Ceremony Live At The Hollywood Palladium 2xLP (Relapse)
I wonder if Ceremony backed themselves into a corner by writing what is surely the greatest hardcore-punk intro of this millennium. How can they open with anything else? Live albums are traditionally the territory of grandiose rock-stars, the bloated playgrounds of Peter Frampton and KISS, but the way that Ceremony builds “Sick” into a buzzing fever pitch, practically demanding the explosiveness of No Justice’s last show? The ostentatious presentation of a lavish gatefold double-LP is well deserved. For this career-pinnacle of a gig, Ceremony ran through their definitive Rohnert Park album in full (followed by an encore of other catalog highlights), reminding us that familiar, simple chord progressions can be spun into hardcore gold with the perfect combination of personality, chutzpah, point of view and vocal expressiveness. I would be hard pressed to name a better hardcore-punk album of 2010 (though by all means, let’s have that conversation), and these songs haven’t lost any of their sing-along compulsivity over time, as evidenced by the roaring crowd. The band appears awed by the audience’s overwhelming response, and vice versa; it was surely a memorable night for all parties. Though vocalist Ross Farrar has far less snarl in his throat here at the Palladium (is it true he’s gotten into, gulp, clean living??), these songs have claimed their spot within the perennial hardcore canon, much as I expect Keith Morris to be belting out “Beverly Hills” and “Deny Everything” when he’s Marshall Allen’s age.
Diagonale Des Yeux Madeleine LP (Knekelhuis)
Among so many bland electro-pop spreads, Diagonale Des Yeux is an ominous chunk of Roquefort. The French duo consists of Panoptique and Eye (aka Laurène Exposito, not the Boredoms bandleader), both of whom got up to plenty of entertaining electronic (or should I say electronique) escapades on their own prior to joining forces. The chemistry is undeniable on Madeleine, an album that plays with post-punk convention like feline with feather teaser. Across twelve tracks, they take us through every cluttered room of the avant-pop no-wave post-punk charity shop. “Baby Buddha” is straight-up guitar and drums indie-pop; “Le Rayon Orchidée” is dazed synth-wave, like Mary Moor’s “Pretty Day” drunk on love letters; the title track allows weird keys(?) to plink and plonk all over a schoolyard vocal melody and insistent synth pattern – it reeks of covert Pierre Bastien involvement. It’s unbridled, infectious fun, open to ideas that more self-serious artists would never consider. “Cherry Ann” feels like Chrisma (and nothing ever really feels like Chrisma), a homespun take on the winking glam of La Düsseldorf with Autobahn vocals… it’s a peculiar glee. If your wardrobe has been all black for years, Madeleine might give you a reason to reconsider the joy of color.
Eternal Music Society Eternal Music Society LP (Knotwilg)
Hard to think of a more fertile environment for guitar-centric experimental music than the cities of Göteborg and Malmö, a connective scene from which countless configurations of like-minded artists have spawned over the past decade or so. Case in point: Eternal Music Society is a recent quartet (drums / drums / guitar / bass) whose members span a wide variety of projects. This includes not only two Andreases (Malm and Johansson) but one Sofie Herner as well, whose group Neutral (and solo-project Leda) are responsible for some of my favorite post-industrial music, this era or any. With both goodwill and high expectations, I have to admit that Eternal Music Society isn’t doing it for me. They purposely take the extended no-change techniques of France and Water Damage (and in the latter’s case, cop a similar multi-drummer presentation) and apply it to four simplistic patterns. I generally love songs with two notes or less, but “Plain” hits like something Earth would’ve left on the cutting room floor for their Pentastar album. It limps along until “Can’t Heat” (excellent title!) shuffles into place, teasing out a Fugazi-esque progression in the manner of Moin, only longer and far less dynamic. Same goes for “Unknown Voltage”, like a worn-out vinyl copy of Unwound’s Fake Train caught in a skip. “23 Is Eternal” goes into hiding for a full fifteen minutes, the twinkle of a Mogwai intro left unresolved. I like the concept here, I can just point to other current artists who make more of a meal of it. I hope they’re securing their bag, though – why pay to fly all of Water Damage over for your avant European music festival when Eternal Music Society can take the train?
