mary, later Born Against and Wrangler Brutes (does a Hail Mary fan who doesn’t also appreciate Sam McPheeters exist?), you’re going to want to seek this out. The Cysts have that same fall-apart, mid-tempo, open hi-hat sound, with the sense that as long as either the bassist or the guitarist is hitting the right notes, the other has no obligation to do the same. It comes across like a hardcore band whose members have solo noise projects (and apparently it is), but that doesn’t explain just how great these songs are. “You Will Die”, for example, sounds like early Black Dice rehearsing early Black Flag material, as catchy as anything off Flex Your Head. An art-damaged, but also just damage-damaged, hardcore band rescued from the sands of time.

Flaccid Mojo Loose Jacks LP (Post Present Medium)
Aaron Warren and Bjorn Copeland aren’t just two weirdo lifers, they’ve been close buds for basically their entire adult lives, too. Playing together in Black Dice for a mind-boggling twenty-six years, these guys have yet to accidentally make normal-sounding music together, their part-time Flaccid Mojo project included. The sticker on the sleeve calls Loose Jacks “combat trance”, and while I’m having fun imagining what that made-up genre might actually sound like, I kinda don’t think it’s this, music that is neither combative nor trancelike. Like those Black Dice records from the past decade that prioritize time-stretched, unquantized synth-splurt and cartoon sound-effects, Flaccid Mojo is overstuffed with neon rot, pushing the cracked electronics and free-trial iPhone apps they utilized past their legal limits. It’s digital with an overtly human quality, the sound of greasy thumbs smashing phone-screens slightly out of time, not the silent formality of a bespoke DAW’s keyboard interface. In that regard, I’m reminded of the zany noise-funk that Leprechaun Catering conjured – Loose Jacks certainly has the aura of rhythmic noise circa the early No Fun Fest era, spastic and silly junk-electronics you’d hope to encounter on a Load Records release or in the basement of Tarantula Hill. Even with contemporary means, Loose Jacks hearkens to that carefree and colorful Obama-era noise, when Paperrad was a physical zine, not a museum exhibition.

Fog Lamp Still Entangled LP (Siltbreeze)
Every upscale bar has one of those outrageous cocktails meant to frighten, allure and signal adventurousness. Aged cognac, raw milk and rosemary? There’s only one way to find out if the unlikely combination is delicious or simply an expensive emetic, and I get the sense that Oakland’s Fog Lamp are likeminded explorers of the post-punk realm. Their particular aesthetic combination is overt and brash: upon a bed of crystalline synths harvested from some of the ’70s rock giants (I’m thinking Pink Floyd, Genesis and Emerson, Lake & Palmer) and some of the less-heralded pop-wavers (let’s say Heaven 17 and Soft Cell), the rhythm section shakes out some morbid (if not downright goth) garage riffs ala The Scientists’ mid-’80s material, with a vocalist who eerily resembles Mark Arm when Mudhoney covers Fang and The Dicks. Perhaps it’s not as off-putting as egg whites over prosecco (with habanero rinse), but Fog Lamp’s combination of pristine space-travel synths and grunge yowling is an uncommon one. Fog Lamp are willing to go there, though, their novelty-seeking spirit perhaps more simpatico with early ’80s deviants like Killing Joke and Gary Numan than today’s underground travelers, where sub-genres are codified like old statues. It’s a Siltbreeze record, after all – a significant portion of polite society will never have any clue what is happening here, and that’s the way we like it.

Institute Institute 7″ (Anti Fade)
In support of an upcoming Australian tour, Institute put together this sharp three-song EP on the reputable Anti Fade label. I could be mistaken, but this feels like their most politically-charged record yet, though I wonder how anyone’s art could reasonably avoid reflecting upon the multitude of empire-driven horrors in this current moment. Whatever the case, it’s some of their most potent work yet – you can tell they really sharpened up the blades to deliver these tunes. “The Shooter” has all the martial snare-rolls and grousing guitar riffs we’ve come to expect from this itchy post-punk unit, and while they’ve never really written sing-alongs, “The Shooter” has all the markings of a true-blue “single”. Same goes for “A Privilege”, actually, with inspired guitar work that sounds like it’s attempting to escape a small fire in the Chiswick Records office. “Why Are These Men Still Alive?” is the question we’re all asking, and vocalist Moses Brown ponders it in his signature unplaceable accent – a forest toad impersonating Ian Dury’s stepson, perhaps? Institute go three-for-three here, sophisticated yet easy to enjoy, strange but universally punk. If they decide to cancel those return flights and seek permanent residence in Australia, I for one won’t hold it against them.

