I first crossed paths with Iceblynk in a slightly roundabout way. I met Martin Newman at a Veldt show in Glasgow while he was playing with the band, and I got handed an Iceblynk CD to check out. Needless to say, I loved it. A little while later he sent BOAB my way, which made this one feel that wee bit more personal before I had even pressed play. Iceblynk have been on my radar for a while now, and one of the things I enjoy about following a band over several releases is hearing their musical vocabulary grow. The New York group began life in 2019 with Andrea Lynn on vocals, Martin Newman on guitar, and James Newman on bass, before Rachel Fischer joined on drums following the release of ‘Enter the Sky’. Since then they have continued to work around that meeting point between dream pop and shoegaze while gradually letting other sounds into the room. Their latest EP, BOAB, feels like another step in that process. Two Iceblynk songs occupy the first half, then two remixes take over and send familiar material somewhere else entirely. It gives these four tracks an unusual structure, almost two different sides of the same band packed into a relatively short running time.
Let’s hit play and see what this ones like.
If you have already heard Iceblynk, ‘Rememory’ feels like a very natural place to begin. It has been part of their live set for the past year, and you can understand why within seconds. A chiming guitar riff gives the opening an immediate lift while Lynn enters with that distinctive voice of hers. There’s this darker middle section which changes the temperature considerably. I love that passage. It gives the song a moody centre before the arrangement begins opening out again. The guitars and keys start circling one another and I can hear elements of The Cure and Slowdive in the way those textures meet. Iceblynk take those familiar ingredients and find their own balance.
That idea becomes much more pronounced on ‘Never Ready’. This song was retrieved from Iceblynk’s archives and reworked with a shoegaze and trip hop feel, which makes you wonder what the original version sounded like. The opening is gorgeous. Organ sounds arrive as though they are coming through an old timey radio, giving those first moments an eerie sense of nostalgia. Once the song begins filling out, that atmosphere remains. This is where the meeting of shoegaze and trip hop works especially well. Lynn sounds completely at home inside it, while Newman saves one of the track’s biggest moments for later. His guitar solo sends the closing section upwards and gives the arrangement a release after all that measured tension.
Then BOAB changes direction. The Summer Republic, a Brooklyn collective featuring members of Clone and The Veldt, take ‘Rememory’ and stretch it beyond six minutes for the ‘Total Recall Mix’. The synths move towards the front and a dancefloor beat replaces much of the original version’s guitar led momentum. What I enjoy here is the opportunity to hear how much the composition can withstand being rearranged.
Pablo Martin gets the final word with ‘Enter the Sky (Lulu Lewis Disco Mix)’, revisiting a song from an earlier point in Iceblynk’s story and pushing the electronic side of BOAB even further. Martin brings considerable remix experience to the job, and his version has a squelchy acid character running through it.
Iceblynk could easily have presented ‘Rememory’ and ‘Never Ready’ as two new songs and left things there. Instead, the remixes give the EP a second personality and place the band’s dream pop foundations alongside trip hop, synth music, disco and acid influenced electronics. These guys have a strong core identity, and the material here suggests they are increasingly interested in seeing how far that identity can stretch. For me, ‘Never Ready’ provides the most intriguing clue about where they might head next. That combination of shoegaze texture, trip hop rhythm, distant organ and Newman’s closing guitar work feels rich with possibilities. Then again, BOAB also makes a pretty convincing argument for leaving a few doors open and seeing who walks through them. Four tracks, several different versions of Iceblynk, and plenty to bring you back for another listen.
I discovered Lies via my good friend Nico over at Shoredive Records in Brighton. He gave me the briefest of introductions to the band. He said “Slowcore + dreampop + post-rock, from Italy.” Frankly that sounded like heaven to me so couldn’t wait to hit play on this. I had to do a bit of digging to find out more about the band first.
Bologna based trio Lies began with Elisa on vocals and drums and Giuseppe on guitar and vocals exchanging ideas at a distance during the lockdown years. Once Daniel joined on bass, those early conversations grew into a three piece with a clearer sense of identity. Their self produced, self titled EP followed in 2025, setting out an intimate form of slowcore that could open into harsher guitar noise whenever the songs demanded it. This, their second EP, Burning Wires, Silent Pull, arrives through Shoredive Records, a label that’s a hallmark for musical excellence. Slowcore provides the foundation for the bands sound, while dream pop softness, post rock scale and shoegaze noise enter as colours and textures within the songs. The trio keep the playing economical and let the emotional weight gather at its own pace.
Sounds like an awesome combo. I’m in. Let’s hit play.
‘Spectrograph’ is a very assured opener, with a vocal performance that feels surefooted, slow and steady. The guitars and drums begin sparsely, leaving Daniel’s bass to feed the melody and establish the song’s emotional direction. That decision gives the lower register an unusual amount of room, and the track feels settled before the rest of the arrangement has fully appeared. There are touches of Radiohead in the chord changes, especially in the way familiar chords take on an uneasy colour as they resolve. An English sensibility also runs through the melancholy, giving the song a grey, inward character that remains light on its feet. The measured vocal delivery keeps you close to every turn, and the band leave each open space wonderfully intact. It was love at first listen for me, and repeated plays have only strengthened that first response.
The angles become sharper on ‘Wires’. Elisa takes the lead vocal over pulsing guitar figures and drums with a mechanical quality, creating a controlled tension from the opening seconds. Giuseppe’s guitar work has a clipped, jagged edge, while Daniel gives the song a steady centre beneath it. The arrangement feels alert, as though every beat has been placed with its eventual absence in mind. When the chorus arrives, much of that structure falls away and Elisa’s voice rises above minimal backing. The sudden reduction in sound gives the melody greater force and changes how you hear the verses when they return. A harmony vocal then enters and adds warmth without softening the unease already present. Lies understand that volume has greater impact when silence has prepared the way, and ‘Wires’ proves how well they can control that exchange.
‘Black Mud’ begins like a lullaby sung towards the night sky. Its opening glimmers with a fragile calm, allowing the melody to settle before the guitar arrives with fuzz and a low snarl. The title finds its musical counterpart in that change, as the song becomes thicker and dirtier and retains the delicacy of its first moments. Lies make both sides of the arrangement belong together. The softer passages establish intimacy, and the rougher guitar gives that intimacy a physical edge. Brief pauses leave squealing feedback exposed, turning the gaps into active parts of the performance. Those interruptions make you sit up because the band have already trained your ear to notice small movements. By the end, ‘Black Mud’ feels bruised and beautiful.
Giuseppe leads the vocal on closing track ‘Star On Drugs’, his voice gives the EP a fresh perspective. The gently picked guitar and close harmony vocals bring Slowdive to mind, particularly in the warmth created by simple parts overlapping with care. There is an immediate tenderness here that made me smile, and the restrained delivery keeps a thread of melancholy running through the song. Bass and drums respond to the sparse arrangement with patience. Each contribution supports the melody, and every pause has enough room to register. The trio sound completely comfortable sharing the available space, with every performance serving the song. As the final notes pass, the EP closes in a mood that feels calm, affectionate and slightly unresolved. That last detail encourages another play, since ‘Spectrograph’ sounds even stronger when it follows directly after this gentle ending.
