Regulars of the blog will know I’ve been a passenger on the good ship Korb for a while now, and every time Alec Wood and Jonathan Parkes chart a new course, I know I’m in for a trip. Together we’ve flown across alien plains, drifted past cosmic temples, and chased mythic birds through the ether but Korb IV takes us somewhere else entirely. The vintage kosmische foundation is still here, but this time our compass points east, deep into jungles thrumming with life, neon-lit city streets, and sacred temples echoing with ritual. There’s Thai rock in the air, Eastern psychedelia in the haze, a touch of earth music grounding the voyage and a sly funk undercurrent that keeps the whole journey moving with an irresistible sway.
Let’s drop the needle and set off on another adventure with Korb.
From the first moments of ‘Procession’ we step into the humid air of a far-off ancient ritual outside a towering temple. The pacing is measured, and the synth tones feel alien and organic at the same time, it makes you feel part of something ageless and important. It’s a short opening, but it sets the tone.
‘Dream Chamber’ invites us inside the temple and its dimly lit with a space funk vibe emanating all around. It’s a languid almost sensual sound, wah guitars and a synth led groove. Heads are nodding and toes begin to tap. Shhh! I think its starting.
Exiting the temple into the sunlight the brilliantly titled ‘Om Nom Shiba’ kicks in like a street parade winding through a back alley. The beat is tight and compact, the melodies playful like catching glimpses of colour and sound as you dart between market stalls. Then we’re falling….
Landing in some dark tunnel we stumble on a ‘Psyonic Ceremony’. This one feels like a trance state; layers of texture coil around a steady pulse, and you can almost see flickering torchlight against carved stone. It’s a short passage, but it opens a door to something deeper. We stumble through the door into ……
A ‘Dance Ritual’! This is where Korb IV starts to move your body as much as your mind. This is pure space funk. Nimble bass, tight percussion, and a groove that locks in hard. It’s uplifting in a way only Korb could go for, and it’s impossible not to start moving. In my head, we’re in a sweaty Bangkok nightclub at 2am, walls vibrating, bodies swaying, everybody locked into the same cosmic rhythm.
‘Spirit Animal’ drops the lights low again, conjuring imagery of masks, feathers, and slow, deliberate movements around a fire. The funk is still there, but it’s buried in something more mysterious, more ritualistic. I love how there’s these moments where the song opens up like you’ve just danced into a patch of shimmering moonlight.
As we do our feet leave the ground. ‘Taking Flight’ does exactly what it says. You can feel the ground drop away as soaring melodic lines lift you up over the canopy. The wind rushes past, the jungle floor recedes, and the horizon opens up. This isn’t some rocket propelled flight. No, this is a gentle ascension
And then comes ‘Quadra’. The centrepiece of the album and one of Korb’s finest moments to date. It’s a long-form, funk-driven space exploration seen from the jungle floor. Motorik rhythm merged with deep groove, sunlight cutting through the leaves in golden shards. Every instrument feels alive and organic, as if the band are jamming with the forest itself. I cannot stress enough how good this track is.
After the soaring space flight ‘Magma Fields’ takes us to harsher terrain. Slow, molten and glistening synths suggest volcanic landscapes, heat shimmering in the distance. There’s a tension here, like crossing dangerous ground to that strange dark shape on the horizon. But, its not just a shape….
It’s an ‘Obsidian Temple’. It feels like stepping inside a vast, dark structure. Every note echoes, angular percussion clattering off the black walls, synths cutting through like shafts of light. It’s dramatic, reverent, and more than a little intimidating. The temple roof opens and we ascend once more.
‘Levitation’ is exactly that weightless, floating just above the treetops, carried by a gentle but insistent rhythm. There’s an ominous blissful quality to it, the sense of drifting wherever the wind takes you but not knowing exactly where that is. The congas set the pace and synth stabs colour our eyes and ears if only for a moment here and there. Before long the darkness starts to extend its reach.