King Slender There Is Your Image In Light LP (Immigrant Sun / Dancing Rabbit / Tor Johnson / Far From Home / Oliver Glenn)
It’s 2026 and the emotional-hardcore territory once held by Beatle/Spock haircuts has been supplanted by bald heads with greying beards. The shocking twist: these are some of the same men, only older. King Slender’s music hearkens back to that More Than Music Fest era without trying to fit into those old clothes; it’s a thoughtful and honest form of hardcore that values honesty and thought over much anything else. Not quite screamo but certainly Ebullition-friendly, King Slender use jagged-edge riffs that push, pull and spasm in ways that remind me of Yaphet Kotto, Funeral Diner and Universal Order Of Armageddon. King Slender never fully lose control in a fall-on-the-floor convulsion, nor do they ever give in to the cowardly temptation of pop hooks; the group prefers to tread a brooding middle ground that simmers between melody and aggression, one third Dischord and two thirds Level Plane. As per hardcore’s prevailing ethos, it’s a communal affair, from three of four band members contributing vocals (cat got your tongue, guitarist Justin LaBarge??) to the five different labels that put together this handsome package. If I ever become a ‘colored vinyl guy’ please notify my treating physician, but the vinyl’s opaque black / translucent green swirl echos the cover’s impressionistic swimming hole beautifully.
Bill Nace Plays The 2-String Taishogoto LP (Three Lobed / Open Mouth)
The charm of Bill Nace’s duo album with Evan Parker, Branches, is not unlike holding a lit match until it singes your fingertips, but I knew I wanted a definitive, stand-alone Bill Nace taishogoto record. Unmistakable by its title, here it is! I’ve seen Nace play his taishogoto probably as much as I’ve seen him play a guitar at this point, and this long-player lives up to those thrilling live performances (some of the most exciting improvised music I’ve witnessed from a seated (non-drumming) performer, to be sure). On “Over/Under”, Nace offers an extended improvisation over a bed of warped morse-code (looped from his taishogoto as well). Don’t let the unfamiliar instrument name fool you – Nace shreds like Keiji Haino with his toes caught in a mousetrap for a good seventeen minutes, his fiery tone akin to the liberating torture techniques of acid psych. It never gets boring; I’d liken it to that brief moment of psychedelic transcendence described by people who’ve eaten entire ghost peppers (before the hyperventilating kicks in). “One For Susan Alcorn” takes a more grueling physical path, relying not on a loop but his own repetitive tapping to whip up a divine locomotive. Nace has talked about playing with time as a sonic element, and I can see that factoring into his thought process here, his self-inflicted carpal tunnel syndrome a worthy trade-off for this meditative piece dedicated to the beloved late pedal-steel virtuoso.
Out. Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Songs LP (Noise Pollution)
When Noise Pollution released Out.’s sole album back in 1997, you could learn more about the label by typing http://www.win.net/noise/pollution.html into your Netscape desktop web browser; we really, truly didn’t know how good we had it back then. Now it’s nearly thirty years later, and though Noise Pollution have since upgraded to their own domain, they’ve decided to re-release Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Songs for the first time on vinyl. I wasn’t familiar with the Louisville group beforehand, but I can understand how this album might’ve lodged itself in the hearts (and sun-visor CD holders) of those in its immediate orbit for years after. They arrived here mischievous and animated, tearing into their mechanic-shirt punk in the vein of Gas Huffer and New Bomb Turks. Even at this early juncture, Out. were more dynamic than some of their peers, finding a way to work the Danzig-esque “Sing While The World Sinks” into their repertoire with the confidence it demands. While I can picture Out. wandering the train tracks after dark, their sound only ever flirts with the blues, avoiding some of the more cartoonish, poorly-aging aspects you might find on a Devil Dogs or Gotohells release. I was saddened to learn that both vocalist Chad Donnelly and bassist Tony Bailey have passed on since Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Songs first came out, but it’s clear they aren’t forgotten.