Across its four songs, Burning Wires, Silent Pull finds Lies becoming more precise about what their music needs. Restraint gives the melodies room, distortion arrives with purpose, and the vocals bring a human closeness to arrangements built from relatively few parts. The changes between softness and noise feel connected to the emotional movement of each song, so the heavier moments carry meaning beyond their volume. I keep returning to the bass throughout the EP, since it often supplies the melody while guitar and drums decide how much light to let into the surrounding space. Elisa and Giuseppe also give the record two distinct vocal viewpoints, with Daniel providing a steady presence beneath both. Fifteen minutes can pass quickly, yet these songs leave enough detail behind to reward another visit. Lies have made a second EP with its own quiet current, and you may find those wires humming in your head long after the music ends.
Burning Wires, Silent Pull is out now via Shoredive Records. You can check it out over on the Bandcamp page.
Eight years sit between Man Mountain’s debut album, Infinity Mirror, and its follow up, Threads Of Another Life. That gap contains more than the usual passage of time between records. The Southeast Michigan instrumental post rock quartet had to work through pandemic isolation, personal grief and the strange distance of remote collaboration. Mike Reaume and Bryan Cowles on guitar, David Reaume on bass and Jacob Goins on drums turned those experiences into seven ageless pieces arranged in the order their shared story unfolded.
Man Mountain’s roots reach back to 2012, when the project began with two musicians playing songs by The Appleseed Cast in a basement. Their first EP, To Call Each Thing By Its Right Name, arrived in 2013, followed by the standalone piece ‘To Be Made As New’ in 2015. Infinity Mirror came three years later through Spartan Records and established the long builds, layered guitars and patient sense of release that have stayed central to the band. Threads Of Another Life returns to those foundations with a deeper emotional range and a denser sound. The album draws ambient guitar, shoegaze textures and a strong rhythmic pulse into one continuous account of a period none of its members could simply leave behind. The seven tracks move through wonder, uncertainty, comfort, loss and acceptance, with recurring guitar ideas providing a thread between those feelings. By the final minutes, the album has passed through several emotional states and retained a clear musical identity.
Let’s drop the needle and I’ll tell you all about it.
‘Astralis’, meaning “of the stars”, slowly comes to life like the night sky appearing after dusk. A central guitar figure emerges first, then flecks of light begin appearing around it as the other guitar adds detail. Reaume’s bass and Goins’ drums hold down an escalating backbone, keeping the music grounded while the upper register guitars reach outwards. The group take their time over the opening, allowing every new layer to register before the next one arrives. That patience gives the louder passages a genuine sense of lift. There is awe in the arrangement, joined by a hint of uncertainty that keeps the music emotionally open. It is a glorious start and an immediate reminder of how much Man Mountain can say through instruments alone.
The slow evolution continues through ‘Bright Oblivion’, where bursts of distorted guitar punctuate the silvery sheen of the main melody. Those heavier entries arrive with purpose, briefly roughening the surface before the cleaner tones reassert themselves. David Reaume’s bass really comes to life here. It develops a counter melody beneath the guitars and gives the song a second line for your ear to follow. That bass movement lifts the whole arrangement and prevents the gradual build from feeling predictable. Around the midpoint, the band open everything up and the song explodes into life. The guitars widen, the drums gain force and the earlier restraint suddenly makes sense as preparation for this release. This is the first full display of what the quartet can do when every part arrives at the same emotional peak.
‘Liminal Void’ changes the album’s pace through a three-minute ambient passage that acts as a bridge while taking the record somewhere new. The title points towards an in between state, and the music seems to suspend ordinary ideas of forward motion. Tones hover, fade and return with small changes, giving you time to absorb the force of the preceding track. I find myself thinking of Sigur Rós here, particularly their ability to make open space feel emotionally charged. Man Mountain use that space with similar confidence. The piece also performs an important structural role, resetting your ears before the album enters its most comforting section. Its brevity gives every detail extra weight, and it stands comfortably among the band’s best work.
That sense of suspension resolves into ‘Halcyon Dream’, the album’s happiest and most peaceful piece. Chiming guitars provide the structure while Goins weaves an intricate rhythmic pattern around them. The drums keep changing the angle of the melody, adding motion while preserving the warmth at the song’s centre. Each new guitar layer feels connected to the opening figure, so the build moves with clarity. The band let the music rise in measured stages until the whole arrangement feels illuminated. Even at its most exultant, the track retains its sense of safety. You can settle into it, follow the details and enjoy the simple pleasure of its central melody. This is the album highlight for me and the track I keep returning to first.
‘Absence / Descent’ carries us into the record’s bleakest stretch. The guitar tones darken from the outset, and the sombre drumming gives each chord a heavier emotional consequence. Its title separates loss from the movement that follows it, and the arrangement seems to inhabit both conditions. The guitars circle around one another with a severity that recalls The Cure at their most desolate. The instruments take on the emotional pressure that a vocal line might otherwise provide. Distortion gathers around the melody until the music feels raw at its edges. The band maintain their control as the guitars become torrid and the drums press harder beneath them. Coming after the comfort of ‘Halcyon Dream’, this descent feels especially stark and gives the album’s sequence much of its emotional force.
At more than seven minutes, ‘Generation Loss’ has space to develop through several distinct sections. Each passage sends the song in a new direction while remaining connected to the central theme. Guitar figures introduced early are revised as the arrangement progresses, sometimes moving to a different register and sometimes returning with greater weight. This repeated use of familiar material makes the piece feel like memory being altered each time it is recalled. The rhythm section keeps the transitions coherent, with the bass providing a line through the changes and the drums controlling the increase in intensity. Man Mountain keep adding pressure until the separate motifs begin to meet. The closing wall of sound feels earned because the song has shown you where each element began. It is a substantial piece that rewards close listening, especially when you start recognising how its earlier ideas reappear inside the climax.
The closing track, ‘Impermanence’, brings the album’s musical and emotional concerns together in one final breath. Tumbling guitar chords contain a clear sense of hope, and the complementary drums keep the farewell moving at a calm pace. Melodies from across the record seem to leave faint impressions here, giving the finale the feeling of looking back with clearer eyes. The band approach acceptance as an active process, something reached after confusion, comfort and grief have all been allowed their proper space. The piece has enough time to acknowledge everything that came before it. Its louder sections retain warmth, and the quieter details carry a sense of renewal. The ending feels like a “see you later” shared between people who understand that every ending feeds another beginning. It closes the record with acceptance and leaves a small light burning beyond the final note.
Threads Of Another Life turns five difficult years into music that feels considered, personal and deeply connected. Man Mountain let the emotional sequence guide the arrangements, giving every gradual rise and heavy release a reason to exist. Wurst’s production keeps the guitars expansive and preserves the bass melodies and drum patterns that give these songs their internal movement. Smith’s mastering adds scale and retains the rougher edges. The album carries grief, distance and change, then allows hope to emerge through the way its four musicians respond to one another. That wordless approach leaves room for your own experiences to enter the record, which may explain why different passages continue to reveal themselves after repeated plays. Man Mountain have returned with an album built from interrupted lives and enduring connection, and every one of its threads leads somewhere worth following.