‘Eclipse’ closes the journey. It’s brief but potent — a moment of stillness as the light fades and shadows stretch. The jungle quiets, the dance is over, and the stars begin to reclaim the sky. The synths play long and slow undulating drone notes. Forever embedding the memories of this journey until next time.
What makes Korb IV so special is how it blurs its influences into one seamless, sensorial trip. The kosmische backbone remains, but it’s fleshed out with heat, colour, and movement from far beyond the European tradition. It’s the sound of cultures bleeding into each other in the best possible way.
Korb IV picks up the analogue baton and bolts into new terrain, where motorik highways twist through Eastern temples, and Thai rock ghost-riffs flicker across desert skies. This is head music rooted in the soil. Sun-cracked funk rhythms, space rock textures, and smoky melodies that bloom like incense in the air. Synths shimmer like heat mirages. Guitar’s drone and chime with hypnotic insistence. Basslines slink low, nodding toward crate-dug funk while Moog and synth lines swirl in a cosmic dance. It’s the sound of a space station growing wild with vines, a journey across psychic terrain and forgotten cultures, all imagined through reel-to-reel dreams and valve-warmed gear.
If you’ve travelled with Korb before, this will feel both familiar and thrillingly new. If you’re boarding for the first time, Korb IV is as good a place as any to start your voyage. Just be warned, you might not want to come back.
Glasgow’s Escape Goats don’t hang around. Formed in early 2024, they’ve already built a name for themselves off the back of blistering live sets and sharp, self-assured recordings. Their members who are Andrew Shepherd (bass), John McLinden (guitar and vocals), and Adam Parker (drums and vocals) bring a lot of experience from their past lives in bands like MEMES and Make Sparks with them, but Escape Goats is very much its own new beast entirely.
They’ve landed BBC Introducing support, caught the ears at Fresh on the Net, and earned a feature from the Unsigned Guide. Just weeks ago, they opened for Glasgow cult heroes Sluts of Trust. And now, with debut album plans well underway, they’ve dropped something short and immediate to tide us over.
‘Rompecabezas’ is their new single. Three minutes of sharp corners, fractured thoughts, and jagged melody. It’s messy in all the right ways. At its core, ‘Rompecabezas’ (Spanish for ‘puzzle’) explores themes of inner conflict and the struggle for clarity. The title itself hints at the complexity within, fittingly reflecting the song’s lyrical depth and musical arrangement. Shepherd’s bass work anchors the track with a driving rhythm, while McLinden’s angular guitar riffs cut through the mix with precision. Adam Parker’s drumming adds a powerful backbone, propelling the song forward with relentless energy.
Lyrically, McLinden navigates through a labyrinth of emotions, using double meanings and pseudowords to convey the tumultuous journey of self-discovery. A sense of introspection, inviting listeners to reflect on their own inner puzzles. The contrast of the almost spoken (shouted) verses to the melodic drift of the chorus is sublime.
As the band gears up for their self-produced and self-funded debut album, slated for later this year, ‘Rompecabezas’ serves as a tantalizing preview of what’s to come. It not only showcases Escape Goats’ musical prowess but also sets a high bar for their future endeavours.
‘Rompecabezas’ is out on all your favourite streaming platforms on Friday 8 August. Make sure you give the band a follow over on the Escape Goats Bandcamp Page.
You can follow Escape Goats on social media here ….
I came to this one late. For all the hours I spend digging through Bandcamp tags and dusty blog archives, Highspire somehow slipped through my net. I’d seen the name mentioned numerous times online. But Crushed is the first album of theirs I’ve properly sat down with (Thanks Rob). And now I’m kicking myself for not tuning in sooner.
I had to investigate further. They formed back in the late 90s, with their debut Your Everything arriving in 2004 on Clairecords. From what I can see that record became a staple on early shoegaze forums. KEXP even listed it in their top ten of the year. A second album, Aquatic, landed in 2010. Then silence. Until now. Fifteen years later, Highspire have returned. And Crushed doesn’t just feel like a comeback. It feels like a statement. The kind a band makes when they know exactly who they are and don’t feel the need to explain it.