Miles J Paralysis Don’t Forget The Ritual 12″ ([Emotional] Especial)
Dr. J Paralysis dropped one of my favorite sing-along downtempo house tracks last year with “Where Do We Come From?”, and this new four-track EP follows that thread for more freaky fun. Slung low and casual, these four tracks coast with nary a foot on the gas, the sharply-fashioned vocal samples burning only the necessary calories. “It’s Only Shadows Talking” is a digi-stepper with echo-drunk vocals straight from the booth; the title track flips a trip-hop break into the spooky fun of a suburban haunted house. The grooves are unfussy and memorable, calling back to the innovative, personality-filled productions of Gene Hunt and Shake Shakir, whereas the atmosphere is unsettling and mildly demented in a way that reminds me of Kool Keith’s run from Sex Style through Spankmaster. “The Delicate Fairytale” isn’t fit for any club I’m aware of, unless there’s an after-hours spot that plays sleazy B-movies with the sound on while a disinterested DJ chain-smokes near the decks in a Jason mask. If such a place does exist, I bet Beau Wanzer is not only the resident DJ, he probably already has “The Delicate Fairytale” all cued up.
Shane Parish Autechre Guitar LP (Palilalia)
To a certain contingent, the title of this record sells itself: Autechre’s inscrutable electronic compositions, as performed on solo guitar. Anyone familiar with the groundbreaking UK duo, and at least a couple people familiar with the guitar, will want to hear what fingerpicking acoustic adventurer Shane Parish has done here, and I can’t imagine many will leave disappointed. The melodic heart at the center of Autechre’s music has long been shrouded in stainless steel, heat-resistant thermoplastics and plastic-coated wires, but Parish, through some painstaking methodology I cannot fathom, transcribed ten of their tracks to be performed on the acoustic guitar, complex compositions re-communicated via six strings and ten fingers. While there isn’t as much top-string drone or as many rollicking patterns as I’m used to hearing from skilled fingerpickers, these tracks are easy on the ears all the same. The melodies might not be as familiar as a collection of Fahey standards, but they don’t buzz or shrill with the digital discordance I’ve come to relish from Autechre’s catalog, either. To be fair, I did not check Parish’s work – he could’ve pulled a fast one on all of us and improvised these pieces over a long holiday weekend and slapped Autechre’s name on it. Who would really know? It’d be an experimental hoodwinking of the highest order, but I’m confident that Parish has not betrayed our trust, and that fellow pioneering guitarist Bill Orcutt, who released this album on his Palilalia label, confirmed the feat’s authenticity. Or has he…
Pedestal Pedestal LP (Concentric Circles)
That grey-area Gee Gee Decorator reissue from 2023 confirmed for me that the well of fully-obscure post-punk gems will never run dry – if that insane thrill-ride can exist undiscovered for decades, who knows what else is still lurking on an unlabeled tape or sleeveless seven-inch? One of the brightest recent offerings comes in the form of Concentric Circles’ reissue of a 1984 cassette from Los Angelean duo Pedestal. Erik and Rachel Mueller (your guess is as good as mine: siblings or spouses?) nailed that sort of nerdy, non-macho no-wave style that I find irresistible. Relying heavily on the tacky sounds of the Clavinet, their songs shake with the art-school energies of Essendon Airport and Stick Men. Rachel Mueller’s voice is distracted and unimpressed in timeless post-punk fashion, and she leaves plenty of open space for the jittery sharp-turns that comprise these delightful songs. The Inflatable Boy Clams EP is already on 45 RPM, but if you can pitch it up as far as your Technics will allow, that might resemble the Systematics-meets-Algebra Suicide sound that Pedestal so deftly conjure here. If it wasn’t for the funky bass-playing (warning: there is occasional slapping), this music would be indistinguishable from the best of its contemporary twenty-something practitioners, but considering certain egg-punks’ race to be the goofiest dorks possible, I wouldn’t be surprised if Pedestal are simply ahead of that upcoming curve.