Homework have become a pretty special band to me. Every guitar line seems ready to veer off course, every lyric makes you listen closer, and the whole thing holds together through the chemistry between the four members. Having written about them before, I already know how well they turn melodic indie rock into something crooked, funny and unmistakably Glaswegian. Their debut album, Bang Here If Stuck, takes that instinct across twelve songs and gives you a fuller view of what makes them such a special band.
Twin songwriters Michael Newton and Santiago Taberna share the vocals, guitars and writing, often sounding as though they are completing each other’s sentences. Lizzie Quirke and Andrew Gordon form the rhythm section, providing the steady centre. The album was recorded live at Chime Studios in Glasgow with Melissa Brisbane; to try and capture the magic you can hear at their live shows. You can hear the band responding to one another in real time, following an idea wherever it leads and trusting that someone will find the route back.
Let’s drop the needle and see what’s what.
A gauzy spread of guitars opens ‘Heroes Welcome’, briefly suggesting that Homework might ease us into their debut. The mist soon clears and a loose slacker rock song steps forward, with the vocal delivery carrying a trace of Pavement influence. Homework establish their own personality through the sheer density of the words. Lines tumble into one another, internal rhymes appear at unexpected points, and small verbal jokes continue to reveal themselves after umpteen plays. The guitars remain melodic beneath all that language, giving the song enough space to breathe while setting out the album’s fondness for disorder, detail and wit.
‘ASAP’ begins with a false start that sounds as though somebody is trying to tune into the song over a telephone. Once the band arrive properly, the American slacker references give way to Glasgow indie pop. There is a flash of Orange Juice in the playful performance and the wiry guitar work, fed through Homework’s habit of placing every part slightly off centre. The rhythm skips forward while the vocals sound ready to abandon the arrangement altogether. That feeling of possible collapse becomes part of the fun. Homework know exactly where the song is heading, even when they allow you to think they have misplaced the map.
The guitar playing on ‘Hedge Your Bets’ is a joy. Homework take a simple chord sequence and find countless ways to twist it, decorate it and send it scurrying around the vocal. A small guitar run leading into the chorus will become one of those details you start waiting for on every play. The stream of consciousness lyrics bring their own pleasures, moving quickly enough to keep your ear chasing each phrase.
Tenderness enters the album through ‘Some Kind of Magic’. The harmonies recall the open-hearted pop of Attic Lights, while the angular guitar lines bring Kiwi Jr. to mind. Homework move between acoustic warmth and a fuller indie rock charge, changing the weight of the arrangement without disturbing the central melody. That dynamic makes the song a neat representation of the album as a whole. Soft passages can turn loud within seconds, polished harmonies sit beside crooked chords, and every change feels connected to the emotion of the performance. It also shows how naturally sentiment sits within Homework’s stranger impulses.
‘Made’ returns to loose slacker rock and contains my favourite lyrical combination on the album: “Rated success at the sellers address, I hope I’m the guest at the roll call”. The line has rhythm, humour and the kind of phrasing that makes you wonder how anyone arrived at it. That playfulness runs through the arrangement too. Wonky guitar chords lean against a relaxed beat while the vocal threads its way between them. Homework make the song feel casual, yet every odd turn has purpose. The apparent looseness comes from four musicians who just …..get it.
The brief ‘Velcro’ arrives covered in distortion. Its rough surface suits the title, with the entire performance sounding as though it has been fired through damaged speakers. Imagine The Strokes growing up around Glasgow rehearsal rooms and pub venues, then condense that thought into a short, scruffy vignette. Its placement gives the album another sudden change of texture and proves that Homework can make a complete statement within a very small timespan.
A cleaner recording greets you on ‘Trivial’. The guitars chime with greater definition, while the bass shadows the vocal melody and gives the song a direct, easy to follow structure. Homework sound comfortable playing things relatively straight, allowing the tune to carry the performance without filling every available corner. That restraint also gives the guitar solo more impact when it arrives. It is concise, tuneful and placed exactly where the song needs an extra flash of colour. After the blown speaker abrasion of ‘Velcro’, this clarity feels especially satisfying.
‘Thread & Thistle’ slows the pulse through its half time drum entrance and laid-back vocal. The guitars retain the clean tone heard on ‘Trivial’, allowing the band to take their time and leave space around the notes. Homework gradually increase the intensity during the second half, leading towards a guitar solo that tears through the earlier calm. The song seems to pass from afternoon light into the darker hours within a few minutes. Its progression feels patient and natural, with the closing guitar work earning its scale through everything that came before it.
The title ‘Roadhouse’ may place Patrick Swayze in your mind, though Stephen Malkmus feels like the more useful reference once the song begins. Homework play with the loose confidence of Pavement while rooting the track firmly in Glasgow. You can imagine it spilling from a pub jukebox as conversations rise around it and glasses gather on nearby tables. Bright, forceful guitars lift the chorus sections, while the intervening passages sink into muddier tones. The chorus melody rises above it all before the band let the ending unravel in glorious fashion.
‘Salt’ gives the album room to settle. The guitars have a smooth, unhurried quality, with the merest hints of country twang appearing around their edges. Homework also reduce the lyrical density, leaving the instruments to take a larger share of the conversation. That choice suits the song. After several songs filled with rapid words and sharp changes, ‘Salt’ allows the melody and tone to lead the way.
Any suggestion that the album might be winding down disappears when ‘GVB’ comes charging through the door. Homework play with reckless energy, driving the song forward before abruptly dropping away. The pause lasts long enough to make you wonder what happened, then the entire band return with even greater force. The second verse is gloriously unruly, full of guitars and voices competing for space while the rhythm section keeps the song upright. Moments like this make me grateful Homework exist. They play indie rock as though every familiar convention offers another opportunity for mischief.
‘Ending Song’ closes the record and regularly performs the same duty during Homework’s live sets. It begins as a measured slow burner, giving the lyrics and guitars space to work alongside one another. The writing feels especially assured here, while the guitar figures continue changing around the vocal without distracting from it. The song carries the feeling of an ending that everyone would happily delay. When the line “I wish it wasn’t the end” arrives, it speaks for the band and anyone who has followed the record this far.
Bang Here If Stuck turns Homework’s live spontaneity into a debut album filled with wit, melody and unruly guitar playing. Pavement, Teenage Fanclub, The Vaselines and Urusei Yatsura provide useful reference points, while the personality running through these songs belongs entirely to Homework. Their sentimental side gives the noise warmth, and their fondness for odd lyrical turns keeps you returning to hear what you missed. Every play uncovers another guitar phrase, harmony or wee couplet hiding inside the commotion. If Homework ever find themselves stuck after a debut this good, they already know exactly where to bang.
Beans have been back on my stereo, and this time I’ve found myself paying particular attention to the singing. Having written about the band before, I was keen to hear where they would take their fourth album, Less Louder. The Geelong and Melbourne group, fronted by The Murlocs drummer Matt Blach, have returned to recordings made at his home in 2021, during the same period that produced 2024’s Boots N Cats. These songs have had a few years to themselves, and hearing them now gives us another perspective on that spell of writing. Blach’s garage studio was a place to keep making music during lockdown, with enough time to explore the softer, more reflective songs that form this record.
