Album Review: Jason Stein's Locksmith Isidore - After Caroline

Jason Stein's Locksmith Isidore is the solo outlet of, you guessed it, Jason Stein- respected local bass clarinetist and the older brother of a formerly very visible comedian.* When Stein isn’t playing for himself he’s lending his wind to Mike Reed’s Flesh and Bone, Joshua Abrams’ Natural Information Society, and Hearts and Minds with Paul Giallorenzo and Chad Taylor, among others. After Caroline is Stien's fourth LP under the Locksmith Isidore moniker, and is named for his late grandmother, who passed away the day the album was recorded. Stein is joined on this record by drummer Mike Pride of the hardcore band Millions of Dead Cops and Chicago’s versatile, go-to studio bass guitarist Jason Roebke. When their powers combine Stein, Pride, and Roebke are a gracefully sonorous, no-frills, contemporary bebop powerhouse. It’s not exactly Coltrane (who is?), but sweet mercy does it swing. If this sounds like it would flip your switch, then give this a spin.

A treasure hunt of the mind (Northern Spy).

* Google. Heard of it?

Album Review: (T-T)b - Beautiful Extension Cord

Man, sometimes I wish CMJ were still around. When I worked at my college radio station, I genuinely looked forward to having their New Music Monthly issue plop in our receiving tray in the rec center, so I could check out what was hot and up-and-coming amongst people in the year [purged/redacted] who were of my age and educational track and believed were worthy of airtime and acclaim. But that was a long time ago. Like, basically a completely different timeline than the one I inhabit now. CMJ is dead- it was squashed and interred unceremoniously like a roadkilled raccoon- and with a few exceptions, community and college radio are all but exsanguinated- shambling shadows of their former selves, with a cultural presence as compelling as the gravitational strain exerted by a singular tennis ball. Even in the wake of this intractable decline, it feels like I can steal back a faint sigh of the whimsy that prevailed in a previous era of DIY music by imagining how a group like (T-T)b and their album Beautiful Extension Cord would have fared in the often cringy and bewildering, but also unconventional, creative, and all too excitingly competitive world of college radio- not solely because of the entertainment value I would have derived from hearing sophomore poli-sci majors fumble with the band's name on air, but also because I think (T-T)b would actually have had a shot at attaining some substantial and even sustaining success in that environment. Beautiful Extension Cord is foremost a very tuneful album, with an emphasis on complementing grooves and melodies that coalesce and spill into and over each other in a sturdy confluence of vibrant sonic tributaries that merge to chart a mighty subtle pop-power surge. Sure, you could get hung up on all the square waves and Sega-era soundcard stressors, but you'd be missing out on the classic college rock spirit of tracks like the persuasively pining opener "Julian," the sweep and savage of the cosmetically prescriptive dressdown "Hey, Creepshow," the parcing cartwheel-energized punt of "The Kick," or the slacker-steeped stumble-up builds and easy-as-pie let-downs of "Sugar in the Raw." Melodically and structurally, (T-T)b is pumped up and riding high on a blood transfusion from the likes of Pavement, That Dog., and The Rentals, and appears to be suffering from a little campy carbo-overload from too much Ozma in their diet (spiritually at least, as far as I know, their only named influence is Jeff Rosenstock, but their capacity for metting out moreish melodies gives even the greats of contemporary pop-punk a run for their rings... in my opinion). The adeptness in constructing melody and adapting it to a punchy rock format is almost irresponsibly applied on these tracks to make them as addictive as possible without sacrificing the group's capacity for earnest sentiments, a facet of their operations that seems hard-fused into the processors of their affectional logic board. (T-T)b is everything a budding alternative-beat connoisseur or established underground archivist needs to satisfy their pop-sweet tooth or round out the bevy of their cumulative apprehension of what the world of DIY and indie can offer. Beautiful Extension Cord is more than just a pretty accessory. All hits, zero lag time. Too nerdy to need your approval, but too sensitive to live without it. Cue it up and spin it with confidence that it will deliver Certain Damage to whatever expectations you've built up against micromusic's indie-gold potential.

Coming in at 74 on the top 75 it's Disposable America!

Album Review: No Men - DEAR GOD, BRING THE DOOM

Outing myself today as a No Men respector. There, I said it. Let it be known that I respect No Men... the band. Specifically, the band No Men... although I am somewhat lukewarm on mankind in the pejorative at the moment.* Which, coincidentally, puts me squarely in the proper demographic of persons disposed to enjoying No Men's music, their name literally being the inversion of the "Yes Man" trope- whatever you got, whatever you want, they'll slap it out of your hands and backhand you for good measure- it's a stylistic promise and aesthetic guarantee. No Men is that rare kind of group that can really cook up heat-seeker after heat-fucking-seeker and direct-hit after direct-fucking-hit when they put their minds to it, and this certainly justifies the veneration I plan to shine on them here, but they also represent something else to me. They were, for a minute, the quintessential Chicago punk band, a spiteful, loud, and incredibly fun group that was all about the music, and let their performances speak first and foremost, and with the most volume, even when the content of what they had to say was as devastating, or more so, than how they said it. They more or less came up in the midst of the "sad girl" era of indie rock characterized by Lucy Dacus, Phoebe Bridgers, and the like, and managed to hold their own against the winds of these trends as they swept through the Chicago scene, staying meaner, more punishing and crueler in an old school kind of way, without opposing their contemptoaries or losing their footing on the progressive fluctuations of the landscape as it shifted beneath them- remaining independent and flexible while praying for a rain of fire to cleanse the land of its endemic rashes of idiocy. Over time, the band has adopted more atmospheric and darkly dreamy embellishments into their sound, most notably present on 2023's Fear This, but to my ears, their debut is still the most faithful and compelling personification of the core of their aesthetic conceits. DEAR GOD, BRING THE DOOM is No Men's first full-length album, recorded mostly live over a two-day period at Two State Audio on the North Side of Chicago. No Men's sound is a blasting and antagonistic form of skeletal garage rock which draws influences from a wide spectrum of punk rock. They are analogous to some mid-aughts super heavy rock group, like Death from Above 1979, arriving at a dead-stop epiphany that all they really want to do is sound like Big Black, but with slightly more groovy gestalt in their austere, boiled-down guitars and bass lines. Lyrically, they deal mostly with revenge, failure, twisted romance, and episodes of pitiful angst that many crybaby losers bear like a large cross that they whittled from the original cross of the crucifixion.** Album highlights include the nihilistic smash and grab of "Stay Dumb," and the gut-shredding hooks and subterranean beat of "Brut," along with "Sleeping with the Enemy" which sounds like a sock-hop hosted by Steve Albini, in addition to the sharp and deliberate guitar work on "Hell is Real" and album closer "Violette," both of which are incorrigible, violent and unsettling while still managing to be stone cold rockers. This album's tense, dark vibe is reminiscent of '80s punk mainstays like Flipper and no-wave mavericks like Nick Cave. At the same time, its boisterous grooves put it in the camp of contemporary hard rock and pan-metal acts like Red Fang, and even bleed profusely and messily into Jesus Lizard-esque noise rock territory. Still, the emphasis on melody in these songs makes for a good pairing with witchy singer-songwriters like PJ Harvey- if, you know, you're workin' on a playlist for somebody who hates all the same stuff you do.*** DEAR GOD, BRING THE DOOM. Need I say more? 

