Carla dal Forno Confession LP (Kallista)
International woman of mystery Carla dal Forno is back, with her first cover photograph that doesn’t look like it was taken by a private investigator – as far as album portraits are concerned, is she this generation’s Jandek? Dal Forno’s hair blowing in the hillside breeze is a fitting image for the music of Confession, which sounds as though an emotional weight has been lifted from her shoulders. The melodies dip out of the shadows and into the light of day… there’s even a song called “Blue Skies”, which I submit as irrefutable evidence of the album’s hopeful slant. As a long-time dal Forno fan, I’m on alert for these subtle differences, as Confession displays the usual similarities to the rest of her discography. She’s been working the dubby bass-line / tiny programmed drums / haunted vocals thing to perfection for years now, but if I’m being honest, I’d love it if she changed up the unwaveringly methodical tempo, verse-chorus song structure and/or instrumentation by a larger increment here or there. That’s not because I don’t enjoy her typical style – I very much do – but because I already have like four or five records of this stuff, and I’m selfishly curious to hear her venture into the unknown. In that regard, Confession might drag a smidge for listeners already intimately familiar with dal Forno’s oeuvre (and, as on previous records, a jerk might describe the instrumental tracks as “filler”), but her charm remains intact. Confession is a great introduction for those unversed in dal Forno’s bewitching post-punk pop, while us established fans (Fornographers?) will enjoy familiarizing ourselves with the new-wave pop nugget “Alone With You” and the acoustic-gaze of “Gave You Up”, two of the album’s highlights.

Del Paxton / Retirement Party Dogeared / Nothing To Hear Without A Sound 12″ (Storm Chasers)
Poppy emo comes from three trustworthy sources: soul-sucking suburbs, quaint college towns and blue-collar cities. Don’t accept it from anywhere else (imagine emo from Los Angeles or Berlin, yuck!), and take comfort in knowing that this handshake-split between Del Paxton and Retirement Party comes from Buffalo and Chicago respectively. Del Paxton won me over with 2023’s Auto Locator, and their three songs here behave similarly, combining the zig-zag guitar parts of Braid with the zhuzh of Glitterer and the boyish charm of The Promise Ring. I just noticed that these songs are all like five minutes long, but they don’t feel long, a testament to their ability to write engagingly. Chicago’s Retirement Party is new to me; these four songs have been called up from the digital Bandcamp minor-leagues to the other side of this vinyl record. Retirement Party have that sort of elder-millennial professional-podcaster vibe that feels unfair of me to say out loud, but I will counter that with the notion that their brand of indie-punk is a whole lot of catchy fun, too. Immediately I’m thinking of Something To Write Home About-era Get Up Kids and the final Jazz June record, but Avery Springer’s got a voice of her own, which has lodged itself in my brain in the form of “Sixth Sense”‘s chorus. I’ll also add that this particular vinyl record is mastered sharp and hot, noticeably louder than most newly-pressed records I pick up these days, even ones on labels with actual budgets for that sort of thing. Multiple lessons on how to do it right await you here.

Disket Running / Vamos A Ganar 7″ (General Speech)
Three members of Disket are sporting impeccable winged eyeliner on the cover and then… the other two failed to complete the assignment. Why not go five for five and achieve maximum punk-rock hotness, dudes? Perhaps they’re working up to it, but either way, this “double A side” single is an excellent start for the new NYC quintet, sporting members of Baby Shakes and fellow General Speech recording-artists Vaxine. Disket play power-pop borne of leather-jacket punk, proving that New York City still imbues some level of urban grit no matter how many Montessori pre-schools and beauty spas for dogs have recently opened. “Running” is ninety seconds of punk ready to make that Rolling Stone “100 Best Punk Albums” list shrivel up like a salted slug. Joan Jett meets Nasty Facts, what else do you need? “Vamos A Ganar” is twice as long, a full three minutes of hip-shaking cheetah-print speed with just enough darkness around its edges, reminiscent of No Hope For The Kids and Gorilla Angreb but spared of any early ’00s feel. The artwork’s soccer (excuse me, football) theme will surely appeal to the elder punks sporting scally caps, sideburns and scarves, though “Running” makes me want to kickflip down a set of stairs with a security guard chasing me as much as score on an in-bound header.