The full Beans line up contributes here, with Blach handling the writing and much of the singing, guitar and drums. Jack Kong adds guitar, Mitch Rice plays keys, Vincent Clementson supplies bass and Lachie McKiernan plays drums. Across the album, acoustic textures, piano and Rhodes sit comfortably alongside surf guitar and vocal harmonies, giving the songs an easy-going character. There’s a lot of affection for classic pop writing in these ten tracks, and I’ve enjoyed hearing Beans give those influences such a personal setting.
Blach offers a useful introduction to the feelings behind the music:
“There’s a change in feel to these songs, with more mellow tones. Lyrically, the songs are based around the time they were written. Some about love, some about loneliness, some about memories, some about sleeping or hiding away.”
That last part feels particularly appropriate for a record made at home during 2021. You can guess how this gentler musical setting would suit thoughts about company, solitude and the small comforts of familiar surroundings. Let’s drop the needle and hear for ourselves.
‘Resister’ gets things moving at a comfortable pace, with the relaxed rhythm establishing the album’s character immediately. There’s a pleasing looseness to its psychedelic pop; the sort of unhurried playing that makes me think of sitting outside as a summer evening cools. The guitar breaks are an early pleasure. Their simple phrases make such good use of the available space. Blach describes the song as being about the uncertainty of a new romance, and that gives its easy manner a little emotional complication. You can settle into the music while recognising that familiar mixture of pleasure and apprehension when somebody new enters your life.
A little bounce arrives with ‘My Room’, whose rhythm gives the album a more playful step. The surf guitar is central to its appeal, bringing a bright tone that suits the movement of the song beautifully. Brian Wilson comes to mind here, particularly in the way the music combines a light mood with such a clear affection for melody. There’s something very satisfying about hearing guitar parts that encourage you to follow the tune as closely as the beat. Beans keep both working together, and the track feels sociable and welcoming as a result.
By ‘Remember’, the guitars have become so expressive that I almost want to answer them. Their phrasing has a conversational quality, each little turn suggesting its own response to the music around it. My reference point shifts towards The Beatles here, with the bass making a particularly persuasive case for that comparison. There’s a McCartney quality to the way it participates in the melody, giving you another line to follow beneath the guitars. Listen to that relationship and you can hear why the arrangement feels so full of character. The bass has personality, the guitars have personality, and their interaction gives the song its charm.
The drummer makes quite an entrance on ‘Calm’. Those opening hits have enough presence to make you sit up, and I did have a wee laugh at how enthusiastically the percussion introduces a song with that title. Once the ballad gets going, its waltz rhythm establishes a tender, gently swaying feel. The guitar riff works particularly well alongside the vocal melody, giving the singing a companion phrase that you start listening for as the song continues. It’s one of those songs where following a small instrumental detail makes the whole thing more rewarding.
‘Dweller’ caught my ear immediately through the combination of swinging drums and clipped guitar chords. There’s a satisfying bite to those guitar attacks, especially when you hear how neatly they work against the movement of the percussion. The rhythm gives the song a little swagger, and the lower vocal register introduces another colour to the album. Having spent the opening tracks enjoying their melodic brightness, I liked hearing the voice settle into this deeper range. Beans get plenty of variety from these changes in emphasis, with the drums, guitar and singing each helping to establish a distinct mood.
I’m probably an easy audience for a song called ‘Smile’, because smile happens to be my favourite word. Even so, this one earned its title. Beans return to a Beatles flavoured approach, drawing on the playful side of their pop writing, and the song has a cheerful eccentricity that I thoroughly enjoyed. There’s a sense of musicians having fun with the material and allowing that enjoyment into the performance. You can hear how naturally this lighter moment belongs among the album’s more reflective songs. It gives the sequence a welcome bit of humour, and by this point the band have made their fondness for a good tune abundantly clear. I was smiling along quite happily.
The arrangement becomes spare on ‘Blueprints’, with minimal guitar and straightforward bass and drums giving the vocal plenty of space. This is where the album’s emphasis on singing becomes particularly rewarding. With so few instrumental details competing for your attention, you can spend time with the melody and the delivery, hearing how much feeling the performance brings to the song. Each part has a clear purpose, and the voice benefits from the room around it. Beans make a persuasive case here for the pleasure of a simple arrangement performed with real love.
Then ‘Corny Love’ arrives, and this is the one I’ll be recommending first. The Beach Boys influence is especially audible in those generous harmonies, which give the track a nostalgic warmth and make the singing feel wonderfully expansive. The chorus is the album’s emotional high point for me. Those rising voices bring such yearning to the melody, and I found myself wanting to hear that passage again as soon as it had finished. Beans give the familiar harmony style a sincerity that makes the song feel close and personal. You can appreciate the musical reference while being completely involved in the performance itself. I love what the vocals achieve here, especially after ‘Blueprints’ has already encouraged us to listen closely to the singing. This is my favourite on the record by some distance.
‘Simplify’ introduces a production feel that places it slightly apart from the surrounding songs. The surf guitar remains part of the musical vocabulary, though its use feels more contemporary, and the instrumental choices bring a different character to the recording. Following the strong classic pop associations of the preceding tracks, this change gives your ears something fresh to consider. I found it interesting hearing the band’s melodic instincts carry through a different production approach.
Acoustic guitar and piano bring us to ‘Bed Man Walking’, with the gentle sound of running water adding a lovely detail to the setting. The arrangement suits the closing position beautifully. You can hear the two instruments working alongside each other, supporting a vocal melody whose grace gives the song its emotional centre. There’s an intimacy to this combination that feels especially appropriate after learning where and when the recordings began. I enjoyed how naturally the album arrives at this quieter final moment.
Less Louder has left me with a real appreciation for the range of pleasures Beans find in these gentler songs. The guitar exchanges on ‘Remember’, the rhythmic enthusiasm of ‘Calm’ and the chorus of ‘Corny Love’ each offer a different reason to return. Across the record, thoughts of romance, loneliness and home have a musical setting full of warmth and personality. There’s room for a laugh, room for reflection and plenty of room for the voices to make their presence felt. Give it an afternoon of your own and see which melody stays with you. In my case, Less Louder has become a very good reason to listen a little longer.
You may have heard ‘War Against Emptiness’ on my September DKFM show. It’s their follow up single to the brilliant ‘Beneath You’. Their first single together carried the familiarity of two musicians who had spent years working alongside one another in Belfast shoegaze band Virgins. It also gave them the freedom to discover what their partnership could become following the group’s conclusion earlier this year. That connection sounds even stronger here. Dow and Sloan appear more assured in their shared musical language, with the guitars gaining weight and Dow exploring a more restless vocal style.
Speaking about the single, Dow and Sloan explain the struggle at its centre.
“‘War Against Emptiness’ is about being trapped inside silence and distance, and the exhausting fight to keep reaching for something real and be granted the right to be ourselves truly unmasked and flawed.”
