Binaural Prototype 1 Untitled LP (Concentric Circles)
Concentric Circles isn’t any old obscure-reissue label, it’s Jed Bindeman’s obscure-reissue label. As far as record freaks go, he’s consistently ahead of the curve – it’s happened more than once that I went looking for some specific weirdo rarity on Discogs that I thought only I was aware of, and there he is, quietly minding his business, the sole American with a copy for sale. His lust for outsider music of the highest caliber is a public service, and one that you can subsidize by buying a copy of this truly unknown Binaural Prototype 1 album. From what I gather, this find is particularly out-there: it’s impossible to authorize and thusly unauthorized, as the material came from a random unlabeled cassette he found at an audiophile’s estate sale, the project name conjured by Bindeman from writing on the tape in lieu of any further clarifying information. I love the idea of “found” tapes – random answering-machine break-up calls pulled out of a dusty bin otherwise filled with Herb Albert and Barbra Streisand – but the nutso beauty of this one is that the music is actually worth your time. It’s a wild headphones affair, with presumably high-end electronic gear used to create synthesized library music, bizarre for its time (the early ’90s?) and ours. The pre-recorded vocal snippets recall the madcap sampling techniques favored by Chris Korda and Philip Brophy; along with dazzling, audiophile-friendly electronic patterns, the whole thing is eerily compelling and fresh, like Mark Mothersbaugh and Seymour Glass running wild together on some new dystopian sci-fi Apple+ show. A Bindemanning of the finest order.
Celebrators Deliberation LP (Tomothy)
Tomothy is a record label and recording studio in Los Angeles, its name a portmanteau of owner-operators Tom Pinkava and Timothy Waldner. The two of them also record music together as Celebrators, and Deliberation airs out their reels, collecting twenty-one songs from 2021 through 2025. Joined on most tracks by drummer Josh Duron (sorry Josh, they’re not going to start calling it Jotomothysh), the Tomothy crew is much too excited to remain seated on the sidelines recording and distributing other peoples’ music. It’s safe to file Celebrators under the dance-punk umbrella, though they seem to bring a new concept to each track, even if the mood generally hovers between skittish and frantic. Some songs remind me of that initial connection between Black Eyes and The Rapture, others pogo with the zest of early Zickzack singles, and there’s at least one that sounds like John Maus fronting Blank Dogs. That’s the beauty of having your own actual studio – there’s no need to hurriedly maintain the same guitar tone and drum-kit if you have the keys the place. Why not try to remake Marquee Moon and Duty Now For The Future in your own image, with a borrowed synth, a vintage mic from the swap meet and an enthusiastic friend with just as many ideas?
Debt Rag It Is Clear What’s Going On LP (Post Present Medium)
When you actually, truly deconstruct post-punk from its orderly shackles, the results are not going to be pretty. The music will not be dance-ready: anti-grooves will happily set up camp where grooves normally exist, and casual fans will find themselves alienated and confused. Those of us who appreciate upended expectations will rush to the front of the room (now with plenty of available space), and hope that the band is Debt Rag, Olympia’s self-described “adult punk band” who behave like neither typical adults nor typical punks. Working with a taped-and-puttied drum / bass / keyboard formation (and a modest heap of horns, noises and auxiliary percussion), Debt Rag take the concept of no-wave and thrust it into this 2020s dystopia that no 1979-era Arto Lindsay or Sumner Crane could have conceived. Marissa Magic’s bass offers mutant-funk lines not unlike Erase Errata and The Contortions, though it’s the only element that provides the comfort of a typical ‘real band’ feel. Around it, songs play out in ways both primitive and unintuitive, emerging as naturally as a protest chant; someone feels compelled to repeat a shouted phrase and those in agreement join in. There’s a moment of what could be considered rapping in “Gary’s World” (probably my favorite song here), whereas “Cold Kitchenette” sounds like Screamers accidentally inventing hardcore thrash. Unlike the hordes of paycheck-collecting reunion bands whose members can’t stand to be in the same room as each other, Debt Rag burst with the magic of guards-down human friendship.