Evil Sword / Miss Pussycat The Skit Split LP (Rhinestone)
On this split between Philadelphia’s Evil Sword and New Orleans’s legendary Miss Pussycat, the hijinks, tomfoolery, whimsy and all-purpose kookiness are maximized. It starts off with Evil Sword, who could misleadingly be described as a bass / drums / vocals duo, as they treat their instruments more like props or noisemakers than the typical elements used to compose rock music. Over stomped-trash percussion, wiggly little bass runs and Looney Tunes sound effects, vocalist Kate Ferencz is a lovable Tasmanian devil, with an elastic, theatrical delivery that reminds me of both Jehnny Beth and Kathy Acker (smushed together under an Acme anvil). Evil Sword’s ten songs follow a script, full of bells, whistles and wacky narration, like one of those mildly hallucinogenic children’s TV shows that young hip parents will insist is actually really good. Miss Pussycat has been putting together her audio plays for decades now: live with puppets, on video with puppets, and on record with the imagination of the listener’s mind’s eye. We get a full eighteen minute audio-play here, “MG Xing Ever Gras”, which follows two kittens through a Mardi Gras costume-shopping adventure, Miss Pussycat’s pitch-shifted vocals as DIY and endearing now as they were twenty years ago. Similar to how Never Mind The Bollocks inspired so many kids to pick up guitars and make wild noise, I can only assume The Skit Split will have a similar effect for slide whistles and papier-mâché.

The Family Men Co/de/termination LP (Welfare Sounds)
If you’re of the same micro-generation as myself, you might’ve discovered major-label alt-rock as a pre-teen by scamming your way through a Columbia House CD haul. It’s with great delight then that I am sharing with you the fact that Co/de/termination, the debut album from Gothenburg’s The Family Men, is wild fun in that sonic tradition. I’m talking Nine Inch Nails, Filter, Ministry, Melvins, My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult, KMFDM, Orgy, The Jesus Lizard, Skinny Puppy… The Family Men somehow channel all of those freaky legends here, and it’s deeply, infectiously satisfying. That’s what a lot of these modern-day industrial goth-rock acts seem to miss, the sheer excitement of being able to smash keyboards and slam guitars at the same time; The Family Men absolutely go to town, showing everyone how it’s done. Opener “Calamity” is like every ’90s hacker-rave scene jammed together at a dangerous speed, Run Lola Run thrown into a mosh-pit with Go‘s Las Vegas scenes (ie. Fatboy Slim) and Johnny Mnemonic stage-diving. What a rush! It’s not all high-velocity damage though – “AOR” sounds like Tom Morello and Dave Navarro sixty-nineing, whereas “Scanner” is the bowling ball and all these lightweight nu-gaze revivalists are the pins. It’s over the top, unafraid to be cheesy, and just so bold and entertaining that I personally can’t get enough. Why settle for another geriatric reunion tour of ’90s has-beens when the newness and vitality of The Family Men is sitting right here, waiting to be devoured?

Folded Group Folded Group 7″ (Open Mouth)
It happens to the best of us sometimes: Bill Nace is in love. As such, the only reasonable response is to make a record with your beloved, which is how Folded Group came to be. Alongside Nace’s loops, voice and mini-synth, his partner Lena Kolb contributes the sounds of viola, a loom (she’s a weaver / textile artist) and her voice as well (albeit buried far below). The two tracks are abstract and textural – it often feels like I’m listening from the raw thread’s perspective, sharp needles and a rickety machine expertly poking and prodding me into a woven fabric. “Shaft” opens a tiny portal with clicks and warbles, a secret chatroom for crickets to shoot the breeze before Kolb’s voice bubbles up from an underground chamber. “Harness” delves further into clickety-clacks – “shaken bag of seashells” isn’t listed in the credits but they replicate this clatter precisely. Soon enough, Nace’s voice enters through a makeshift flying saucer, Kolb responds even further down in the mix and we’re treated to an intimate conversation rendered unintelligible by effects, like side C of I Am Sitting In A Room, or people moving about behind drawn shades, the blur of shadows only occasionally recognizable as the human form. Although I cannot deny the two nude figures sketched on the cover, or the possible implications of the track titles, I’m not trying to be lascivious here – Folded Group retains its personal privacy nicely, like the locked account of an Onlyfans creator.