Highspire feature a new lineup which includes Laura Watling (Tears Run Rings, The Autocollants), John Loring (Fleeting Joys), drummer Kory Gable, and original drummer Guyton Sanders. Loring also handled mixing and mastering duties, and you can hear the care in every second.
This record grabbed me right from the start. Here’s why.
The album opens with the title track. Full of early 90s flavour, the looped sample hooks us in before the guitars erupt. There’s a sense of build from the first second. That warped sample feels like a memory trying to surface, and just as you start to settle into it, the track blows wide open. The guitars are thick, layered, pushing the air around them. Aggressive and insistent. The vocals arrive quietly, buried just deep enough to feel ghosted. It’s more of a presence than a statement. There’s something fractured in the delivery. As the track rolls on, you notice how tightly it’s been constructed. There’s a looping quality to the rhythm section, locking into repetition without becoming static. Everything feels like it’s leaning forward It’s a clever opener. Coming out swinging, Highspire draw you in with atmosphere and unease.
Beaming in on a fractured laser comes ‘Gloria’. Mean and moody through the instrumental passages, it lightens up with some jangle pop vibes in the vocal-driven sections. The intro is jagged, spitting shards of distortion in short bursts. The drums hit a little harder here too, giving the track a punchier backbone. There’s a bitterness in the way it moves, something slightly off-kilter and wired.
Then the vocals arrive and everything shifts. Suddenly it feels like a different track. Bright chords jangle underneath, the rhythm loosens, and there’s space to breathe. It doesn’t quite become cheerful, but the clouds’ part just enough to let the light in. The harmonies bring a soft, melodic lift that makes the whole thing feel momentarily weightless What’s clever here is how those two moods play off each other. The verses and instrumental breaks keep dragging the song into darker territory, but the vocals keep fighting for some kind of beauty. It’s a tug-of-war that never resolves, and that tension makes it stick.
‘Ghosts Forever’ doesn’t so much come in but slowly appears. The haze of stacked guitars gives way to a bright keyboard riff that in turn ushers in the vocals. It’s a slow reveal. The track arrives like a figure in the distance, edges blurred, gradually sharpening into focus. The guitars are thick and clouded at first, layered into a soft wall. But they never smother. Instead, they serve as a warm bed for that bright, chiming keyboard line to slip through. It’s subtle but striking. Highspire know exactly when to pull focus. Then come the vocals, and the whole thing lifts. This is where the band’s melodic instincts really shine. There’s a kind of careful sadness in the delivery, not overplayed, just gently felt. The harmonies feel close, like they’re being sung just for you. No theatrics, no drama. Just melody, laid bare and sincere. What’s special about this track is how light it feels despite the density of the sound. It carries emotional weight but moves with a softness.
There’s something triumphant about the intro to ‘She Talks in Maybes’. It starts with this quiet confidence. The opening chords feel bigger, brighter, like the track’s lifting its head up after a long stretch of staring at the ground. The synth line chimes gently in the background, adding sparkle without overpowering the mix. It’s subtle, but it creates this sense of uplift before a single word is sung. Then the vocals enter and mirror that mood. There’s a sweetness to the melody, but it’s never syrupy. It feels hopeful, but measured. The phrasing is careful. You can hear the hesitation baked into the title. Someone caught between what they want to say and what they actually manage to get out. The drums are loose and unfussy, giving the track enough room to breathe. It’s not rushed. Every element is given its space. The guitars wrap around the vocal lines without cluttering them. There’s an emotional clarity here that really lands.