*A discussion for another time.

** Feeling persecuted while having no real problems has basically become a profession for many internet-addicted grifters... they know who they are, and so do we! 

*** A very "mall-goth" and therefore very 2025 manner of flirting.  

Interview: Superdestroyer x Phonewithchords

Two dudes from different worlds meet in the cosmic dustbin of the internet and emerge carrying a brilliant ball of concentrated hope and burning plasma. They call it Surrealist Love Songs, and an EP to survive the astral cull of the necroeconomic austerity combine currently crawling the latitudes and longitudes of most known creation- an emo-beat space-odyssey to keep you sane while you scan for an entry point in the event horizon of what you can only hope is the gleam of a brighter future. Superdestoyer and Phoneswithchords basically take the reins for this episode while I merrily ride shotgun- more of a postmortem than an interview in some ways. Listen to the convo below: 

Surrealist Love Songs is out on Lonely Ghost Records. Check it out here: 

Album Review: Seabomb - Dolphin Chamber

Dolphins! Man's steady, loyal, and aquatic companion, who has been with us and been watching over humanity for as long as we as a species have braved the open waters. Since the first fisherman set raft to surf, the dolphin has been there for us, guiding the passage of our vessels, rescuing sailors from watery graves, directing the ambitious among us to buried treasure, and, while often mistaken for mermaids, has sung lullabies to many a ship's crew, ensuring them a restorative night's rest. Why are dolphins so helpful, you may ask? It's possible that they see something of themselves in us, as we are both intelligent, creative, and socially complex mammals who greet each other by tasting each other's urine. [Citation Needed] With all dolphins have done for humans over the millennia, it's about time that someone gave back to our moist, squealy siblings of the sunlit zone. Enter Seabomb and their LP Dolphin Chamber. Seemingly a tribute to these saltwater samaritans, the album presents a bright and refreshingly brisk approach to breakbeat production that is defined by its fluidity and affable tone. Resolved to the task of evaporating boredom, the bubbly percolations and interdependent, rippling, and interlocking orbits of sequences stir a salty broth of sound into an intoxicating libation to fuel a disco in the shallows of the seabed in an observance of inter-ecological, cross-species solidarity, connecting timeless patterns of compatriotism with the persistent pull of currents both sonic and tidal in nature. From the first voyage to today, this party has been saving you a spot on the dance/sea floor. Why not dive in? The water's fine, and the company is divine.
 

4 Millennia of good vibes. Don't deprive yourself for one minute more.

Album Review: SickOnes - Find Energy

Man, SickOnes... it almost makes me nauseous thinking about what could have been. The UK three-man (+ one lady) crew came up in that weird window in the late '10s when otherwise cool Millennials started coming out to their friends as fans of Minor Threat and Bad Brains and Biohazard and Youth Brigade and began starting bands that could actually get booked at hipster festivals as more than just a sideshow or treated as something other than a public spectacle. Trash Talk pioneered the possibility of flexibly minded old school revival in a lot of ways, which Turnstile used as the runway for their own take off into the stratosphere, and I always felt like SickOnes could have obtained a parallel altitude had they stuck with it. Unfortunately, they decided to ground the project in 2021 after releasing the "Agility" single, leaving their most recent and lengthy release of note being their 2018 EP Find Energy. Find Energy is undoubtedly worth revisiting, representing a forceful intersection of punk grooves, punchy melodies, and hip-hop attitude; it feels like being funneled into a first-person perspective of someone completing a legendary run of a Ninja Warrior-style obstacle course with sure-footed grace and levelheaded aggression. The standout track is obviously the whiplash PMA anthem "Bad Way", but the warped and fiery "Ego Death" and the hammer-headed optimism of "The Choice" can hold their own as crowd-killin' rampage rustlers even when stacked against the best of contemporary hardcore. We probably won't see another album from SickOnes for a minute (if ever), but what they've left us with is more than enough to cement their legacy.

Album Review: Innumerable Forms - Pain Effulgence

Innumerable Forms is the fetid brain loogie of Jon DeTore, who, along with pals Jensen Ward of Iron Lung, Chris Ulsh of Mammothgrinder, and Connor Donegan of Genocide Pact, has wrought upon the Earth a genuinely malevolent force of oppressive morbidity. Innumerable Forms is a necrotic, frost-ravaged take on Finnish death metal combined with American doom in the vein of Brooklyn’s Winter, imbued with a palpable rage carried over from DeTore's days in the Boston power-violence group Mind Eraser and with a knack for darkly penetrating melodies honed from his years playing in power metal groups Sumerlands and Magic Circle. Their third LP, Pain Effulgence, is just as crushingly moribund as its older siblings, feeling like a torturous preamble to a final crushing tragedy, like Sisyphus losing his footing on the soft peaty ground of a Tartarus incline, and watching helplessly as the boulder he had been pushing slowly topples backwards towards his prone and vulnerable form, about to transform him into a pulpy grist. "Impulse" begins with a coffin-rattling howl before leaden riffs begrudgingly pry a leprous melody from its cursed sonic foundation; "Blotted Inside" is bleak and ominous, hanging its gargantuan grooves over the listener like a crow-pecked carcass of an accused warlock; while "Overwhelming Subjugation" unleashes a formidable, all-consuming deluge of acid sludge-punk; and "Austerity and Attrition" churns out a final light-swallowing dirge of doom that only the most depraved of God's rejects could muster the blasphemous nerve to peer into as if it were a mirror. Pain Effulgence is cold liquid anguish incarnate, the kind that burns in the best sort of way.

A fresh, yet familiar, chapter in the history of brutality (Profound Lore).