re:ni & BiggaBush Bass Is The Space 12″ (Ilian Tape)
You’re going to want to google a photo of re:ni and BiggaBush in case you don’t believe me when I tell you they’re the first father/daughter digi-dub production duo to grace these pages. But not the last, hopefully? Do not fear a gimmicky record: you should trust the Zenker brothers enough to know that their Ilian Tape label isn’t in the business of releasing novelties. It only took me one spin of the title track before I was fully on board, as it’s one of the most imaginative takes on dub techno I’ve heard in a minute. The duo amputated a pile of classic dub-reggae drum fills from their original forms in order to deploy them at random intervals, drenched in echo for a wicked-yet-soothing dub hallucination. I tend to rinse “Bass Is The Space” on repeat, but the whole EP is great. “Mae Uprising” slinks with the prowess of a jungle predator and the glistening touch of Hessle Audio’s post-dubstep highlights. Farda P lends his end-rhyming lines to a spry shuffle on “Death By Dubplate”, redolent of Kode9’s collaborations with The Space Ape sans the dark sci-fi leanings, and while I am already completely satiated (and considering running back “Bass Is The Space” one more time), “BigLozTek” wants me to feel its Basic Channel-esque dub pressure, effects colliding like asteroids. I don’t want to suggest that Dennis Rodman should utilize electronic dub music to repair his fractured relationship with soccer-star daughter Trinity Rodman, but… has he tried it?
Rocky & The Sweden Punks Pot Head LP (Relapse)
Congratulations to Rocky & The Sweden for thirty years of speedy hardcore-punk, but more importantly, congrats for thirty years of weed-parody groaners par excellence. After God Save The Green, City Baby Attacked By Buds and Total Hard Core (it’s “THC”, get it?), Punks Pot Head is the pinnacle – there is no topping the deliriously stupid joy once you get the title (and I’ll be honest – it took me half a second). They’ve even got the obligatory skeleton riding a grasshopper through rows of marijuana plants on the cover, because grass-hopper, duh! Maybe weed is different in Japan, because I generally wouldn’t associate it with the high levels of energy that burst from Punks Pot Head. Certain flourishes can lean in the direction of classic ’70s riffmasters ala Thin Lizzy and Deep Purple, but Rocky & The Sweden’s songs are played in a high-speed acrobatic style akin to Lipcream, RKL, Toast and SNFU, staying true to the ’90s era of fast hardcore from which they first arrived. As should be clear, Rocky & The Sweden aren’t taking themselves too seriously, which might explain some aspect of their longevity as a band. If the whole point is to get high and rock out with your friends while brainstorming the next unadvisable weed pun, I fail to see why you’d ever want to stop.
Rump State Psychic Sidekick LP (12XU)
Rump State’s 2023 full-length debut never seemed to make it to the States, or at least that’s my excuse for failing to obtain a copy in spite of my desires. Thankfully the tireless non-union employees of 12XU have brought us the follow-up, Psychic Sidekick. Fair’s fair, seeing as this is a half-American, half-Norwegian duo consisting of Mark Morgan (of Sightings) and Gaute Granli. Rump State successfully merges their talents, a suite of warped guitar tangents, pulsing fragments of loops and subdued vocals. If you’ve been following the videos Mark Morgan posts on Instagram (I say “if”, but of course you have!), you’ll recognize his distinctive tones here, full of reverse-delay effects and further unconventional manners of guitar-processing that elude my understanding. He makes his guitar sound like bees swarming a hive inside the engine of a Ford Focus, and Granli knows just what to do with that sort of sound: add his own demented loops and vocals in the spirit of Ghédalia Tazartès (were he a precocious choir boy). Morgan adds his vocals to the mix as well, his singing voice displaying a working knowledge of Alan Vega and Scott Walker but not to be mistaken for either. It’s noise, but exuberant and easy on the ears, avoiding harsh feedback and greyscale static in favor of the juicier fruits out on the harder to reach branches. Weird, but delicious.