Keeping us on our toes next is ‘You Don’t Think You Matter’. The band lean into a more jangle pop sound here with a result that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Primitives album. There’s a spring in its step from the very first bar. The drums are crisp, the guitars tight and chiming. Everything feels dialled in and sharpened. It’s the most immediate track so far, both in tempo and tone. That jangle pop flavour cuts through the mix with clarity, giving the record a refreshing shift just when it needs it. But listen closely and you’ll find that the lyrical content is at odds with the shimmer. There’s a sadness threaded through the lines. It’s delivered in a plainspoken way that makes it even more affecting. No embellishment. Just a quiet confession that hits hard when it lands. The chorus arrives quickly and doesn’t overstay. It’s lean, melodic, and catchy without trying to be. The kind of hook that sneaks up on you. The harmonies are particularly sharp here, lifting the vocal line while adding just a hint of melancholy beneath the surface. There’s no fat on this one. It says what it needs to say, makes you feel it, and then it’s gone.
I’m immediately sucked into the pulsing and pounding sound of ‘Trixster’. This has some real old school shoegaze appeal and wouldn’t have sounded out of place on an episode of Snub TV. The bassline is the first thing that grabs me. It throbs with purpose, anchoring the whole track while everything else spirals around it. The drums hit with a force that feels physical. There’s a live, almost chaotic energy pulsing through the mix, like the track could fall apart at any second but somehow never does. The guitars are wild here. They’re not there to soothe or shimmer. They’re jagged, buzzing, restless like static. There’s a deliberate rawness to the tone that gives it real bite. It’s fuzzy, fast and just on the edge of being too much, which makes it all the more thrilling. Vocals feel like they’ve been caught in a whirlwind all swallowed into the storm and pushed back out. They’re distorted, warped at the edges, but never fully lost. That tension between clarity and noise is exactly what gives the track its bite.
‘Only Malice Haunts You’ is a track that is led by its vocal melody, and you can almost hear the guitars in particular making way for that uplifting mood to penetrate. This one feels more open, more exposed. The production leaves space around the vocal, letting it breathe. That choice pays off. The melody rises with real intent, and instead of being buried in layers of sound, it sits front and centre. It’s a shift in dynamic that lands beautifully. There’s something almost tender in the way it unfolds.
The guitars are still very much present, but they’re less dominant. They hover, they shimmer, they underline rather than lead. It’s as if they’ve stepped back, content to frame rather than fight for attention. That restraint adds to the emotional weight. It feels like everyone involved knew what the track needed and let it happen. There’s a sense of letting go threaded through the melody. The way the chorus lifts gives the impression of someone finally saying what they needed to say.
Next, we float up into ‘Blackened Skies’. The guitars reconfigure and dress themselves in dream pop colours that shimmer rather than burn. It’s a graceful shift. After the tightly wound pulse of the last few tracks, this one opens like a slow breath. The pace relaxes and the textures smooth out. The guitars feel lighter here, still layered, still rich, but more luminous. They don’t push forward; they glow in place. The drumming keeps things grounded. There’s a steady pulse, nothing flashy, just enough drive to stop the track from drifting too far into the clouds. The vocals are hushed and distant again, but this time they feel comforting rather than withdrawn. The melody is gentle, almost conversational, and the lyrics come across like fragments of memory. This one lingers in a different way. There’s a warmth in its restraint, and the details keep revealing themselves with each repeat listen. One of the more subtle moments on the album, but also one of the most rewarding.
‘You’re So High’ has an immediacy that we haven’t heard as yet. It feels like a pop song that has slipped on a shoegaze shroud. Right from the first bar, it feels direct. The hook comes early and it sticks. The vocal melody is clean and confident, standing tall over a bed of thick guitars that buzz without swallowing the song. There’s a clarity here that gives the track a different kind of energy—less haze, more shape. Underneath the fuzz, there’s a real pop sensibility driving everything. The chord progression is simple but effective, the chorus lands on the first listen, and there’s a structure to it that feels classic. It’s compact and hook-laden, but still wears that shoegaze texture proudly, softened edges, woozy layers and gauzy transitions. The title might suggest euphoria, but the delivery hints at disconnection. Admiration mixed with a dose of quiet frustration. It’s all delivered with a smile, but you can sense the emotional static underneath. It’s the most accessible track here. A gateway moment for anyone new to the band. And yet, it still fits perfectly in the wider arc of the album. Shoegaze with a sugar rush.