Guttersnipe Extinction Burst! LP (Night School)
In 2002, “Oops! The Tour” recalibrated the ears of the American art-punk underground, bringing The Locust, Lightning Bolt and Arab On Radar (and Wolf Eyes and The Flying Luttenbachers and Erase Errata and even The Blood Brothers) to young audiences ready and willing to have their minds blown. That in-your-face noise-punk spirit echoes in the unhinged caterwaul of Guttersnipe’s sophomore album, Extinction Burst!. The Leeds duo play guitar and drums the way a blender plays frozen fruit – after the tentative, sour twinkles that open “Alive On Tuesday”, Guttersnipe jump in feet first without looking, thrashing out lengthy, loosely-structured “songs” not unlike the hot asbestos breath of Air Conditioning and Lambsbread. It’s dense and attention-demanding, with the same predilection for high-note irritants (see “Primordial Invagination”) as Arab On Radar, delivered with the cyclone fury of Lightning Bolt and the room-clearing thrill of Sightings. Much as the class of 2002 had their own perspective and place in the world, Guttersnipe’s is as immediate and unflinching as their prickly, bruising noise-rock: they’re outspoken xenofeminists and happy to explain what that actually means. Like their music, if you’re cool and you get it, it’ll all make perfect sense.

Hand Model & Gloved Hands Chudo Pustih Ruk 7″ (Dumb Edge)
All the essential ingredients for a good minimal-synth project appear in this cover photo: QWERTY keyboard, box-screen monitor, rickety metal table upon which they rest, cheap microphone at waist height and tilt-up garage door to conceal it all from the outside world. It’s the debut EP from Hand Model (the vocals) and Gloved Hands (the music): four sullen gusts of rudimentary synth-pop. While peacefully residing in California, Hand Model (if not also Gloved Hands) is a Russian native, and puts those ESL skills to good use here, dolefully lecturing in his native tongue over Gloved Hands’ routine bleeps, blorps, blops and bloops. “Teflon” might be my favorite, if only because mentions of “Pink Floyd cassette” and “Beach Boys cassette” stick out among the otherwise Russian lyrics – some phrases are simply exclusive to the English language, “Beach Boys cassette” undoubtedly one of them. As is the case with any miniscule-edition lathe-cut record, Chudo Pustih Ruk is more of a curio than a formal release, though in this age of digital supremacy, anyone can type the name and title into their web browser of choice and listen to these songs on Bandcamp within seconds, so there you go. It’s nice to hold it in my hands at least, especially right after pulling it out of the industrial-grade freezer where I keep all my synth-wave singles. Audiophiles take note: they sound best at a crisp 33°F.

Memotone Warm Shadows LP (Accidental Meetings)
Will Yates is one of the most reliable and trustworthy producers of whatever you wanna call today’s post-club avant-garde style: nu-ambient, post-jazz electro, dream-pop, or simply “the list of artists playing Making Time”? One look at Memotone’s discography and you’ll realize you have a lot of catching up to do if not already familiar – Yates has been at it since 2011, and his productivity has risen as of late, with three full-lengths in 2024, two in 2025 and now Warm Shadows to inaugurate 2026. I’d say that Warm Shadows works as a strong overview not just of Memotone, but for the aforementioned (and poorly-designated) genre as a whole, where dub, techno, jazz, ambient, modern composition, post-punk and new-age collide… the sprawling valleys between Laurel Halo, Astrid Sonne and Félicia Atkinson. Opener “Warm Shadow” pairs rain-dappled drums with sweetly seductive horns – file under Sam Gendel / Eli Keszler / Lemon Quartet – and it’s followed by “Laimèti Pavyksta”, which taps into the post-R&B Copenhagen scene care of Ugné Uma’s seductively-aimless vocals. For a change of pace, “Round The Bend” works a rock-band setup (featuring folks from Jabu) for some ’90s-inspired alt-strum you’d expect to hear on the Julia’s War label. It goes on like this: all the niche styles of the cool-kid electronic / indie / experimental section get some shine through these eight tracks, a satisfying Boomkat For Dummies study-guide in one tidy record.