Album Review: Trust Fall - You Can Glow In The Dark

Trust Fall started out as the big solo leap of Erica Leshon, resident of Olympia, WA, and member of a diverse (and now mostly dormant) pantheon of passionate DIY sound-peddlers such as Margy Pepper, Prank War, Pines, and Tankini. Trust Fall sounded pretty radical to my ears when I encountered the project around the time their EP Giants of Love was released in 2018, and they certainly appeared to be thriving and flowing with the currents of cutting-edge culture at the time. Of course, times change, and they're not really riding any kind of a wave at the moment, but I'm still glad to see that they're around and sorta doing their thing. Trust Fall's sound mainly consists of softly distorted, lo-fi, reverb-heavy and bashfully grungy bedroom punk and emo, and it's stayed consistent from their earlier releases to their most recent, 2023's You Can Glow in the Dark EP. The songs here trade in the same coy punk and flirty feedback-pedal-pushing twee in the vein of Waxahatchee and All Dogs that dominated the scores for underground haunts and unlicensed gig spaces in the latter half of the 2010s. The album begins beautifully with a credo of contemplation and vulnerability that communicates a kind of solidarity that perseveres through adversity in the form of opener and title track "Glow in the Dark." It is followed by the buzz-hook pivoting wheel of fire dubbed "Revisiting" and a hot-blooded, jangle-fisted teardown they call "Not Dead Yet." After that, the band escapes from the trouble they've stirred up via the sizzling and cathartic, caravanning joust of "Clear Blue Sky," leading the way to the late-bloomer bop of "Little Lost," the deceptively inclement bluster of "Storm Inside," and the sundry and sympathetic climax "Nobody Knows." Whether you want to day drink and smoke American Spirits on a friend's porch or sit in your kitchen, sipping coffee and watching the rain through your back window, this You Can Glow In The Dark can supply the ambiance for whatever self-replenishing vibe you are in most in need of.

Album Review: Bombardement - Dans La Fournaise

Bombardement is exactly what they sound like they are... which is a freaking wave of harsh, stray particulates which coheres into a pelting deluge of antagonistic fury. The French croisst-punk quintet puts the listener under the gun on their LP Dans La Fournaise, as they lob just about everything they've got handy at your sensitive little ear holes: Saxon-sharpened solos, Sacrilege-soaked grooves fished straight from the storm gutter, gale-ful shouts, weird Slough Feg-esque interjections, player pianos, alarm clocks, bathtubs, fistfuls of trash, bloated specimens of expired local fauna—you name it, it's inbound and coming your way! Vocalist Oriane is particularly well-suited for her role as lead barker, almost playing the role of drill sergeant for the unruly unit, cracking her voice like a horsewhip in a kind of Colin Abrahall of GBH fashion, goading each track on the album towards an accelerated abandonment of caution in the ultimate pursuit of an evermore potent expression of spite. While Oriane eggs on the band, guitarists Boubi and Stéphane, and rhythm section Nico and Luc, explosively excavate a steeply graduated escalation of concrete, socially antagonistic sounds that give the vocals a launchpad to leap from in order to signal the next volley of the assault. They're like a perpetual motion machine, fueled by indignation, and whose primary output is caustic provocation- a fire brimming, spleen, belching sulfur into the nostrils of the arrogant and unduly proud.

Album Review: Kurayamisaka - Kimi wo omotte iru

Japanese alt pop/rock group Kurayamisaka is a band that doesn't spend that much time looking in the rearview mirror. Their most recent singles are definitely of a more "mature" pop persuasion, but this doesn't detract from their earlier work in the slightest. The heart-fluttering whimsy of more recent efforts like "Evergreen" is presaged by the dove-winged dramatic catharsis of tracks like "Cinema Paradiso" off their 2022 EP Kimi wo omotte iru, but even in the light of these premonitions, their earlier work retains a distinctive character all its own. Kimi wo omotte iru (basically I'm Thinking of You) is one of those albums that impeccably balances temperate coquettish purrs and dulcet whispers with a visceral, suffocatingly dense undertow of distortion in a manner that is both fantastic and liberating- a veiny rill of intersecting streams where shoegazey sizzle roils over emocore pathos in its most essential form. They essentially synthesize the brazenly exquisite charm of Pains of Being Pure at Heart and the volatile fuzz-fry of Ovlov's landfill style of guitar noise without cutting corners on either melodicism or delivery on blistering impact. Tracks like "Seasons" are amongst the most impressive in this regard, starting out with a roll of heated rock thunder before effortlessly unfurling a delicate and enduring bristle of melody that manages to hold its own even in the ensuing maelstrom of a gratifyingly emotive upswell of energy and release. There are more subdued moments as well, like on the cautious waltz of "Last Dance," but even in their moments of reprieve, the group manages to hone a vital energy that is given more conspicuous expression on the turn-up-and-burn-out closers "Farewell" and "Curtain Call". Kurayamisaka may have progressed in their endeavors and moved on (as they should), but I've been thinking about Kimi wo omotte iru almost daily since it first graced my ears, and I'll probably continue to ponder it for years to come.

Album Review: Femtanyl - Reactor

I'm going to drop a tl;dr here and just say that I think Femtanyl's Reactor EP is pretty freakin' great. If that's all you came to see, then you can mosey on back to Reddit or wherever, but if you need to know more, read on, I have plenty more to say. Periodically, I'm struck by the concern that I'm not going to be able to find novel things to write about breakbeat, drum'n bass, jungle, dance, and electronic music, etc., just in general. Like, it's not always an intellectual style- it's something that is validated more by vibe than whatever verbiage myself or others can heap on top of it. It's a disheartening prospect because I very much love how radical artists working in these spaces sound on their face, but if I don't think I have anything novel to say about a record other than "slaps" well... I'm not going to write about it. To make things worse, an artist like Femtanyl literally does not need a tedious written extolment of their merits-they already live in a sphere of internet infamy and an evolving mythology that attempting to encapsulate is like putting up a fly screen around a radiative fog- it's unclear what you could even possibly be attempting to catch, and you might just be snagging a clump of the big 'C' in process, so why even try... well, attempting the impossible and stupid has never stopped me before, so why let it start now. A big part of what makes Femtanyl interesting in my opinion is that she lets a lot of her personality through on her material. The artist responsible for dance and electronic music tends to be unpersoned while their music is actually playing- they're the clockmaker and their machine can mostly run without their caring hand- this is usually ideal, because while people are dancing or vibing, they want to really sink into the moment and not have someone's ego budding in and bringing them down- but with Femtanyl, her presence on each track is unavoidable, not only because of the hyper-expressive and modulated digital hardcore (and frankly, just plain hardcore punk) vocals that provide the hook and melody for most tracks, but also because her persona is imprinted unmistakably on the incredibly angular and prickly integration of loops and beats that she articulates, none of which feel like they have been assembled for the listener's mere pleasure or euphoria- instead being a product of some fixation or monomania on the part of its creator- an explosion of another's intrusive thoughts and obsessions into others’ minds through the contagion of sound. Femtanyl's sound, especially on this EP, feels like a vertical slice of the layer cake of her brain, dripping with greasy discolored offal, foul-smelling ooze, and inhabited by swarms of insects with way too many legs and abdominal segments- her spirit takes this wedge of disgorgement in the shape of dessert and smear it all over some breaks like a chunky piece of clay until the whole productions looks like a murder scene- and that's when the beats really start to rip- when things get so grotesque that you can't look away anymore, then that's when Femtanyl really makes herself known, emerging from the viscera like a scene from Hellraiser- a malcontent, slighlty toothy and plush-textured abomination reassembling a physical manifestation in this world once enough blood has been spilt on her grave. This more or less gets to the heart of what's intriguing and so... let's say polemical about Femtanyl- you can't listen to Reactor, or any of her body of work, without feeling her presence and looming aura- you literally can't escape her while her beats are flowing and I think this triggers a flight response in some and a deranged tendon of connection for others. She's kind of the monster under your bed in that way- a projection of your own fears in the face of something there but unknowable- hiding in a place of supposed sanctuary, and thriving in the mystery of the dark- a manifestation of a dayglo beat-making boogie-girl ready to strip the lining of your head cage to make a sour broth to sooth her restive soul. 