Esse Pi Enne Industrial Relations LP (Centro Di Documentazione Metropolitano Torinese)
As we move even further out from the ’80s and ’90s, the distinction between post-punk and post-rock grows ever hazier. “Post-” is really more of a feeling than anything else, a desire to peek beyond stylistic borders in search of fertile unknown territory, for better or worse. It’s where my listening habits often wander, and a record like Industrial Relations by Turin, Italy’s Stefano Murgia (alias S.P.N; alias Esse Pi Enne) is a glistening example of what can strike when genre formalities are misremembered or ignored. As is the case with many of today’s loner artists, Murgia follows his own disjointed script, crafted from humble means and free from obligation. It’s a lazy tangle of simple three-note (or less) guitar iterations, live drum patterns suitable for the skill level of a total amateur, fun-size synths with electronic textures (which are then cut-and-pasted into larger resolution), and infrequent vocals from the shyest kid in photography class. Imagine a Hood rendition of “Hamburger Lady”, Pseudocode signing to Drag City in 1991, or perhaps The American Analog Set the day after a flood came and ruined almost all of their gear. Industrial Relations offers the sensation of being barely there, yet I’m right there with it.
The Grebes The Grebes LP (no label)
It’s always a promising sign when you google a new band and the results are primarily “weird bird facts”. So it goes with Portland’s The Grebes, a private affair for the past few years now shared openly with the world, fully formed and able. They feature members of bands that, if you recall, you recall warmly: Lithics, Shop Regulars, Woolen Men and The Spatulas, and while The Grebes are also a traditional rock band by most metrics, there’s no mistaking them for one of their members’ other projects. The Grebes were allegedly borne out of noisy guitar improv between guitarists Bob Desaulniers and Raf Spielman, though you’d never know it from the traditional verse-chorus structuring found here, at its best like Tyvek offering up a stormy rendition of “You’re Gonna Miss Me”. They take clear inspiration from regional teenage garage-rock of the ’60s, wild mop-top boys in hand-me-down suits who dared to mix original material among their Beatles and Stones covers at the high school dance. It’s about as timeless as rock n’ roll gets, and while The Grebes clearly find sonic influence in those Pebbles and Back From The Grave compilations, they don’t pretend to be crazed adolescents, Wild Thing-ing and Twisting and turning every knob to ten in a fit of hormonal activity. Rather, these songs are taut, sharply tailored and mature, almost verging on the suit-jacketed power-pop of Purple Hearts and The Tubs (albeit unpolished by comparison). “Yours” is my personal fave, though I find no reason to limit myself to anything less than the entire self-titled record.
Guiding Light Fear On My Own Time LP (Post Present Medium)
Tall Texan’s twelve-inch vinyl issue of Guiding Light’s debut EP featured the same five songs on both sides and I still managed to wear it out, so this full-length follow-up couldn’t have come sooner. And it absolutely rules! The Austin quartet’s post-punk perspective is nimble and proficient but never self-inflated – in a world of post-punk flatland ollies, they’re an unexpected heelflip down some stairs. I’m reminded of Vexx in the way that each member of the band operates on an advanced level while still retaining an undeniably punk quality, though musically-speaking, Guiding Light falls closer to the satisfying crevice between the first side of Dolly Mixture’s Demonstration Tapes and CCTV’s sole seven-inch EP. Probably because I’m still playing that Station Model Violence album at least once a week, I’m hearing a touch of them in Fear On My Own Time too – it’s that wild n’ clean guitar work with all six strings activated that does the trick. Maybe Station Model Violence performing Meat Puppets’ In A Car EP would be a more reasonably accurate way to describe Guiding Light’s compelling sound (and I hope they someday give it a whirl). Like all aforementioned bands, Guiding Light are talented songwriters, not aesthetic box-checkers; “Shackled By Lust” and “Fear On My Own Time” are an immediately catchy one-two punch, though all eight songs whiz by in a flash you’ll want to immediately relive. Vocalist Elise Cook got so caught up in the feeling that she accidentally sang multiple songs in fluent German. Haven’t we all been there before!