Lydia Lunch And The Art Gray Quintet Permafrost / Mass Production 10″ (In The Red)
Lydia Lunch is most comfortable when flanked by a stable of subservient men, so this new collaboration with Art Gray’z “Noizz Quintet” fits like foot in stiletto heel. Lunch’s voice is blackened and bulletproof, and she speak-snarls through “Permafrost”, each syllable dripping with snake blood. It’s a Magazine cover, and the lyrics are well tailored to Lunch’s strengths; to wit: “I will drug you and fuck you / on the permafrost”. Lunch, Gray and company tackle Iggy Pop’s “Mass Production” on the flip, biting into its lobotomized pulse like rats to CBGB’s drywall. Whereas “Permafrost” has the chapped texture of desert wasteland, “Mass Production” is a sticky bedsheet to writhe around in, Skeleton Boy’s fingers running the full length of his bass like a sick child touching everything at the buffet. Rather than tidy up and bask in the glow of an unmatched underground legacy, Lydia Lunch is lurking in the nearest mud pit, choking out men twice her size and half her age as a means of keeping entertained; a full album of sleazy covers like these would be welcomed, as well as, for some after-hours reading, a book detailing the ways in which she procured her sizable collection of police helmets.

Galcher Lustwerk Vestibule EP 12″ (StrataSonic)
I was recently spinning my other Galcher Lustwerk records (it’s a perennial habit around these parts), and I couldn’t help but notice what a bargain they are. If coolness was a currency, their value would rival Audemars Piguet, but they’re like seven bucks a pop on Discogs right now, with nary a dud in Lustwerk’s discography. (He also made a record under the alias “The Fock” called Shat Pop which is all extremely fun to say out loud.) Anyway, that’s Lustwerk’s past, and his present gives us Vestibule EP, which doesn’t change the formula so much as level it up. It’s the same Lustwerk, he’s just wearing a fine-tailored mohair suit instead of sweats and a tee. “Shorty Out” lays it down on the four-four, the synths nocturnal and plush beyond affordability. “Vestibule” goes hip-house for grown adults, bringing in some tasteful ambient-sax akin to that last Real Lies album, though Lustwerk is always in full control – his emotions will never, ever get the best of him. “Wet Bulb” lets the synths romp about the cabin freely, a fully-grown instrumental in league with the most elegant Detroit house. It’s the two vocal-led cuts that really send me, though – with Lustwerk’s calm narration, I picture myself disembarking from a chartered plane in a foreign city after midnight and considering who will end up in my bespoke hotel bed… while I wash the dishes in my kitchen.

Mx Lonely All Monsters LP (Julia’s War)
Like a snowboarder in a Billabong hoodie coming down the black-diamond slopes, this shoegaze-grunge resurgence is showing no signs of stopping. I feel bad for the generation that was in their teens in the early to mid ’00s and missed out on Keeley Loomer fuzz reverb and baggy jeans with cropped tees, but the style is back on top now, with groups like Brooklyn’s Mx Lonely making it sparkle and crack. All Monsters swings big with double-wide Deftones riffage, Hole’s infectious moodiness and the well-meaning guidance of a PR team to make sure they’re “hitting the socials” appropriately. It’s impossible to miss the similarities to Mannequin Pussy, Narrow Head and They Are Gutting A Body Of Water in these songs, but that’s a feature of this music, not a bug. These days, the full-time going-for-it bands have no choice but to promote seven different shirt designs online (and in Mx Lonely’s case, six trucker hat variants) in hopes of staying afloat for another month because no one buys music anymore, and I appreciate that Mx Lonely’s music thrives in that living desperation. It’s an increasingly ugly landscape for anyone who isn’t already rich, so if you ever wished Weezer and Throwing Muses merged into one emotionally-fragile band in 1993, you should pay for a copy of All Monsters and go see Mx Lonely live. Pro tip: the perfect stage-dive moment comes 48 seconds into “Big Hips”.