Album Review: Black Road - Witch of the Future

Keeping my zone chill and skuzzy with some fuzzed-out, slow-burn doom metal out of Chicago. Witch of the Future is the debut LP from Black Road, released on the very underground Dark Hedonistic Union Records in 2019, and it is still their only full-length album. DHU doesn’t release many records, but when they do, it's usually worth taking notice. Black Road began in earnest on Halloween 2016 and consists of Tim M. on guitar, Robert Gonzales on drums, Casey Papp on bass, and Suzi Uzi performing vocals. Their hazy, psychedelic vibe is heavily reminiscent of the original cult psych-band, Chicago’s own, Coven, while smoothly integrating elements of fluid R’nB à la Jefferson Airplane and the throbbing, bristled churn of Mastodon-esque sludge. This dynamic is executed brilliantly on the title track and evolves beautifully on the badly warped, minimalist acid rock of "Torches," the lumbering, Obsessed-indebted "Blood on the Blade" featuring a particularly Jinx Dawson-like vocal performance by Suzi, and the moody electric blues of "End of Man." The future is a bitch, and only the witchy will weather its storms. Feed your head until curious mushrooms mulch your crumbly carcass and put your flame back in the soil.

Life's a drag, so you might as well smoke it (Dark Hedonistic Union Records).

Album Review: Ninajirachi - I Love My Computer

Oh boy, do I love junk! Couldn't live without it. Wouldn't be me without it. If you ever see a pair of eyes darting rapidly back and forth from under the shade cast by a heap of hock, it's probably me, plotting, on the verge of another bargain-bin binge. Before I purged my physical form and entrusted my consciousness to the info-flood of the internet,* I was an irredeemable packrat, rolling through garage sales and estate liquidations, accumulating all manner of impractical, forlorn, and puzzlingly obsolescent objects like a literal Katamari Damacy- only I wasn't making stars, I just had a habit of rehoming things that looked unloved.** Now I am on the internet full time, and here there is no shortage of neglected things crying out for TLC, old and new, worthy and otherwise... to each their own... Ninajirachi's debut LP I Love My Computer is not one of these things; it is not a rejected or misfit object, floating belly up in the infostream,* but actually a lot of them, colliding together to create its own destination: a nation of lapsed alignments and split-end inputs, a sanctuary of shallows where the aberrant run ashore- particles of gnawed clean segements of early ‘00s EDM, half-recollected game OSTs, fractalized and incompletely archived forum threads, grainy pop videos looping in the skeleton of unsupported media players, bird songs that sound like undiscovered Pokémon, old iPods congregating in colonies begging to have their wheels stroked, Nokia 3210s waltzing on the splistream of TOS defying torrents, sprites from PS1 platformers dozing in the shade of an elephantine polygonal bucket stretched between partially rendered palm trees along a pixel-patch shore... It's a paradise of sorts, for those whose hearts are open to it... a dam against the tides of oblivion by obscurity... an ark of rogue curios... One person's junk is another's treasure, and the orchestra of oddments Ninajirachi is surely some dross that I hold dear.

Fortunes are where you find them (NLV Records).

* Metaphorically- as we all have... 

** Ok, so maybe I was making stars after all.

*** Near as I can tell, she's on the cusp of super stardom. 

Album Review: Lecherous Gaze - One Fifteen

Sweet shit sizzling on a hot plate—Lecherous Gaze were on some WILD junk when they made One Fifteen. It's likely their last record (although I don't know that they ever officially broke up), having been released in 2017 with zero, nada, zilch, and no hint of a possible follow-up. But god damn, how do you plan a sequel to a withering womb of howling serpents, gyrating in thrawny perversity and cosmic heatstroke the likes of which were striking and batting at our earlobes here? If you know the answer, please let Lecherous Gaze know, because I would genuinely love another record like this one. For those not in the know, The oL'e Gaze are/were an Oakland crew who exuded a particularly degenerate dispensation of sleazy rock 'n' roll in the vein of MC5 and The Dictators, with next to no use for subtlety or the conventions of savoir-vivre beyond that of your average hyena. One Fifteen is the group's third LP and is significantly refined when compared to past efforts, scraping off much of the frayed distortion that had previously defined their sound while demonstrating an elevated mastery of their instruments to boot. They go from a chicken-wire-ringed freakshow to something approaching a genuine electric-blues band at times, connecting the gutter to the delta in a similar fashion to Fear many moons past. This opening up and polishing up of their sound had the further unexpected consequence of expanding the band's repertoire into the stars, seeing them transmutate into the galaxy's most malignant prog-rock o'pioneers, incorporating crookedly cosmic synths and heady, fever-baiting, stratosphere-gauging leads into their tortured paradigm—like a version of King Crimson that has suffered an unfortunate teleporter accident on a lesser-known starcruiser and has been on a killing spree ever since. As complex and weird as everything on this record ends up being, hands down, my favorite aspect is Zaryan Zaidi's vocals. His croaking howl is so filthy and volatile that it confronts me hostilely and undermines the impressions I previously held about the limits of derangement that can be expressed by the human voice—sounding like a trash fire personified, or like he's a komodo dragon struggling to breathe in a human-skin suit. It’s wretched in a profound fashion that I can hardly articulate with standard English at my disposal. What are my favorite tracks on this record (besides all of them)? Well, for starters, there are: the radiation-baked, black-hole roadhouse rock of "Reptile Mind"; the murky and psychedelic comet-tail whip of "Thing Within"; the nitro-boosted thump and heat-death punch of “The Day the Earth Caught Fire”; and the soaring build-up and blitzing closer, "X City." Earth is a firecracker—primed to pop. Ride the burst of annihilation as you bare your fangs to the void. Take hold of thy staff and part the blue mists of oblivion to take your place amongst the spiraling gyres of the black sea of eternity, and rage until the big freeze turns the lights out. It's One Fifteen; destiny is calling—pick up the party line.