Sleep Paralysis A Visitor’s Soundtrack LP (Feel It)
A foreboding start to Feel It’s 2026, care of Sleep Paralysis’s mysterious side-long improvisations. Try as I might, I can’t figure out who is behind this project – Feel It’s not saying, and the associated Bandcamp page’s only clue comes from Iowa as the project’s stated location. Could be related to Feel It darlings Why Bother? (they recorded at the same studio), or maybe (hopefully) Slipknot, but whatever the case, A Visitor’s Soundtrack is a free-form outlier in Feel It’s punk-centered discography. Regardless of who is responsible, I never expected sleep paralysis to sound like an after-hours trip through ESP Disk’s hallowed halls of improvised percussion and synths. The drums are propulsive yet analytical, and the Moog explores the retro-futurist sounds that have dazzled and horrified audiences since the instrument’s inception into public life. The instruments play off each other to some degree, but more often than not come across as two different streams of thought simultaneously deployed, reliant on the assumption that free-jazz percussion and improv synths pair well together regardless of what is happening. That assumption is a safe one – Sleep Paralysis are far livelier than the name implies, a flying saucer ready to abduct all your Esquivel records and burn them for fuel.
Station Model Violence Station Model Violence LP (Static Shock / Anti Fade)
Great expectations are a curse, but every now and then, even in this precise reality we’re living in, our optimistic hopes are rewarded. Such is certainly the case with Station Model Violence’s debut album! Even at this early juncture, I can say with confidence that it’ll be celebrated by freaks and scholars as one of the best and brightest releases of the year. The group features Dan “DX” Stewart on vocals (singing in the same world-wearied register as he did for Total Control) with Buz Clatworthy handling guitars and the bulk of songwriting duties. I can confirm that the bedrock aesthetic inspiration DX lays out in his illuminating and entertaining write-up for the record rings true (Iggy Pop at the beach describing Neu! as “pastoral psychedelicism” – I won’t spoil it all for you), though this isn’t a band operating in modes of replication so much as constructing their own world from the ground up, each piece carefully considered no matter how small or insignificant. Their formula prioritizes rapid and unbroken drum patterns (not four-on-the-floor… more like eight-no-dead-weight) and a foundational note or chord trained to take a beating, alongside sheets of guitars running through scales with abandon, synths oozing human fluids and even a horn section when necessary. With so much sonic information, one could expect these songs to buckle under their own weight, but there’s a litheness, a drugged-yet-alert energy that cracks through Station Model Violence like stolen fireworks. It also sounds deeply Australian in a way that I don’t think Station Model Violence themselves can even recognize, nor should they. If not already clear – highest recommendation!
Twisted Teens Blame The Clown LP (Chain Smoking)
You might hear the terms “folk-punk”, “oogle”, “old-time rock n’ roll” or even “countrified” used in reference to New Orleans’ Twisted Teens. You might notice one of them wearing clown makeup in the cover. You might question the usefulness, in your adult age, of any new band with “Teens” in their name. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, these are red-flag warning signs worth heeding, but I’m here to tell you that Twisted Teens’ more-or-less debut album Blame The Clown is an absolute must-hear! I hesitate to say that it’ll become a staple punk-rock comfort food, one of those timeless front-to-back albums alongside Rocket To Russia and Blood Visions and Guitar Romantic and GI, but my immediate and sustained feelings are in harmony with Jeff Goldblum when he first saw that brachiosaurus munching in a grassy clearing. (“He did it. That crazy son of a bitch, he did it.”) I’ll throw another ugly word out – “soulful” – but Blame The Clown‘s arrival reminds me of when the Royal Headache debut appeared out of equally thin air, where I didn’t realize I needed a Billy Joel-ified melodic punk band (but I certainly did). Twisted Teens are as charming and as exceptional songwriters as Royal Headache, delivering the perfect synthesis of home-spun egg-punk signifiers (drum machines, ambient noise, weird overdubs, etc.), memorable, forceful hooks, and plenty of joyful rock n’ roll energy. Caspian Hollywell’s vocals are the winning key, his gruff, reaching-for-the-note delivery some sort of hard-earned, Gulf Coast mix of Bruce “The Boss” Springsteen and Tom Smith of To Live And Shave In LA (underrated only by the unfortunate people who’ve yet to hear To Live And Shave In LA). Even if you end up losing some of your closest friends to overall-clad train-hopping because of this record, the collateral damage is worth the reward.
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?
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. 
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. 
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?) 
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.
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.
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. 
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 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. 
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. 
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”.
“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 (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. 
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?
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. 
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