OK EG GEKO01 12″ (GEKO)
“Australian techno”… as a concept, it’s a little perverse, isn’t it? I suppose that’s part of the fun, observing the ways in which creative Aussies choose to borrow and tweak imported electronic dance music concepts for their own ends. I can point to some great results: Cousin, Andy Garvey and Jensen Interceptor out of Sydney, and how about Tornado Wallace and OK EG from Melbourne, for starters? I’ve been particularly enjoying OK EG, a duo in step with Montreal’s Priori as they attempt to pry psy-trance away from its corny Burning Man captors and deliver it into the open hearts and minds of a more sophisticated, artfully-minded audience. OK EG’s 2023 album on Kalahari Oyster Cult remains an interplanetary vessel worth boarding, and GEKO01, the first release on their own GEKO imprint, continues to chart a course for the deepest dark matter. Using “hybrid, analog machines connected directly to digital workflows”, the duo leave plenty of room for their pliant synths to flicker back and forth, benefiting from the esoteric gravities that exist within their music. “Spiral” sounds like one black hole gulping down another, or some sort of deep-space behavior that physicists are currently unable to explain. That’s kind of all they do, and it’s really all we need: one gigantic rubbery arpeggio and some skittering patterns to escort it to the great beyond. I keep checking OK EG’s Bandcamp page for promotional blacklight posters, but they still haven’t made any – they must be allergic to money.

Picture Eeeeeeee 2xLP (Short Span)
Picture (AKA Central, AKA Natal Zaks) is responsible for some of my favorite techno/house of the last few years. As Central, his house tracks are suave and deep, whereas Picture tends to lean into the “club tool” techno zone. Eeeeeeee, however, goes further into bleary-eyed, self-replicating grooves, a thrilling bout of macroscopic repetition and microscopic tweaking. While this is merely conjecture on my part, Eeeeeeee certainly feels like music made in the 47th hour of an uninterrupted 48-hour studio session. Just look at the song titles: “Tyyyyyyyyy”, “Keeeeeee”, “Qeeeeeeee”… one can only assume he passed out on his keyboard after pushing these productions to their physical limits. Head-rush rhythmic loops are gated, harmonized and echoed with the same soft touch Zaks gives to all his productions, but this isn’t purely club music, it’s also stay-at-home-and-melt-your-mind music. Let “Heeeeeeee” rip as you stare through Roku City and eventually hallucinate yourself into that cozy purple cityscape. Not since Donato Dozzy have I encountered techno of such intense willpower… it’s a club where your VIP booth is directly across from Marina Abramović and she’s staring a hole in your head.

Slicing Grandpa Gastronomic Warfare 2xLP (String Theory)
After listening to 2025’s Volume Thinker, it seemed a foregone conclusion that Slicing Grandpa was reaching an end-stage mortality. The project, centered around (and frequently only) guitarist/vocalist John Laux, has sounded like it’s been on life support for a few years now, but as is the case of the most evolved vermin, Slicing Grandpa continues to thrive. They certainly pack it in with Gastronomical Warfare, a double LP set with eye-catching, intestine-popping artwork and a total disregard for the typical 2026 attention span. Laux appears alongside Lance Argetsinger here, and the duo play guitar and keyboard over simplistic drum-machines (“rhythm tickers” might be a more appropriate designation), conjuring cranky, arthritic songs that summon the misery of microwaved burritos, the isolation of middle-aged adulthood, the indignity of common life. It’s best summed up in “Small Talk With The Boss” – the title alone should have your skin crawling – but they fill up four full LP sides with this unrepentantly sour music, an anti-social strain of underground “rock” that chains Kilslug to Mojo Nixon, Saw-style. Will one of them be willing to cut off a limb to escape, or will they die together?

Vipers Vipers 7″ (Feral Kid / Undershows / Broken Skull / Swimming Faith)
Not to be confused with Anthony Pasquarosa’s singular Viper metal-punk project of the late ’00s, Vipers plural is a new group from Coke Bust’s Nick Candela, alongside some Buffalo buddies who play(ed) in Brown Sugar and Science Man. From what I gather, Candela was living in Brazil and recently moved back to the States in less than optimal circumstances. To best process these life changes, he did what any reasonable adult would do and started a new hardcore band. Vipers look into hardcore’s distant past for musical inspiration, which is most evident in their frozen-mud guitar tone, instantly recognizable as inspired by SOA’s No Policy EP. Much like SOA, Vipers’ songs take the clumsy stomp of nascent British street-punk and give it an American beating, pushed to hardcore speed and intensity. The sonic template is obvious, but Candela takes the opportunity as a lyricist to offer his own personal point of view. “Escape From Brazil” seems to sum up his recent personal history in detail, whereas “Live In My Car” offers a fantasy homelessness scenario that you can sing along to if by some chance you feel similarly. It’s still mostly a genre exercise, though: you can dissect “Coxinha Motherfuckers” down to its Boston and DC hardcore roots as though it were a roadmap, and even point out the speedy little riff that Beaver also used if you’re that much of a disturbed hardcore enthusiast. I would hope that you are.