Neptune Play Some Music LP (Sleeping Giant Glossolalia)
There’s just something about a rock band starting off as a “sculpture project” that lends itself to kicking ass. That’s Neptune’s story at least, and it dates back quite a while, somehow to 1994 in fact; the group has maintained a somewhat consistent presence since. The whole sculpture thing is also an active concern, as Neptune perform their post-hardcore on literally-homemade instruments – their brutalist metallic pieces aren’t trying to cosplay as Fender knockoffs. That’s a strong enough gimmick for a mediocre group to comfortably coast on, but Neptune are a cut above. Their music retains an enigmatic edge, with shamanic drumming and guitars that grind like molasses mixed with playground sand. The sonic elements are ready and waiting to slap you unconscious, which is why Play Some Music is particularly infatuating – Neptune never move in for the knockout blow. Instead, these songs creep around the corners of the room like feral animals trapped in a human residence, burrowing under furniture and attacking only if provoked. Think of Crash Worship and Missing Foundation if they made it to middle-age and matured into nuance, smarter, calmer and more self-assured than their violent twenties. The vocals (from both drummer Daniel Boucher and guitarist Jason Sanford) are downright sedative, their soft-spoken voices arriving like nurses during a surgery you somehow retained a slight consciousness through. If they added some synthetic atmosphere, it might be haunting, but Neptune refuse to lean on cheap tricks. These three guys all wear corrective lenses now; they can see right through that nonsense.

Saint Abdullah & Jason Nazary Wiretaps For Oral LP (Disciples)
Iranian-Canadian duo Saint Abdullah and American jazz drummer Jason Nazary hit us with a sublime “two different radios playing at the same time” vibe on Wiretaps For Oral. Any two sounds can be mashed together – whether or not it works is an entirely different story – but the mix of Saint Abdullah’s rapid-cut sampling and Nazary’s crisply improvised percussion is choice. For starters, I’m not entirely sure how they did it, which is a positive trait. The radio / television / street / field samples of Saint Abdullah come fast and layered, like one of those Glands Of External Secretion summits with Orchid Spangiafora, and Nazary seems to be interacting with them in real-time (not entirely unlike Jack Bauer), sticking and weaving through the chop of uncredited voices. At times, it can feel like Madlib’s sampling techniques at his most frenzied – maybe it’s the occasional dip into boom-bap trap-kit drumming – but it also feels like something from the insane and unknowable deep-end of the Sublime Frequencies label… the final mysterious transmission from Alan Bishop before he walks into the Sahara, never to return, Chris Corsano sunburnt and searching for his friend. “Strangers At The Gun Range” is a personal favorite, a low-slung drag-and-scrape that splits the difference between an MF Doom instrumental interlude and, I dunno, Esplendor Geométrico? Even if it was all meticulously edited from files without any in-person collaboration (I don’t know either way), Wiretaps For Oral shoots sparks.

Schatterau Wir Gingen Durch Leere Stunden LP (Hands In The Dark)
Wir Gingen Durch Leere Stunden is the third full-length from German duo Schatterau, and it’s another hefty collection (fifteen tracks!) of bespoke sonic cinema. As beguilingly German as pumpernickel bread, Schatterau sketch out multiple variations on the same emotional themes of isolation, sorrow and beauty. I’d also add “confusion” to that list, but that one’s on me, as I remain pitifully non-fluent in German and its various regional dialects. The soft-spoken voices spotlighted here provide me with sentiment if not understanding. The resulting album sounds barrel-aged, “songs” rich with flavorful sediment and minerals that took time to seep in. I feel like you could still vaguely connect Schatterau’s last LP to post-punk, but Wir Gingen Durch Leere Stunden is smooth as a rain-slicked granite slab – imagine if some of those extremely mature ’80s post-punk acts like The Blue Nile, Eyeless In Gaza or Section 25 were stripped bare of rock aesthetics and traded in for soft tape loops, melodious drones, looming bass-lines, delicate synthesizers and a crumpled sketch of Klaus Kinski drawn by Graham Lambkin. In that way, they’re similar to Deux Filles or Brannten Schnüre, but all of these duos have succeeded in crafting their own vivid realms, like neighboring theaters in a particularly exciting art-house district.