Raise your middle finger. Drape a napkin over it. Now that's the vibe. Tee Pee Records. 

Interview: We're Trying Records

Life is a struggle. If you're not trying, you're dying. And if you're Jordan of We're Trying Records, then you're thriving in a labor of love, attempting to bring the very best of DIY punk and emo to the masses. I always like it when people send me music, but whenever I see the WTR logo in my inbox, I get genuinely excited. Jordan has introduced me to some amazing acts over the last several years, and I am incredibly thankful for his efforts. To commemorate his previous ten years of doing-it-'cause-no-one-else-will and get to know the man behind the music a little better, I had Jordan on the podcast to talk about the label's origins, his general philosophy, and what he'd tell his fromer self about where is now if he had the chance to shoot backwards through the veil of time.

Featured tracks: 

Townies - Gallows

95Corolla - No Coast 

Scarlet Street - Victory Speech

If you're in Chicago, you can celebrate We're Trying Record's 10th at the Subterranean on August 29, 2025. Doors, 6:00 pm, show, 6:30 pm. Get your tickets here. 

Album Review: SARN - i'm am in dark places

Sometimes, the memories of growing up in the Midwest come flooding back in a vibrant rush, and it’s difficult to perceive why any singular point of reflection still possesses such a hold on my mind. Now, if you’re not familiar with how things work in the center aisle of this country’s landmass, you might mistakenly assume that the most pivotal of my reflections would be the memory of riding a goat to school or something. But alas, it’s nothing so charming as that... no, instead, I’m plagued by memories of how many copies of Herb Alpert’s Whipped Cream & Other Delights I would be confronted with... like, literally everywhere. Plagued— plagued is the proper word for it, because there was just a rash of these things floating around at one point: sticking out from the shelves of records at friends’ parents’ houses, begging to be rehomed at thrift stores and flea markets, and resting in frames in the back bar of local watering holes. Funnily enough, it’s not like anyone could ever tell you anything about the record, despite how numerous it was. I don’t think anyone ever actually listened to the damned thing. Honestly, I think people just liked the lady on the cover... or maybe they just had a sweet tooth... or a very specific fetish... anyway, the weird trick it played on my psychology is that I’ve developed a cordial fascination with records that feature random pretty women on their covers, and that’s more or less how I ended up checking out SARN’s i'm am in dark places. As with Mr. Alpert’s record, the woman on the cover of this LP is a mysterious siren who leaves more questions asked than answered and has almost nothing to do with the music (both women are also wearing white, but that’s about where their similarities end). i'm am in dark places is a weird pop record—specifically, a VERY weird pop record—defined by passive-aggressive countermelodies, post-rock emulations, soothingly demented drum loops, and a preoccupation with pearlescent textures over rough, grounded grooves. It’s a little bit John Dwyer-esque, a little Magnetic Fields, a little Cindy Lee, and kind of a lot of Giant Claw, but much more pared back and focused than anything else I could compare it to. Most of these tracks are content with a core melody that’s developed between SARN’s sparse vocals and a guitar line, which are then braised by some form of electronic interference while simultaneously bickering with an intersecting rhythm that makes them appear to find their momentum out of sheer spite and clumsy ambition. Listening to the record feels a little like SARN is messing with you—seeing if you can predict where their songs could be headed, despite their simplicity and concessions to pop convention (however tortured), only to deny you any anticipated resolution and substitute an extraordinary, if improbable, catharsis in its place. I get that SARN is doing what these songs need, serving their own interests instead of rushing to grant the wishes of the listener, and I appreciate the commitment and circuitous way this music ends up reaching our ears—almost your hearing these songs is a kind of knock-on or concomitant coincidence of their existence rather than their intended purpose. I'm very appreciative of the fact that the mystery of these songs stays intact through the naturally ensuing obscurantism of their conception, and attempting to unwind the tight ball of thorny brush that binds the heart of each song on i'm am in dark places is one of the thrilling reasons it’s been on repeat for me since its release in July of this year. I’ve listened to it in full more times since its release than I have Whipped Cream & Other Delights in the previous three decades... make of that what you will.

The long arc of history bends towards death... I mean justice... I mean death and justice (Deathbomb Arc).

Album Review: Feral Ohms - S/T

Feral Ohms is a gritty, unhousebroken rock ‘n/'r roll presage from Oakland, CA, and side hustle of Comets on Fire’s vocalist/ guitarist Ethan Miller. Their sound is like an unhinged MC5 with a grizzly speckling of psychedelia and noise rock poking its coat like a scaly case of mange. They were in good company when their self-titled album dropped in 2016, as it was an era when wild-eyed mutants like OBN III, Zig Zags, and The Shrine roamed the piss and pilsner-lacquered dens of the American underground like packs of distempered hyenas. The group's self-titled debut studio LP is their only full-length album—if you don’t count live albums (which I don’t). Many of the tracks on this album had previously been released through a series of 7” singles that subsequently slithered free of the suctioned grip of Alternative Tentacles or were featured on their aforementioned live LP, lobbed from the tower of John Dwyer's Castle Face Records. Even with most of these tracks being rehomed for this LP, it’s far from sounding like a second-hand snoozer. Even with most of these tracks being rehomed for the purpose of this LP, it's far from sounding like a second-hand snoozer. “Living Junkyard” is a real kick in the teeth with its muscular anthemic riffs that push the ante of Ethan's mongrel howl straight over the moon. “Super Ape” with its crushing chords, celestial bridges, and earthquakin' bass grooves has all the bone-compacting strength and devastating force of a car-crusher or an industrial-sized blender designed to turn whole steers into beef-purée... and probably puts about as much demand on the local power grid as either as well. Then there are “Sweetbreads” with its Zeppelin aping, arena-sized riffs, and album closer “The Glow” which is a jammy, Soundgarden cribbing, blues freak-out that's about as subtle as a tsunami generated by off-shore atomic testing. It's an ideal record to drop the needle on if you're looking to wind yourself up into a blind frenzy- as applicable and timely today as it was back in 2016. 