“The song moves through loneliness, uncertainty and the fear of fading out completely, but the chorus is a refusal to lie down and disappear. It’s about standing in the wreckage of that void and fighting to remain present.”
A guitar riff announces ‘War Against Emptiness’ with real self-possession. It enters with a loose swing in its stride, setting a tougher tone before the full density of Sloan’s arrangement gathers around it. There is confidence in the way the guitar occupies the opening seconds. That confidence also places the single firmly within the current strength of Irish guitar music, where bands and artists continue to find fresh ways of working with volume, melody and texture. Each part thickens the atmosphere while the original riff keeps the song moving and growing.
Dow responds to that scale by taking a serpentine route through the melody. Her vocal curls around the guitar rather than following its movements directly, bringing an uneasy feeling to the verses. Her control remains central to the performance. She knows when to remain close to the microphone and when to widen her delivery, allowing the tension to increase without releasing it too early. The unease in Dow’s voice suits lyrics concerned with silence, disconnection and the fear of gradually disappearing. You can hear the effort involved in remaining present, especially when her delivery begins to rise through the thicker guitar layers. Sloan gives her plenty to respond to. Feedback gathers at the edges, glide guitar bends the background out of alignment and the fuzz becomes dense enough to make the song feel enclosed. At the same time, the arrangement possesses an enormous sense of scale. That combination gives the track its emotional heart. Sloan builds a setting capable of carrying a huge vocal performance, and Dow answers with one of her strongest to date.
‘War Against Emptiness’ finds Rebecca Dow and David Sloan growing into their identity as a duo. The shared instincts developed during their past projects remain present, while this collaboration gives them room to follow heavier guitar tones and more exposed writing. Sloan’s layered production places tension in every corner of the track, and Dow delivers a vocal performance filled with unease, resolve and control. Together, they have written a song about remaining visible when isolation threatens to erase you. Give it the volume it deserves. With ‘War Against Emptiness’, Dow and Sloan ensure emptiness never gets the final word.
When Peplo released ‘For His Better Three Quarters’ earlier this summer, it gave us our first taste of their long-awaited debut album, We’re Not Getting Out of Here. That song carried glossy guitars, melodic warmth and the personality that first drew me towards the Glasgow quartet when I saw them supporting at the 13th Note. Second single ‘Stay’ finds them working on a grander scale. Peplo call it their take on a power ballad, and they commit to that idea with every piano note, guitar chord and towering vocal.
Peplo are Mark Hinds on drums, Daniel Young on bass, Cit Lennox on vocals and Iain O’Donnell on guitar. Lennox and O’Donnell form the songwriting partnership at the centre of the group and the four of them have spent several years working on We’re Not Getting Out of Here, recording at Chem19 Studios and preparing the album through their own resources. You can hear that time being put to good use across these first two singles. Each song presents its own musical character, with ‘Stay’ revealing a much heavier side of the band.
A muted piano begins the track with Lennox’s voice placed close to your ear. The vocal treatment gives those opening lines a private, enclosed quality. There is a real vulnerability in the delivery. When the guitars arrive, they tear through the restraint of the introduction. O’Donnell uses a rougher tone than we heard on ‘For His Better Three Quarters’, giving the track a force that suits its emotional escalation. The piano remains an important presence, providing a thread back to the intimacy of the opening. That move from a small beginning into a broad wall of guitar gives Peplo their power ballad moment, complete with enough grit to stop the song becoming overly polished.
Lennox anchors the whole performance. As the filtering around the opening vocal recedes, their voice rises into a fierce pop punk register. Their Scots accent gives the words identity and immediacy, while the higher notes carry the fear that sits behind the narrator’s request. You hear someone trying to sound certain as their emotions begin to overtake them. The vocal grows alongside the instruments, reaching for reassurance with increasing urgency. Hinds and Young bring a new level of force to the rhythm section. The changes in timing keep the song restless, shifting the ground beneath the vocal whenever it begins to find comfort. Peplo allow the instrumental passages plenty of room, using each change to increase the tension before Lennox returns to the centre.
The distance between these first two singles makes We’re Not Getting Out of Here increasingly difficult to predict. ‘For His Better Three Quarters’ offered bright melody and dreamy guitar tones. ‘Stay’ places piano, heavier rhythms and a huge vocal performance at the front. What kind of album will contain both sides of Peplo? That question has made me even more curious about the record they have spent so long preparing.
‘Stay’ gives Peplo room to sound bigger, heavier and more emotionally uneasy. It takes the familiar language of the power ballad and fills it with insecurity, blurred intentions and the fear of abandonment. Lennox delivers one of their strongest vocal performances so far, while O’Donnell, Young and Hinds surround it with an arrangement that keeps changing size and intensity. The debut album now feels full of possibilities, and after hearing this, I am more than happy to stay with Peplo until it arrives.
Elephant Stone have spent twenty years finding fresh routes between Indian classical music, psychedelic pop and guitar music with a heavier pulse. The Montreal group began in 2006 as Rishi Dhir searched for a new sense of purpose following his years with The Datsons, later known as The High Dials. Each Elephant Stone release since has carried a certain willingness forward and along the way, Dhir has performed with Beck and The Brian Jonestown Massacre, joined the psych group MIEN and gradually assumed responsibility for production, engineering and mixing at Now he’s back with his tenth full length release ASHA and it finds Dhir working alongside drummer Miles Dupire Gagnon, guitarists Robbie MacArthur and Jason Kent, with Kent also contributing keyboards and backing vocals. Dhir handles bass, dilruba, guitar, keyboards, percussion, sitar, tabla and vocals, while Amy Millan of Stars and Broken Social Scene joins the band on the closing song. Two decades into their life, Elephant Stone sound ready to address grief, political fear and the search for sanctuary with striking directness.
The record takes its name from Dhir’s mother, who died during its writing and recording. Asha also means hope in Sanskrit, giving that title a deeply personal dual meaning. Sorrow sits at the centre of these songs, joined by anger at a society repeating some of history’s ugliest behaviour. Dhir explains the limits and intentions of his writing with characteristic honesty.
“I only write about what I know and think I understand, as long as there’s Rishi, there’s going to be Elephant Stone.”
Can’t wait to drop the needle on this one and dive in.
‘Here Comes The Rising Sun’ begins with a softly pulsing bassline and a steady drum pattern that has an earthy, communal feel. Dhir allows the rhythm section to establish the mood before electronic details begin appearing around it. These little flickers give the arrangement a sense of morning gradually coming into focus. The lyrics speak openly about grief and pain, yet the music keeps looking towards the day ahead. The rising sun becomes a daily reminder that time continues and another chance has arrived. The closing section expands into a psychedelic wig out, with the earlier calm giving way to a rush of sound. That ending feels like the sun has reached full strength and burned through the remaining cloud. It is a lovely opening statement, gentle in its first steps and full of life by the time it reaches the other side.