Gord High / Clockdin Home Rock 3xLP (The Unpopular Archives)
Home Rock is an exhaustive compendium of one Gord High, produced with the unavoidably loving touch inherent within Canadians who uplift other Canadians. I don’t think The Unpopular Archives expects anyone outside of Ontario to be overly familiar with High, but Home Rock arrives as a formal exhibition of the local-legend’s sprawling, decades-long musical career, not a bid for overdue commercial success. This triple-LP treasury includes a selection of tracks produced as early as 1991 and as late as 2011 (High passed away in 2012), a 2006 album under his Clockdin alias, and a twenty-minute “disco” single (featuring “Gun School”, eleven minutes of dubby IDM research). Under aliases such as Puh, High Amiga and Clockdin, High’s musical interests were widespread and voracious. The label calls it “low-fi surf dub”, and while the bubble effects in “Herbdub” don’t betray this made-up genre name, that’s only a sliver of what High was up to. He lovingly messed with early Warp Records-style techno and jungle techniques, wonky electro-funk, computer-generated noise, hand-spliced breakbeats, and at least for “High Guitars”, slow-core indie-rock I’d expect Elliot Smith to start singing over. Some works reveal an interest in calming melodies, whereas others reject the notion outright (see “The Gunn”) – if you follow along intently, a rough map of High’s musical mind is sketched out, a generative cycle of sound experiments opening up new possibilities. If only all unheralded sonic voyagers had friends like The Unpopular Archives to keep their sounds alive after they’ve passed on.
The Hobknobs Helmets Off LP (12XU)
Lewsberg not twee enough for ya? Singer-songwriter Arie van Vliet is happy to turn things up a notch (or I guess down a notch) with The Hobknobs’ debut. It’s van Vliet’s new project with Yaël Dekker, and she handles keys and percussion with an appropriately mild touch, the two of them scurrying through these simple-on-the-surface pop tunes like mice in a library. They share vocals like well-mannered relatives, often enhanced by the tick-tock of a drum box and the bass-guitar of a friend named Jaap van der Velde. Van Vliet’s voice is so instantly recognizable that it’s impossible not to compare and contrast The Hobknobs to Lewsberg. On first go, I found myself missing the sturdy rock formations of Lewsberg, those subtly sly yet instantly memorable hooks that have brought me so much joy (please play “Cold Light Of Day” at my funeral). Lewsberg are small enough to fit in an elevator, but you could sneak The Hobknobs into a shoebox, teeny enough that you’ll want to pack them in some cotton balls to prevent any injury. It’s a great sound, though there are moments that miss for me: “Jennette McCurdy” is coffeehouse ready (pejorative), and while the hippity-hop of “Are You Looking For Something?” is particularly Lewsbergian (complimentary), I don’t think there’s any cool way to integrate the “Rain Rain Go Away” nursery rhyme into one’s twee-pop (and I wish to discourage any further attempts). On the other hand, “The Bowl”, “The Tide” and “Dictionary” are shining examples of The Hobknobs’ charming talents. The conversational “The Extra Mile” is my current favorite, an intimate Jim Jarmusch-esque short that beats out feature-lengths ten times its size.
Kinetic Orbital Strike The Terrifying Power Of Bombardment LP (no label)
Having never figured out the button combination to unleash a kinetic orbital strike in Tekken 2, my gaming career was short-lived. I’m now forced to relive my failings through this ferocious Philly d-beat band, who have followed a couple of self-released EPs with a self-released full-length, The Terrifying Power Of Bombardment. D-beat hardcore is a battle of inches, as the style has been so thoroughly explored over the past, what, forty years?? You can’t really top the classics (feel free to argue the case for select Japanese exceptions in the comments) but you can still inject the formula with a fresh burst of fury. Kinetic Orbital Strike do well by it in a burly sort of way, calling to mind ’90s American crust as well as the requisite Discharge singles. I’m reminded of State Of Fear and Aus Rotten in the group’s tumbling depths; even within the understood confines of the style, their tempos vary from mid to urgent, and the vocals are gruff and succinct ala Doom. The (self-)production is dynamic and heavy without sacrificing its raw edge, landing much closer to the godliness of Cracked Cop Skulls than any overproduced stadium-crust sound. It’s an intentionally repetitive blueprint, but the album is not without its outlying flourishes: “No Dream At All” is a crust-metal headbanger’s delight (and by far the longest track at nearly three minutes), whereas “Essential Aid Denied” speaks directly to our moment. Blasting it loud enough that the neighbors can surely hear, I look out the window and expect to see Felix Havoc pulling a police helicopter out of the sky with his bare hands.