Seefeel Sol.Hz LP (Warp)
I love the concept of guitar bands who evolved / dissolved into electronic music over time, real or imagined. Black Dice is a good one; I think legends like Kraftwerk and New Order mostly count too, and Seefeel as well, whose early and sustained Warp Records affiliation confirmed their outsider status. While I understand that the sound of the guitar still exists within Sol.Hz (care of founding member Mark Clifford), it’s as obscured and unrecognizable as any of the sounds he’s drafted up here. Clifford handles mostly everything besides vocals (contributed by longstanding Seefeel member Sarah Peacock), and the artwork and typeface, both redolent of the spaceship interfaces you’d find in Ridley Scott’s last few Alien films, confirm the music’s sense that ancient organic life has given way to futuristic electronic processes. I’ve seen Sol.Hz described as Seefeel’s “dub record”, and I’m not sure I’m totally hearing that – there are a few tracks that manage to keep their feet firmly planted in bass, but the beats are as apprehensive and guarded as you’d expect to find on a Pop Ambient compilation, light palpitations caught in the ambient swirl like the heartbeat of a fetus. The whole record hovers cautiously in the distance, often more typically categorizable as intros, segues and outros than songs. That seems to be the point – even at their most rock-oriented, Seefeel’s music has always revealed an aeriform condition, like one of those surreal gas-giant planets, surfaceless and sprawling.

Who Cares? Who Cares? 7″ (Purely Physical Teeny Tapes)
Alright, so the name of this group makes you think of the thirtieth-best band on some Mystic Records comp from 1983, but those of you willing to look past your unfounded assumptions will be richly rewarded by this fantastic EP. Who Cares? are a trio out of Melbourne, not a city in dire need of more ramshackle indie-pop, though none of it offers the same heady, witchy aura of Who Cares?. An acoustic guitar’s chords are strummed over atmospheres both ominous and tender while Zarnie Morcombe’s vocals shine like a candle carried down a centuries-old hallway. It’s like if Comus were a UK DIY group who only released one seven-inch in 1979, Anika lost at sea in a paddleboat with an acoustic guitar, or a Ouija board that occasionally flirts back. “Discipline” isn’t a Throbbing Gristle cover, but the title couldn’t be a total accident – either way, it’s one singing-saw away from a classic Black Heart Procession tune. These are four pop songs, no doubt, but with an alluring, occult-like pull that reminds me of those incredible Ssabæ and Bassæ records on the Few Crackles label, a nascent magic (or is nü mægik more appropriate) strain of quiet underground guitar music to unite us. Recommended!

World I Hate Total Nuclear Annihilation LP (Convulse)
It’s simple, really: if Infest started in 2020 instead of 1986, they’d be World I Hate. This Milwaukee group simply sounds more pissed-off and brutal than their peers, with songs capable of the most dangerous parkour moves, scaling vertical surfaces and hurdling gaps that risk severe bodily harm. Their music pops every visible vein, a non-stop intensity from dirge-paced pile-ons (“Incentivized”) to grind-core immolation (“Closing In”) and what sounds like Integrity turned up to eleven (“Bullshit Faucet”). Their songs are agile and monstrous, very much in line with Infest’s No Man’s Slave, but there’s also the clear and present influence of today’s beatdown hardcore flavors. I have no doubt these guys enjoy Trapped Under Ice (they named their band after a TUI lyric), Fury Of Five and Bulldoze, and that appreciation finds novel ways to seep into their songwriting. It’s an ingredient but not the dominant one, as World I Hate are at their peak when blasting out pitch-perfect grind – the title track is up there with Terrorizer and Insect Warfare, a statement I don’t make lightly. If World I Hate didn’t have the benefit of forty-five years of the form to draw from, I might even be so bold as to say that Total Nuclear Annihilation bests some of the undisputed legends at this extreme form of hardcore, but I don’t want to get carried away. What I know for sure is that some of World I Hate’s peers are playing ADIDAS cross-fit brand-activation parties, and they should tread lightly: World I Hate could easily grind their bones to make their bread.