Silver Current, rich in talent (ie music not minae).

Album Review: Nanoray - Manzai

I've never been one for game shows. They're mostly the type of entertainment that you watch passively (unless you're a real freak and think you can answer the questions / complete the challenges better than the contestants—in which case, what are you still doing on the couch! Go fulfill your destiny!)... and I tend not to watch if I don't plan to give it 100% of my conscious attention (I understand that I am in the extreme minority in this respect—sorry for calling you all freaks, only to immediately out myself as one as well—ごめんなさい). Still, I'm familiar enough with the concepts of most game shows to be able to peer into and appreciate the vision behind Nanoray's LP Manzai, a breakbeat record grounded in the premise of two up-and-coming comedians (named, for reference, Applemotan and Bananamada) who are conscripted into participating in a surrealist game show, presumably to compete for a grand prize... like a fabulous career in comedy, a high-rise pent-house, a million dollars... and the greatest fortune of them all... their lives. The track sequencing is aptly ordered to facilitate this narrative, and the beats (sonically and story-wise) perfectly convey a sense of rising and falling action, conveying the drama of the characters' circumstances through high-intensity synth warps and washes, zig-zagging and serpentine rhythmic changes that transform the tracks in a shedding metamorphosis along consistent thematic motifs, golden-toned beat interludes that hint at revelations and new information acquired by the characters as they unravel the logic of the adversities they're faced with, puckish sputtering vocal swatchs that humorously and invigoratingly texture topline rhythms, and tense cymbal break-ordered downbeat cacophonies that undergird low and desperate points of conflict in the plot. "Signon" begins with a burst of applause that transitions into an undulating seismic wave of grooves that narrows into a frantic, swirly dash to the finish, providing a preview of the arc of the tone of the album on the whole. The next track, "Samp1," with its overheated synth melodies and sharp, cracked, glassy beats and craggy builds, hints at a rough acquisition phase as the comedians learn the rules to the deadly game they've been enlisted to play. The punchy "Build Shit!" with its squishy mash of beats and sequences suggests that Applemotan and Bananamada have been dropped into some rendition of a live-action Rhythm Heaven Fever, while "Diver" subsists within a gravitationally defined column of plummeting arrangements, punctuated by samples that sound like they've been plundered from various instruments aboard a submarine. Each successive track adds new dimensions, and thus new challenges to be surmounted, such as the springy joust of "UO!," and the depth-charged and humbly delirious blasts of "hh." It's all so vivid and tantalizing to the imagination, eliciting visions of the story's protagonists hopping through non-Euclidean geometry and physics-defying spaces towards a finish line, dodging hazards like enormous balls of spikes, confetti jets that breathe rainbow-hued napalm, and cannons that spit live cobras and scorpions—kind of like a deadly, psychedelic adaptation of Takeshi's Castle or Unbeatable Banzuke... only with a much higher penalty for elimination. I can also imagine there being comedic elements to the challenges as well, like the players having to make situationally appropriate puns to unlock secure doors in a maze, lobbing sick burns at their opponents to activate flame jets on the other player's side of the map to impede their progress, or... I don't know, dodging tomatoes and cream pies packed with C4? There are really infinite possibilities presented by the scenario Nanoray has crafted on this record, and I could literally spend the rest of the day digging through and describing all the strange challenges that it's inspired in my head. The penultimate track "Kama6" proceeds with a deliberate, sure-footed, and earned confidence through treacherous twists and turns that communicates the extent to which the protagonists have mastered the rules of the game and are now able to pass through challenges with ease and grace—presumably while some shadowy mastermind shrieks in a control room backstage, frantically flipping switches and smashing buttons while berating subordinates in a futile bid to prevent our heroes' total triumph against the odds. Afterward, the easy keel, sparkling textures, and relaxed rhythms of the final track "Signoff" can be interpreted as a victory lap, accompanied by a montage of Applemotan and Bananamada signing autographs, accepting bushels of roses, and wading through a swarm of fans and paparazzi as they plod toward a stretch limo in the distance, all the while villains and adversaries lick their wounds and vow revenge. It's the perfect note to end this kind of record on, as well as a great wind-up for a sequel. Now my only question is, when are we going to get Manzai II? 

Album Review: Black Salvation - Uncertainty is Bliss

Dark, heavy, seedy psychedelic rock out of Leipzig Germany. Uncertainty is Bliss is the Relapse Records debut of Black Salvation, the controlled substance-enhanced side project of Uno Bruniusson, lead singer of modern death-rock band Grave Pleasures. It’s hedonistically hypnotic and brimming with magical maleficence, reminiscent of labelmates Ecstatic Vision, but with less guitar wankery. Bruinusson embraces an economical approach to his song-craft, gifting these tracks a tense logic of restraint and secrecy that enhances their shrouded and darkly transcendent appeal. Check out the bluesy bulging chords and tread-jumping groves of “Floating Torpids," the subterranean mysticism, tunneling groves, and mercurial mood shifts of “Breathing Hands," and the haunted, sludgy, suspended and distended 9-minute jam “A Direction is Futile" for a taste of that desolate yearning that beckons to you from beyond the sheath of this mortal veil.

On Relapse... because I am apparently once again covering records from big metal labels... It's like I'm back in 2021 or something.  

Album Review: Jah9 - Note To Self

Jah9 is a Jamaican singer, blessed to be known by friends and family as Janine Elizabeth Cunningham. Her style has been described- by herself, mind you- as “jazz on dub,” combining vocal performances inspired by Nina Simone and Billie Holiday, over Augustus Pablo infused dub rhythms and elements of dancehall- an honest self-assessment if there ever was one. It sometimes pays to be a little skeptical of the ways that artists describe themselves, but as I said, she speaks the truth! Spot the lie and I'll put a pin in my eye.* Essentially, Jah9 has the soul of a classic jazz crooner, thriving in living color on God's green Earth while carrying out the mandates of King Jammy to the letter.** Note To Self, is her fourth studio album and follow-up to her 2017 collaboration with Mad Professor, appropriately named Mad Professor Meets Jah9 in the Midst of the Storm. The themes of NTS album are apporiate to the artists style- confidence, power, and Jah9’s connection with the universe... this last one I can apprcate a lot as the universe can often feel like a foreign place, even to to those of us who are native to the Milky Way, and so it's nice to have someone who feels at home here to show us around and make sure we don't get lost or fall down a well/blackhole/whathaveyou. “Note To Self (Okay)” is a pretty good place to start with this LP, as it has a silky R’nB vibe with a cool, cleansing ripple of reverb flowing through its essence and out its pours. Tracks like “Field Trip” are slightly more complex, and while it's driven by a bold and funky rhythm, its true heart can be found somewhere halfway up a cosmic elm tree, as a harbor between roots and stars. For a more traditional taste of dub, all you have to do is get your arms around the loving slinky squeeze of “Feel Good (The Pinch),” while modern soul parishioners will find their prayers answered by the scorching path of passion and possibility pioneered on “Could It Be” as it lays down some funky soul rhymes with a delicious dub coating. Note To Self: drop the needle and let it ride.