Non Plus Temps Conditional Bunker LP (Siltbreeze)
The Bay Area boasts a real rogue’s gallery of indie-pop colors, groups like Famous Mammals, Naked Roommate, Preening, The Reds Pinks & Purples, Blues Lawyer, Debt Rag, Fake Fruit and so on contributing to the region’s spinning kaleidoscope of sound. Of those I listed, the first three acts (if not more!) share personnel with Non Plus Temps. If Non Plus Temps isn’t the context wherein its players feel freest to pursue their least conventional ideas, I want to know which is, as Conditional Bunker is dub-punk armed with all the kitchen-sink percussion and dime-store synthesizer splurts it can bag and carry. I loved their 2022 full-length debut Desire Choir, and while much of the same infrastructure remains in place (dubby bass-lines, no-wave guitars, post-punk singing, the lingering sense (if not direct presence) of chaos), they’re going bigger and bolder here, like Exek, Minny Pops, Mo-Dettes and 3 Teens Kill 4 stitched together with a dull needle. That means the pop songs are poppier (“I Am Not Wise” hits with the sideways poise of early The Intelligence) and the weirdo elements are weirder (“Inside The Wall”, which directly follows, is as transgressively gassy as Nervous Gender). In a moment I’m thinking of Ric Ocasek’s power-pop, then Mark Stewart’s experimental dub, then the two of them doing that annoying mosh-pit move where they hold hands and swing in a circle until knocking into someone. It’s Siltbreeze music, but it’s also party music: convention-defying post-punk that doesn’t shut the door on keg-stands entirely.
The Strokes Reality Awaits LP (RCA / Cult)
For me The Strokes are kinda like Metallica, in that the thrilling experience of their early material generated such enduring goodwill that I continue to check out whatever they do (while fully expectant of diminishing returns). There were a few bright spots in the Strokes’ orbit since they initially Saved Rock N’ Roll™, namely the solo Julian Casablancas album (bested only by Is This It!) and the first Voidz album, but it’s mostly been a drag after First Impressions Of Earth and the band’s initial hiatus. With Is This It garnering some nostalgic publicity as it hits twenty-five years old and Casablancas settling into this bizarre role of Bernie Bro prankster himbo (it… works?), I was as ready as anyone to enjoy some new Strokes songs, but Reality Awaits is a certified stinker. I don’t get it, really – the majority of the album lingers in a listless sort of slow-dance mode, a prefab Squarespace backdrop for Casablancas’s squiggly Autotune voice. His voice has held up great (and I am no Autotune hater), but the songs themselves are as satisfying as skim milk. I’m completely fine with their contemporary aesthetics, but where are the hits! Besides the silly bop of lead single “Going Shopping” (which really only stands out by comparison), Reality Awaits sounds like circa-2010 Maroon 5 without the hooks, or New Order running through Californication (again without the hooks), or the slower material on the last few Strokes albums (sadly, I must confirm, without even those meager hooks). If they put out another album after this, I’ll still be curious enough to check that out too, but it damn well better be their Lulu.
Sür Drōne T.I.T.S. LP (Frontier / Geza X)
Like many of you I’m sure, I’ve often wondered what it’d be like if Raymond Pettibon had a band of his own. In fantasies such as these, the joy of wondering often beats the reality of knowing, which is unsurprisingly the case here. Pettibon is the lyricist, vocalist and artist-in-residence (duh) for Sür Drōne, a studio collaboration with multi-instrumentalist and soundtrack composer Daniel Adams. They released a CD-EP in 1998 (who knew and didn’t tell me??), which is collected here amidst seven other (newer?) songs, and if you’re hoping to hear a band that sounds how the nun on Slip It In and the puppet on My War looks, prepare for disappointment. Of course, Pettibon has always reveled in defying expectations, of lashing out reactionarily against the reactionaries, so no, this never had a chance of sounding like a Frontier Records classic (even though it’s actually the label that released it). If anything, T.I.T.S. is closer to his recent collaborative book with Mike Topp, The Frontier Index, a nonlinear cascade of jokes, stories and verbal riffage, now set to lightweight, joke-y college-rock. (“Dream Team” in particular sounds like the text from a Pettibon canvas set to music.) If you squint hard enough, you might hear some slight resemblance to adolescent punk-rock before passing out, but mostly the songs are loose, no-effort garage-rock numbers, some jangly and bopping, others “arty” or “psychedelic” in that late ’80s SST way – “Space Mutha” owes royalties to Meat Puppets, no doubt. Pettibon’s vocal affect is childlike and taunting… only he knows how he really feels, an opaqueness he clearly revels in upholding. As a punk, checking out T.I.T.S. is kind of your duty, but you should probably shoplift it from an indie record shop, or rig some online PayPal scam when ordering a copy – it’s what Pettibon would’ve wanted.