Fuzzy proto punk guitars introduce ‘Everything Evil’, the lead single and burst of frustration. Dhir’s soft vocal delivery provides a clever foil for the guitars, which race forward with very little interest in stopping for breath. Man, this fair licks along. The rhythm keeps pressing ahead as one accusation follows another, giving the song the feel of a list that has grown too long to ignore. Dhir turns his attention towards ruling figures who sell freedom while keeping control firmly in their own hands. Every line strikes quickly, with the short running time making each one feel more urgent. That gentle voice makes the anger even more effective. Dhir sounds weary with the repetition of it all, as though he has watched the same performance from those in charge too many times.
The second single, ‘Fascists Killed Yer Rock ‘N’ Roll’, immediately reduces the pace. That sequencing works beautifully after the breathless attack of ‘Everything Evil’. Sitar textures return to the foreground and the rhythm settles into a heavier step. The guitar begins with a direct rhythmic purpose before sending eerie cries through the darker corners of the arrangement. Dhir writes about the methods fascism uses to gain power. Fear becomes currency, outsiders become targets and hardship becomes an opportunity for people with ambitions of control. Dhir explains his thinking with real clarity:
“You’d have to be living under a rock to ignore what’s happening. I don’t claim to have the answers; this song is about giving the threat a name. It’s a reminder that we’ve seen this script before… and we’ve overcome it before.”
The bridge addresses those figures directly, reminding them that their game is already known and their song has already been heard. Rock and roll becomes a symbol of expression, community and refusal. The band respond to political darkness by making enough noise to disturb it.
My album highlight arrives with ‘I Got A Pill’. A pulsing groove takes over and gives the record one of its most immediately physical moments. Your foot starts tapping almost at once. There is something wonderfully cheeky about Elephant Stone wrapping a song about control inside music this funky. The bass moves with a relaxed confidence; the drums keep the groove locked and small tabla and sitar details add identity. The lyric adopts the language of someone offering an easy solution. Take the pill, feel better and leave your thoughts behind. Comfort becomes a means of obedience, and personal responsibility becomes another part of the sales pitch. Its lighter vocal touches make the underlying idea more unsettling. Repeated syllables and friendly assurances give the song the air of an advert designed to make submission sound appealing. You can hear how manipulation works through simple phrases, easy answers and a rhythm people can follow without pausing to think. This sinister little dance is one of Elephant Stone’s finest grooves.
‘Broken Arrow’ brings us straight back to the classic Elephant Stone sound. A killer melody sits at the heart of the track, carrying a direct lyric about identity and the desire to become a fuller version of yourself. Dhir imagines himself as an arrow that has lost its direction. Shoegaze toned guitars run underneath the melody, filling the background with a soft haze. Elephant Stone have always had a fine instinct for melody, and ‘Broken Arrow’ provides another example of how naturally Dhir can place an introspective thought inside a song you remember after one play. Loss can disturb your sense of self as much as your relationship with the person who has gone. ‘Broken Arrow’ considers the moment when old certainties disappear and a new direction has yet to reveal itself. Its melody provides the reassurance that the lyrics are still seeking.
Piano takes the lead on ‘A Beautiful Fate’, easing the album into a dreamlike ballad. Guitar and synthesiser details appear around it, adding little points of light without disturbing the stillness. The arrangement has the appearance of stars reflected across calm water, every note bright against the darkness surrounding it. It is one of the record’s prettiest pieces, and that beauty gives the lyric’s emotional chill even greater depth. The words feel like thoughts appearing after a period of shock, when you begin looking backwards and reassessing the life you have lived. There is loneliness in those admissions, joined by a growing sense of gratitude. Fate contains pain, and the narrator still finds reason to call it beautiful. That response feels central to ASHA. Dhir allows grief to exist within the same song as thankfulness. The piano holds those feelings together, playing with a delicate clarity as the surrounding instruments provide atmosphere and gentle accents.
A gloriously squelchy bassline gives ‘Parallel And Contrary Motion’ its spine. It bounces beneath the song with real warmth, keeping the music buoyant as Dhir writes directly about the death of his mother. Synth lines add an almost Baroque European character, curling around the rhythm with an ornate grace. I love the way the arrangement once again couches sorrow through such an upbeat musical setting. The title describes two lives moving together and apart at the same time. Those memories remain vivid, even as the passing seasons make her physical absence impossible to escape. Dreams allow her to return, though she appears differently each time. The bright melody feels connected to the happiness she gave him. Dhir honours that relationship by placing its joy alongside his grief. The bass keeps moving, the synthesiser lines retain their elegance and the song refuses to reduce a whole life to its ending.
‘Sleepwalking In Prague’ enters Dhir’s dream world as the record begins its final descent. The song moves in waltz time, giving his walk through the city a circular motion. Each turn seems to bring him back towards the same streets, the same clock and the same crowd. He tries to speak, yet his words sound unfamiliar. The city is alive around him but his body appears detached from it. Prague may hold memories of someone he has lost, and the lyric allow you to imagine what those streets mean to him. The astronomical clock becomes a meeting point between time, death and dream. The guitars deserve a big shout out here. Their clear, singing tone brings George Harrison to mind, with each phrase carrying melodic purpose. They sound sublime against the waltz rhythm and give the song a tender glow. That familiar warmth fits the dream setting beautifully. Dhir may be lost within Prague, yet the guitars seem to recognise the route.
‘Spirit, Take Me Away’ offers a final goodbye. Dhir accepts that the person he loved has gone and understands that the world will continue around him. His own spirit remains unsettled, searching for somewhere to belong after that loss. Dreamy guitar surrounds the vocal and lets the emotional weight settle gently. The playing has a soft, spacious quality that suits the subject, giving Dhir room to express love, absence and exhaustion. Amy Millan brings light into the song with her gorgeous voice. I am a huge Stars fan, so you can take my enthusiasm with the appropriate degree of cheerful bias. Her presence feels exactly right. Dhir and Millan sound connected by the emotion of the song, and her vocal gives the final goodbye an added tenderness. It feels like another person has entered the room and sat beside him for the last few minutes.
After a short silence, an old recording of Dhir’s son Krish appears. Three years old at the time, he repeats his invented phrase “macca chacha singsing” while his father encourages him to say it again. It is a small family moment preserved by chance, full of play and affection. Following an album concerned with death, political fear and the pain of absence, a child’s voice reminds us that life continues through the memories we keep and the love still around us.
ASHA feels like an important Elephant Stone album. Twenty years into the band’s life, Dhir has made a record that speaks directly about his mother while also looking outwards at the forces making the wider world feel darker. The music retains everything I love about this band. Sitar and tabla sit naturally beside fuzzy guitars, electronic details, piano, thick basslines and melodies that lodge themselves in your memory. Each arrangement serves the emotional idea at its centre. The album begins beneath a rising sun and ends with a spirit searching for its place. Between those points, Dhir finds anger, uncertainty, gratitude, memory and even a seriously funky song about systems of control. Hope survives throughout because it has been tested by experience. Asha gave Dhir her love and her name. With ASHA, he has given both a lasting home.
