Album Review

Some albums feel like celebrations. Some feel like statements. Eric Sleeper’s Beautiful Lies feels like the emotional equivalent of finally pulling the plug on a relationship that’s been on life support for far too long. It’s not triumphant. It’s not loud. It’s a long exhale after years of holding your breath. And that’s exactly why […]

Ready for almost an hour of fun? This amazing album, with three singles out prior to the official  release on April 11th, showcases musical capacity and songwriting expertise to a whole ‘nother level in the context of proper disco and nightclub music. Manu Chevalier wrote, arranged, mixed – he’s basically the mastermind of the entire

Starchild’s Butterfly is what happens when you take queer joy, emotional trauma, and a stack of dance-punk records, throw them into a glitter cannon, and aim it directly at your heart. It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s absolutely trying to make you cry on the dance floor, and it will succeed; not because it’s manipulative, but

Geoff Westen’s MUSIC FOR MY FRIENDS is one of those records that shows up, entirely uninvited, kicks down the door of your carefully curated lo-fi playlist, and loudly declares, “Remember when songs used to be songs?” And before you can reply, it’s already halfway through a synth solo. It’s loud. It’s glossy. It’s borderline ridiculous.

There’s a particular kind of bravery in writing an instrumental concept album about inevitability. It’s one thing to scream about the void. It’s another thing entirely to sit down, look it in the eye, and try to transcribe it into 7 tracks of progressive metal and ambient textures without saying a single word. And yet,

Let’s set the scene. You’re in your early twenties. You just screamed into your steering wheel. You haven’t really slept in two days, and your best friend just sent you a song that somehow gets it; that weird, vibrating ache of being alive in the year of our lord whatever-this-is. That band? It might be

Each track off this record will make vibrant colors pop, or a scenery that solo project Canary Complex paints in every listener’s mind. This album being his brainchild is an understatement, as it really does feel like every instrument is plucked and every word is written and arranged with precision, not to mention pure skill

Disguised cleverly as a collection of songs. It’s the kind of record that doesn’t politely shuffle into the background. Rather, it sits you down, stares into your eyes, and asks if you’ve really thought about the crushing absurdity of modern life lately. And when you say “yes,” it stares harder. Sonically, The Silent Sea is

La Need Machine, emerging from the eternally rain-drenched indie petri dish that is Seattle, have somehow managed to weaponize sincerity and make it work. In a world where “authenticity” usually means taking a moody black-and-white selfie and calling it an album cover, these guys actually mean it. Their sound? A gloriously chaotic cocktail of indie

Imagine a world where the last four or five years of experimental hardcore albums have just been a warm-up. God’s Country? Cute. Soul Glo throwing everything in the kitchen sink? Sure, if you like that kind of thing. Chat Pile telling tales of industrial despair? Admirable. Now, enter Holy Dose, a trio from Los Angeles