Get your pass to the VIP Area (VP Records).

* Speaking purely metaphorically here. Don't expect any follow-through on this one. 

** When it move yuh soul, of course! ... when the music hits, you feel no pain… but, you affi move!

Album Review: Never Dull - Secret Stash Collection I & II

 

It's one thing to put on a great performance, but to see the absolute potential of that performance is something else entirely- it takes a certain level of vision- a gift of precognition and the commitment to grasp it with both hands... or spin it like a top! Never Dull has one such perceptive yield of musical grace about him. Working from live samples, he's able to manifest crisp yet beautifully ambient forms of house and nu disco that find the latent beauty in even the most wayward specimens of sonic particulate, resulting in each scraped scuttling of audio feeling/sounding fresh and unblemished, like a pentimento that becomes more defined with each brush stroke that glides over it. Released in 2020, Collection I is the pressing together of three EPs of the same name, along with a filament of scattered singles and rarities, all of which generally denote Never Dull's crucial attention to the interlacing aspects of groove and melody, composing densely tempered and reverby house that soothes the nerves like a warm kiss on a cool summer night. Collection II rolls together his singles and releases since the previous compilation, and demonstrates his increasing tendency towards tightly structured sequences that exude a sense of loose spontaneity, guided by waiving electric-eel shaped patterns of keys and talkative retro-electro accents that ooze with lysergic flavor, drafted along with enticing vocal melodies that cooly pluck you from your seat and into the train of their tenacious strut. I prefer to listen to both these compilations in sequence and together, as that's how I get the most out of them, as it's the most fun for me and provides the best sense of trajectory that he's pursued as an artist, from his early years on to the present, and this also is why I'm reviewing them together. All told, it's about two hours worth of music, so if you need to break it off, jump around, or just listen to a couple of singles in situ, that's up to you- but I have a feeling that once you slip into the flow of these collections you'll find it's easier to see it through then cut yourself loose from their groovy grip. 

Album Review: CarCrashPoolParty - CarCrashPoolParty EP

CarCrashPoolParty... crashing a pool party with your car... it honestly sounds like the most John Hughes name a band can have... without being a direct reference to any of his works, that is. Like, imagine this, a protagonist drives a car (likely borrowed from a friend's Dad without his permission or knowledge) over a three rows of hedges and into the pool at a country club to break up a party hosted by some hoity rich kid who is bogarting the attention of a gorgeous love interest- a display of churlish heroism and reckless disregard for life, limb, and property that some how saves the day and wins back the girl... I can see it vividly, painted before my eyes in bright '80s Hughes-y hues... of course, the band CarCrashPoolParty, actually has nothing to do with any of this (looking through their discography, I'm not even seeing the shadow of a Sixteen Candles reference... so accusations of affiliation are somewhat unwarranted)- although they're not the type of group I'd except to shy away from brash romantic gestures- in fact their self-titled EP more or less swoons in that direction as a matter of distinction. It's not like allowing yourself to be strung along by your own heart like a sucker tied to a balloon string is an unusual approach for a group playing any sort of emo music, and while they can grace the listener with some downy and wistfully pensive passages, these are measured against a stony sort of angst evident in the brooding guitar work and the intermittent growls of the vocals, both of which speak to an unsated hunger the group is possessed by which has yet to be sated, and which they are discontented by the passage of time towards its resolve. Listening to the careening, teary, gilt, and patter of the confessory "Grieve," and the grippingly ostentatious, spiritual suturing and post-hardcore disaster reporting of "Hovercraft",  you get the sense that whatever sustaining fulfillment or epiphany that can be obtained from love and loss, the group is destined to chase it down rather than allow the universe to swivel on its axis while they wait in place, encountering relevant plot point by inertia alone. This boldness is evident not only in the lyrics but in the extensively ambidextrous construction of these tracks as well, combining elements of shoegaze, emo, parlor jazz, and hardcore into a single coherent narrative thrust. There is another side to the band too, one that seems to exist in a distinct and separate plane of the multiverse, where they are a post-psychedelic anomaly that exists somewhere in the fluxing nexus between Glassjaw and Incubus, but in the iteration of the world in which their self-titled EP is set, CarCrashPoolParty are the protagonists of a gripping melodrama that can only end with them either succeeding despite their foolhardiness, or drowning in a valiant vehicular gesture of smitten courage. Whatever the outcome, this EP gets two thumbs WAY UP from me.  

Album Review: Faraway Plants - Faraway Plants

Faraway Plants is a local Chicago jazz trio that primarily plays spaces like the Whistler and Hungry Brain. Their music has mainly been improvisational, but their 2019 self-titled debut LP shows some signs of having been graced with a composer's pen, at least in part, ahead of the actual recording session that created it. They have a spacey, funky electronic sound anchored by Anthony Bruno’s soulful alto-sax, which rides the roll of drummer David Agee's judicious clatter like a comet joy-riding on one of Saturn's rings, while Gerald Bailey's trumpet playing provides a guiding narrative texture to the proceedings as they progress in variegated transmogrifications of sound and substance. There are hints of Sun Ra and Albert Ayler throughout these tracks, and some subtle polyrhythms to keep things fresh. If you feel like you could use a number with some ‘70s flair in your life, check out “Starship.” For more meditative motifs, look to the sudsy synth-propelled toss of “Sunsaturate” or the tubular slide of “Komorebi.” And if you need something that will help you pass the summer hours we still have left ot use this year in a blazingly good mood, try out the sweet and sunny beach companion “Islands” and the warm embrace of the sax lead “Birds,” the latter being replete with a choir of melodious songbird calling you to attention in its early waxing phases.