So, have I been looking forward to hearing Selkie’s debut EP? Absolutely. I feel as though she has been slowly revealing inWaves to us one beautiful song at a time. ‘Hours’ was first, and I remember being fascinated by the restless beats moving beneath a voice that seemed to exist in several places at once. ‘Heartspeak’ followed with a softer, more intimate side to her music, then ‘Gold’ arrived carrying that wonderful promise that “we begin again.” Each single gave us another piece of the story and left plenty tucked away for the EP itself.
Then came the chance to see Selkie perform at The Old Hairdressers in Glasgow alongside Marina Yozora. That was a spellbinding night, and hearing these songs live was exhilarating. Selkie gave every loop, breath and vocal layer the space it needed. It was fascinating watching her take a room full of people and having them transfixed on every note. By the end of her set, I was even more curious about where these songs would lead when heard together.
So yes, I have been looking forward to this one. inWaves is Selkie’s debut EP, though it arrives after a long gestation period. These six songs have travelled through Glasgow, Berlin and Japan, growing around public pianos, bedroom studios, a portable recording setup and live performances where unfinished ideas were allowed to keep changing. They remained with Selkie through poor health, uncertain periods and several changes of home. You can hear all of that history in the finished record, especially in the care she gives her most important instrument, her voice.
“The EP is about trying to stay open inside uncertainty, noticing beauty while you’re still in it, and allowing things to arrive, disappear and come back without forcing them into shape. Some of these songs disappeared for months or years before I understood what they were, and many only found their form through being performed live.”
Let’s hit play and see what appears.
The EP opens with ‘Dream Wheels’. A recording of waves lapping against the shore places you beside the water as glimmering electronics slowly gather around it. Her voice takes its time arriving, and when it does, there are no words to guide your thoughts. I love that choice. You are free to follow the sound of each note, hear one vocal loop call towards another and notice how the human voice gradually becomes part of the environment. Each loop seems to suggest the next movement, and every new layer appears as a response to what came before. It feels like awareness returning a little at a time. Like waking up. As an opening, ‘Dream Wheels’ asks very little of you beyond settling in, taking a breath and allowing Selkie’s world to come into focus.
‘Swimming’ carries us away from the shore and into the first full song. Selkie’s voice moves closer, eerily doubled at times with a baritone version, while retaining the textural quality established in ‘Dream Wheels’. The arrangement leaves generous spaces between its electronic details, and that room makes you conscious of every breath. Swimming depends upon breath, rhythm and trust in your body, all ideas that sit at the centre of Selkie’s return to music. Her delivery feels measured and close, with each phrase placed carefully inside the arrangement. This is where the EP title starts making emotional sense. Progress arrives in repeated movements, with every return carrying you off somewhere new. ‘Swimming’ feels calm on the surface, and the strength beneath it comes from hearing Selkie trust the next breath enough to take it.
I have lived with ‘Hours’ for a while now, and hearing it within the EP has made me appreciate it all over again. The song began in 2019 as Selkie considered the hope and ache of maintaining a relationship across continents. Its meaning grew as distance became part of daily life for people everywhere, giving those original feelings a much wider reach. The music holds several impressions of time at once. Frantic beats suggest the clock racing ahead, then a steadier pulse returns to keep everything connected. Selkie layers her vocals across that rhythmic activity, and you begin to feel as though Glasgow, Berlin and Japan are all present in the same moment. There is plenty happening in the production, with small electronic details flashing around the vocal, yet every sound earns its place. Coming after ‘Swimming’, it also continues the EP’s reliance on rhythm as a way of moving through uncertainty. You keep breathing, you keep reaching out and you keep finding the other person whenever you can.
Then we arrive at ‘Gold’, the song that first made the full emotional intention of inWaves clear to me. Inspired by kintsugi, the Japanese practice of repairing broken objects with precious metal, it carries the idea that every visible mark can become part of what comes next. Fine electric guitar lines move through the arrangement as flickering electronics appear around Selkie’s lead vocal. The whole thing has a fragile beauty, then the layered voices arrive and give the refrain a wonderful sense of shared strength. “We begin again” already felt special when I reviewed the single. Here, after songs about returning to language, trusting the body and keeping love alive across distance, it lands with even more feeling. ‘Gold’ sits at the centre of the EP as its clearest statement of renewal, and those three words stay with you long after the final harmony fades.
‘Heartspeak’ takes that renewed openness and turns it towards another person. Bell toned synthesisers surround Selkie’s close vocal, with reverb and altered voices making certain phrases feel like thoughts passing between two people before either has found the language to explain them. The song carries memories of swimming at night among bioluminescent plankton, and you can hear something of those brief flashes in the arrangement. Individual sounds glow, disappear and return elsewhere, giving the music a gentle sense of wonder. Selkie sings with such tenderness here. It also feels like a lovely companion to ‘Hours’. One song considers the effort required to maintain closeness across distance, and the other explores the instinctive understanding that makes the effort worthwhile. I loved ‘Heartspeak’ as a single. Hearing it here makes it feel even closer.
After all that patience, memory and careful rebuilding, ‘Lick the Sun’ closes the EP with a wee spark in its step. Selkie wrote the song while emerging from a long Scottish winter, and you can hear the energy beginning to return. Treated guitar, beats and spectral vocal layers give the track a physical presence that suits its appetite for movement. The rhythm encourages your body to respond, the guitar brings warmth into the arrangement and Selkie’s voice reaches further outward with every new layer. The title makes me grin. It brings sunlight close enough to taste and turns the simple act of noticing the world into a celebration. Selkie described the song as carrying “a little fire growing in your belly,” and that fire spreads through the closing minutes. Curiosity returns. Desire returns. The urge to move, feel and take part in life returns. The voice that first appeared without words beside the water in ‘Dream Wheels’ now sounds ready to greet whatever waits beyond the final note. That gives inWaves a beautiful emotional arc, beginning with someone carefully finding her way back to herself and ending with her face turned towards the light.
What stays with me after inWaves is the trust Selkie places in gradual change. These songs took years to reach their final forms, and you can hear that history in every pause, repeated phrase and returning sound. Her voice, guitar, electronics and environmental recordings share the space with an intimacy that rewards close attention. Having followed three of these tracks as singles and then seen Selkie perform, I thought I had a fair idea of what her debut might hold. Hearing all six together reveals how closely they have always been speaking to one another. Fragility gives way to trust; distance encourages new forms of connection and the first quiet signs of recovery grow into a renewed appetite for life. Selkie has allowed this music to arrive in its own time, and inWaves carries you forward with every return.
inWaves is released independently on 28 August 2026. You can check it out over on the Selkie Bandcamp page.
Ten years is a long time in the world of music. So can someone explain to me why it feels like only yesterday I was dropping the needle of Castlebeat’s self-titled debut album for the first time. I have been really looking forward to hearing Josh Hwang revisit the spirit of Castlebeat’s 2016 debut because he has always had a particular way of making amazing jangling bedroom pop. He led the way with his melancholy vocals and bright melodic hooks and gave it an identity of its own.
He’s spent a decade releasing records and running Spirit Goth Records with his wife Sonia which has only strengthened Hwang’s ear for tone and melody. CASTLEBEAT II finds him returning to unfinished ideas and self-imposed limitations from those early days, carrying all the experience gained since into the room with him.
