TORRANCE’s debut studio album, Galaxy of Punks, isn’t content with being just a collection of songs. No, it’s a hyperactive, genre-smashing rollercoaster that grabs you by the face and demands you have a good time. It’s pop, it’s rock, it’s dance; it’s everything, all at once, and somehow, it works.
TORRANCE himself is a full-on whirlwind of chaos and charisma. His voice is an unstoppable force, soaring across octaves like he’s trying to prove a point to the universe. One minute he’s belting out with raw power, the next he’s delivering a whisper that feels like a secret you’re dying to hear. Every track oozes with an over-the-top, tongue-in-cheek swagger; think Ziggy Stardust, but if he got kicked out of an intergalactic dive bar for starting too many fights and stealing hearts. TORRANCE isn’t just singing; he’s performing, living in every note, every word, making sure you feel every emotion in the process.
Not to mention, the hooks are relentless. They burrow deep into your brain and take up permanent residence like an earworm with a vendetta. You’ll find yourself humming them at 3 a.m., wondering how the hell you’ve become so obsessed. It’s like he’s crafted a soundtrack for your life, whether you’re ready for it or not.
Listening to Galaxy of Punks feels like speeding through a neon cyber-city at 3 AM with no brakes and a questionable understanding of physics. It’s messy, it’s loud, and it absolutely refuses to apologize. And honestly? That’s exactly why it rules. This isn’t just an album. It’s a neon-lit sermon, a high-energy therapy session, and a full-scale pop rebellion rolled into one.
Blending indie pop, glam rock, and electronic dance, Galaxy of Punks is theatrical and personal, like a confession booth you can only repent in by dancing. The production is immaculate yet raw, balancing pop anthems with underground grit. Imagine early Lady Gaga, 2000s glam rock, and Charli XCX locked in a club with unlimited synths: that’s Galaxy of Punks.
What makes Galaxy of Punks stand out isn’t just the genre-blurring production, the stadium-sized hooks, or the sheer, unrelenting energy; it’s TORRANCE’s commitment to making every single song feel like a performance piece. His songwriting swings wildly between empowering anthems and tongue-in-cheek satire, all delivered with an irresistible mix of soaring high notes, raspy emotional grit, and the kind of vocal theatrics that make you wonder if he was raised on a steady diet of Freddie Mercury and melodrama.
If Moby’s Play was about sampling gospel and blues from a safe, distant perspective, Galaxy of Punks takes that idea, sets it on fire, and rebuilds it into a fully queer, maximalist fever dream where spirituality is more lived in than borrowed. Across 12 tracks, TORRANCE doesn’t tiptoe around the big stuff like identity, love, loss, and transcendence. No, he throws himself into the chaos with the urgency of someone who needs you to dance through the existential crisis right alongside him.
Highlights for me include Cosmos, which is a high-voltage opener that instantly cements TORRANCE as pop’s resident extraterrestrial; this guy is from another world, and he’s ready to make you believe it. Get It Baby has infectious hooks with a wink, of course. And lastly for me, there’s Space Cadet (I’ll Walk the Moon), where hypnotic techno blends seamlessly with the kind of cosmic introspection that could only come from someone dancing on the edge of the universe.
With Galaxy of Punks, TORRANCE doesn’t just release an album: he builds a universe. A world where pop is fearless, theatrical, and unhinged, celebrating misfits, dreamers, and rebels. It’s a statement, a glittering celebration of queer identity, spirituality, and survival.
With a U.S. tour and a second album on the way, TORRANCE isn’t just a rising star: he’s a supernova burning through pop, and I say shine bright.
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About the Author
A tenured media critic known working as a ghost writer, freelance critic for publications in the US and former lead writer of Atop The Treehouse. Reviews music, film and TV shows for media aggregators.