The Thirsty Giants Escape The Junkyard LP (Round Bale Recordings)
As far as I knew, Round Bale Recordings purveyed psych-rock, experimental post-rock and guitars on the lighter side of the spectrum, which made it all the more surprising when The Thirsty Giants jumped out of the speakers and chased me around the room with their ferocious hardcore-punk. What a pleasant surprise! It’s actually pretty heartwarming, too: in 2022, Round Bale label-head David Perron played drums with the then-teenaged guitarist / vocalist Holden Perron (his son, I take it?), they brought on the younger Perron’s prior bandmate Hunter Thiesen on bass, and suddenly The Thirsty Giants took shape. I don’t know if Perron Senior is feeding Junior the best selection of punk to emulate or if he discovered it on his own, but The Thirsty Giants are hitting the right buttons for me. I’m hearing big similarities to Kaleidoscope, first-few-EPs-era 7 Seconds, Code Of Honor and a little Necros and Crucifix, but there are a few grungier tracks here too, a noise-rock update on Nirvana that The Thirsty Giants handle with similar conviction (I thought about the late-great Leather more than once). It’s hard-hitting and delivered with perfectly disgusted vocals, enough to remind me that somehow, all those great early hardcore records were actually made by kids under legal drinking age. For reference: if Minor Threat’s debut EP was released today, Ian MacKaye would’ve been born in 2007.
Tusen År Under Jord Sorgsendömet Fobos LP (Hosianna Mantra)
Hosianna Mantra falls within the network of reissue-centric labels from the great Nexus Records shop in Brooklyn. Its focus is on “spiritual” music that gazes back to ancient times for inspiration… intriguing obscurities rescued from the River Styx for one final spin. A world of kingdoms and fields lit only by fire! It’s alluring enough to captivate historians and artists alike, of which we can include the cryptic Swedish project Tusen År Under Jord. Sorgsendömet Fobos was originally released as a limited-edition cassette back in 2013 AD, but the Hosianna Mantra folks granted it a second life with this handsome slab of appropriately-black vinyl. On the cover, the vacant-eyed knight, horseback and in mid-prayer, concerned me that this might fall into an aesthetic I tend to avoid: gothic folk with Renn Faire signifiers. Luckily, Hosianna Mantra wouldn’t do us dirty like that – rather, this album is an engrossing exercise in brooding loop-based minimalism. The circular crackle of dusty vinyl is ever present over looping strings… mournful melodies manifest themselves from some long-forgotten time. These fractured, shadowy Euro waltzes probably played softly in the heads of World War 1 soldiers as they took their final breaths on some godforsaken Slovakian battlefield. The disintegrated textures of William Basinski are prominent, though a more apt comparison might be Brannten Schnüre, whose gloomy industrial-folk collages conjure similar images of castle ruins, dark forests and watchful eyes. Gather your most herbaceous and medicinal twigs, ’cause tonight we’re brewing some Tusen År Under Jord tea.
Vital Stress Vital Stress 7″ (no label)
I saw Cloud Nothings for the first time a few months back and was amazed at how hard they ripped. Society has failed me yet again by not cluing me into this earlier! While it was a true trio effort, Jayson Gerycz was positioned front and center for good reason, a hard-hitting whirlwind of a drummer who, much like Ric Flair, elevates the talent of anyone he’s sparring with. He’s got a variety of projects happening, the newest of which might be Vital Stress, another hard-cracking punk band from a town that’s already way over quota, Cleveland. Don’t let the cute cat on the cover fool you – Vital Stress has some real dirt under their nails, playing motor-punk riffs with the energy (not the speed) of hardcore-punk. They packed six songs on this seven-inch and I’m glad they did, as I want as much of this as I can get, songs that remind me of Pink Lincolns, Land Speed Record, Dead Boys, Easy Action and Reagan Youth, but smack immediate for the present moment, not beholden to the past. At this stage in their existence (very early), they’re one of those dangerous opening bands that comfortable touring bands should fear – there’s no chillaxing in the green room when Vital Stress are already on stage and completely ravaging the crowd. You should’ve opted for one of those watered-down replicas of your own indie band that the unimaginative booker originally recommended instead!
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”. 
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.
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!
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. 
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.
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.
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. 
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.
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!
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 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.
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?
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.
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. 
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. 
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