Hwang wrote, recorded and produced the album himself, maintaining the personal approach at the heart of Castlebeat. This time, Brian Fisher took responsibility for mixing and mastering, requiring Hwang to release some of the control he has traditionally held over every stage of his music. You can hear the benefits throughout the record. The intimate character of Castlebeat remains intact, while the bass, drums, guitars and synths have greater definition. Hwang has described the album as “a 10-year anniversary ode to my 2016 debut,” with some songs originating in ideas left unfinished during that period. Others were written more recently using the sounds and choices he would have reached for back then. That distinction becomes less important once you hear how naturally these different points in his life sit beside one another.
Let’s drop the needle and dive in.
‘Awake’ provides an immediate reminder of why Castlebeat’s guitar tone has stayed so recognisable. Its clear, ringing notes carry the melodic language Hwang established on his debut, while the production reveals how much has changed during the intervening decade. The bass has a rich presence and every drum strike arrives with purpose, giving the track a firm rhythmic frame. Hwang’s voice remains the point of familiarity, soft around the edges and emotionally contained, with that slightly distant delivery he understood from the beginning. When he sings, “I’m moving slow / Faster you know / And I’m on my way home,” you get it immediately. He is heading back towards an earlier version of Castlebeat while bringing ten years of life with him.
A single guitar line leads ‘Garden’, repeating with enough melodic character to function as the chorus. Hwang lets that shiny motif do much of the talking, building the rest of the arrangement around its simple appeal. The bass and drums keep the song moving while his vocal sits comfortably inside the rhythm. The central guitar phrase returns often enough to become fixed in your head, yet each appearance gains something. Castlebeat has always understood how a modest idea can carry a whole song when its tone feels right. The final solo extends that thought with a glossier finish, adding a brief flash of colour before the track slips away.
Then ‘This Takes Time’ turns the nostalgia dial all the way up. This is my album highlight, a hyperballad filled with glowing synth tones, warm guitar and the emotional pull of an old photograph whose details remain clear. The music carries a distinctly 2016 atmosphere, recalling an era when dream pop and bedroom recorded indie shared a fascination with chorus-soaked guitars and washed-out vocals. Hwang understands those sounds from the inside because he helped define them. The arrangement gradually fills the space around his voice, letting the rhythm and melody settle into a slow emotional current. There is a sweetness here that avoids becoming overly sentimental.
‘Stay With Me’ brings the heart straight to the surface. Hwang describes it as being about “wanting someone to stick around when you can feel things starting to slip,” and that fear gives the upbeat arrangement a real foil. The bassline carries a clear Peter Hook influence, picking out its own melody while the guitars ring around it. Synths widen the arrangement and the drums move at full speed, creating one of the album’s most detailed constructions. Hwang’s vocal stays wistful and controlled, which makes the plea within the song feel genuine. He sounds like someone trying to remain composed while sensing a relationship moving beyond his reach. The hook arrives quickly and stays with you, supported by jangling guitar lines that keep the music bright.
The scale grows again on ‘Plastic Bag’, where Castlebeat steps beyond the familiar dimensions of bedroom pop. The guitars rise above the rhythm section and give the track a cinematic sweep, while Hwang keeps enough detail in the mix to preserve its closeness. A minor chord change caught my ear immediately. It alters the emotional direction of the song in a matter of seconds, adding a shade of uncertainty to music that appears ready to leave the ground. Hwang has spent the first half of *CASTLEBEAT II* looking back through rooms, relationships and old ideas. Here, the walls seem to disappear. ‘Plastic Bag’ shows how far the Castlebeat sound can travel while remaining recognisable from its first guitar note.
There is an unashamed eighties character running through ‘My Love’. Its synth tones and electronic glow would have fitted neatly into Stranger Things, though my own mind went somewhere more specific. I could see a video arcade at night, rows of illuminated machines throwing coloured light across the floor while the song plays somewhere above them. Maybe it’s from the combination of Hwang’s hazy vocal and the artificial warmth of the keyboards. The rhythm gives the track a steady forward motion, while the guitar adds a human texture alongside the electronics. Hwang understands how memory often attaches itself to places, colours and small sensory details. ‘My Love’ works through that same process, suggesting a complete scene without describing every part of it. You bring your own memories into the spaces he leaves open.
Hwang strips the construction back for ‘Table and Chair’, taking two chords and turning them into a miniature opus. The simplicity allows you to concentrate on the rhythmic detail, and the drums become one of the track’s defining features. Their electronic character brought The Postal Service to mind, particularly in the way each programmed beat contributes to the melody as well as the pulse. ‘Table and Chair’ holds its form with confidence, proving that complexity can emerge from the way sounds relate to one another rather than from the number of ideas competing for space.
The pace falls for ‘Soft Light’, and the album enters its most tender stretch. Hwang returns to romance with a song that takes you back to the exciting uncertainty of those early dates. The slower tempo suits that recollection, giving his vocal more room and allowing the melody to gather around it. Guitars and synths appear with restraint, keeping the focus on the emotional storytelling of the song. Its gentler approach gives the album a needed pause before the final two songs widen the emotional frame once more.
‘Sun God’ removes the drums and places Hwang’s voice over a thumping grand piano with only minimal percussion for company. The reduced arrangement makes his vocal sound enormous. Each phrase rises into the open space, carrying a weight that a busier production might have softened. The piano supplies pure physical force, striking firm chords beneath a performance that feels close to devotional. He sounds assured here, trusting the melody and the tone of his delivery to hold the song together. ‘Sun God’ becomes one of the album’s boldest moments through the deliberate absence of its usual rhythmic machinery.
‘Promise’ closes the record by turning towards whatever Castlebeat becomes next. The synths have a different character from those heard across the previous nine songs, carrying a more futuristic tone that suggests the act of reflection has reached its natural end. Hwang’s echoed voice sits beside them as though the past and future have briefly occupied the same space. Make no mistake though, the song still belongs within the Castlebeat lexicon, while its details point beyond the anniversary idea that has guided the album. There is something satisfying about hearing Hwang finish a record concerned with memory by opening a new possibility. The closing moments feel deliberately unresolved, giving you the sense that this is a pause between chapters rather than a final statement. If the debut supplied the source material and CASTLEBEAT II provided the opportunity to reconsider it, ‘Promise’ sounds ready to step outside that conversation and begin another one.
Across these ten tracks, Josh Hwang revisits the instincts behind Castlebeat’s debut with affection, discipline and a decade of greater technical understanding. The familiar guitars and wistful vocals are still present, joined by stronger bass, carefully placed drums and synth arrangements that give each song its own setting. Nostalgia provides the record’s subject rather than its destination. Hwang looks closely at the music he made, the person he was and the audience who stayed curious during the years between these albums. You finish the record thinking about your own decade, the songs that followed you through it and the unfinished ideas you may still want to revisit. CASTLEBEAT II looks back with clear eyes, then leaves its final door open. The second chapter has arrived, and ‘Promise’ suggests the next one is already being written.
CASTLEBEAT II is out now via Spirit Goth Records. You can check it out over on the Spirit Goth Bandcamp page.