Album Review: Victims Family & Nasalrod in the Modern Meatspace

It's the Bush era again. Don't ask me how we got here. We wouldn't be if I had my druthers. This wasn't my call, but here we are... back in the sh!t*- endless wars, secret black sites operated with impunity and without democratic oversight, and brutal fights over immigration statute, all transpiring against the backdrop of precipitous Imperial decline. The only difference is that there doesn't seem to be much in the way of music that's up to capturing the moment (not that it would help!). I recall that Ol' Uncle Hank received a collective rap on the nose for suggesting that 45's first term would "make punk rock great again" (and he kinda deserved it too!), and on reflection, the Anti-Bush anthems that swarmed the culture during the Second Gulf War were more opiate than any sort of overture to action, but still... It's hard for me not to miss the energy and resonance with resistance that music had in response to the ascendancy of a neocon to the office of the presidency. That period was like Yalta for punks and hippies, as they finally set aside their differences and combined their creative forces against a common enemy. This climactic front of righteous freeform aggression and culturally cross-pollinated clarion-confrontationalism, favored by Alternative Tenticals, among others, sort of fizzled out as the protests wore down and the population grew accustomed to living with the reality of constant foreign conflict. Every scripted drama's climax has its falling action though... as well as its depressing and inevitable sequel, and boy is that ever true for American politics, writ large.** Still, I miss it, all of it, and there are hardly any acts attempting to revive the vibrancy of antagonism present in the early '00s.. unless you're willing to look in a place like... oh, I don't know... Portland, Oregon? If you did care to peel back the petals of the Rose City's underside, there you might find a little group called Nasalrod. Collaborating with the social-skewering Elastic Man-core of the Bay Area's Victim's family for a split last year, I was shocked and delighted to encounter their aggravated eccentricities and poignant spirit through said Modern Meatspace EP. Nasalrod's style is a roughly hewn twill of nightclub drama, hardcore punk, and cold-blooded, amphetamine-spiked noise rock, that is stubbornly spazzy and vehement in its relentless criticism of all that exists (and plenty of things that have yet to transpire). The fluidity with which Nasalrod blends commentary with a twisted logic and approach to composition is a compliment to the rubber lashing and shout-you-down with verbal flak approach of Victims Family, but is equally compelling, with a playful tendancy towards catch and release dynamics, where the listener is drawn in by more subdued passages, only to be blasted off their soles when they consumate the crescendo. Like on their track "The Maker," which opens with a fishtailing baseline that seems to be goading you into an arm-wrestling match before pouring a pan of hot grease in your lap in the form of a seethingly assertive guitar line- you're not going anywhere once that guitar hits, your initial distraction has lead to your wranglers being fused with the polypropylene base of your chair- they can do with you what they want at that point.... and they will! Appropriately, "The Maker" has an overall sort of fever-dream, tent-revival meets Barnum & Bailey vibe that helps give an absurdist overtone to the hopeless dredge through the fathoms of discount spirituality it describes, conveying a darkly comedic quality that is consistently present throughout their half of the split. "The Maker" is followed by the jacklighting troll hunt "Get A Life (Or A Coffin)," which combines high-flying Cheap Trick-esque arena-ready anthemics with a swarming sensibility for guerrilla theater that makes it feel like the band could descend on their targets nearly as quickly as their quarry can reply to an OP  from someone other than one of their two dozen mutals. "Redefined Apocalypse" follows with a dire rhythmic display of gritty, imploding grandure as the group scrambles up one collapsing card deck of lies, only to find themselves cresting atop another, eventually coasting downhill into a vivarium of bespoke caustic approval that acts as a trash compactor for the human soul, a trap for consciousness called "Online Validation." Nasalrod concludes their half of the split with the grinding Bungle-bust funk*** of "New Education," an exasperated exploration of the degradation of epistemology and pedagogy in the brain-smoothing acid ponds of the information age. A willingness to lash out in all directions like an exploding porcupine, armed with whatever cultural tools are handy, is the type of rogue aspiration that I recall punk rock personify in periods past, and for what it's worth, I feel like Nasalrod embodies this ethos as much as any endgangered species can still claim to have any consequence for its environment, despite dwindling numbers against overwelming odds. Sometimes, the only solace you can take in a decaying empire is that the hegemony might circle the drain slightly faster than yourself, teasing the pleasure of watching it slither into oblivion slightly ahead of yourself. Of course, knowing where you're headed opens the opportunity to beat against the current in the hope of preserving what little there is left to save. It's a nice thought, provided no cowboy actually pulls the trigger on WWIII before you can escape the suck. 

Say her name! Nadine Records.

*Mind you, this is an ironic statement. The reality that we actually live with is one of continuity of agenda. Our history is a stack of warmongering tortoises, arranged in a totemic column that descends through the muck of a blood-soaked swamp to the bedrock of hell's front step. 

** Thanks Obungler. 

*** Funk as in musk. What did you think I was talking about? 

Album Review: Haust - Negative Music

Somehow, Haust has evaded my notice for decades. Despite being an influence on one of the bar-none, bottom-dollar, greatest rock bands of all time, Kvelertak, they also split cadre and share their craft with a legion of nasty yet devilishly vital acts that make a habit of peering at me through the veils of digital obscurity that reefs the fridge of my waking life- acts like Okkultokrati, NAG, and The Good the Bad and The Zugly. How I discovered the Norwegian group and encountered and learned to love their most recent LP Negative Music is still a mystery, even to myself. I believe it involved the instructions of a maze scrawled with a burning quill on lamb skin parchment, gifted to me by a pale woman, half naked and on horseback, upon whose head rested crowned a halo of black flames... or I stumbled upon them while surfing Bandcamp at around 3 am after crushim' a 16 oz can of coldbrew coffee at/or around midnight- one these scenarios is bound to be more disturbing/intriguing to you as a reader. I'm willing to let you assume whatever keeps you most engaged. As you might expect, the album begins with a declaration of the band's longevity despite inertia and spans of hiatus, kicking things off with tar-blooded, labor pains slither of "Let it Die," the pharyngeal arches of which later develop into rows of razor-sharp fangs and a set of gore shedding tusks on the ripping flay of "Dead Ringer." Singer Vebjørn sounds credibly vile and loathsome throughout, colluding in blighted fellowship and blending in time with the campy villainy of the foul runic-inspired black'n'roll that the rest of the band whips up like a frost giant on an akevitt-fueled bender. The gothic pivot of "Turn to Stone" is faultlessly petrifying, and "The Burning" feels like a futile attempt to escape a flame-engulfed opera-house after its misshaped subterranean resident set it a blaze in a fatal fit of passion, while "The Devil at My Heels" has the climactic frenzy of being chased down by a phantasmal beast that has leapt from a gapping wound in your psyche, and manifesting through the portal of your bathroom mirror, to now clip at your fleeing ankles like a parodic, piranha toothed roomba. It's called Negative Music, and it feels right in all the wrong sorts of ways. 

Carved with cruelty on black blood stones (FysiskFormat).