The album comes to a close with ‘Nautilus’ and what a closer it is. That chorus! Just wow. This is a track designed to get you right in the feels and it’s deadly effective. There’s a slow build to this one. The intro stretches out, unhurried, with soft synths and patient drumming laying down the atmosphere. The guitars are dialled back at first, used more like colour washes than lead instruments. It feels like a reset—like the band are taking one last deep breath before letting it all out. Then the chorus hits. It’s huge, but not in a showy way. The vocal melody lifts everything with a kind of wounded optimism. There’s real emotional pull here. You feel it in your chest. It’s the kind of moment that stops you mid-thought. Everything around it seems to drop away and all you’re left with is that voice, and that feeling. There’s no clutter. No overthinking. Just a direct hit to the heart. As the track drifts out, it doesn’t feel like it’s ending. It feels like it’s dissolving. Fading gently into the air rather than finishing with a full stop. A perfect exit. Not grand, not dramatic, but deeply affecting. They saved their most emotionally resonant moment for last.
This is a band fully in command of their sound. They’re not chasing trends or revisiting old glories. They’re building from the inside out. Crushed doesn’t frontload its best material or overplay its hand. It unfolds in waves. From the sample-driven haze of the opener to the crushing emotional clarity of ‘Nautilus’, every track earns its place. Each song brings a distinct mood, a different shade, a new emotional angle. Some are slow burns. Some hit instantly. All of them stick.
The sequencing is sharp. The textures shift and evolve without ever losing the thread. You get jagged energy in ‘Trixster’, gentle uplift in ‘Only Malice Haunts You’, and that pop-leaning sweetness wrapped in static on ‘You’re So High’. But through it all, the band never drop their focus. The mix never loses its depth. The feeling never fades. I came into Crushed with no history, no nostalgia, no expectations. But by the end, it felt like something I’d been waiting for without realising it. This is the kind of album that sends you straight into the back catalogue. I’ve already started digging through Your Everything and Aquatic and finding so many threads that lead straight here. If you’re new to Highspire too, don’t worry. Crushed is a perfect place to start. It doesn’t just mark a return for me; it marks a high point.
Jenn Wasner has never been one to overexplain. Whether fronting Wye Oak, stepping into collaborations with Bon Iver or Sylvan Esso, or working alone under the Flock of Dimes banner, she’s always trusted that the real stuff finds its way through. The feeling. The ache. The shade between the words. With her new single ‘Long After Midnight’, she clears the path completely. No synths. No studio tricks. Just her voice, her guitar, and the kind of honesty that makes you stop what you’re doing.
‘Long After Midnight’ opens with nothing but fingerpicked acoustic guitar and Wasner’s voice, dry and close. No polish. No distance. It’s intimate without being confessional. There’s a lived-in quality to it. You’re not watching a performance. You’re eavesdropping on someone working it out in real time.
Her delivery is deliberate. The lines hang heavy. She sings, “If you call me, I would answer
I’m the last line of defence,” and lets the silence do the rest. That restraint is the song’s greatest strength. It doesn’t climb. It doesn’t swell. It stays grounded in the quiet tension between the notes. Then, just when you start to forget you’re listening to a studio recording, upright bass and restrained drums slide gently in underneath. Steel guitar follows, soft and almost ghostlike. The arrangement never takes the spotlight. It simply fills in the space.
There’s no facade left. ‘Long After Midnight’ reads like a conversation she’s been having with herself for years. She’s not reaching for clarity. She’s not drawing conclusions. She’s sitting in the mess, calmly taking stock.
Even the video leans into this stillness. A single take. No cuts. No distractions. Just Wasner moving slowly through a room, lost in thought. Directed by Spence Kelly, it’s the perfect visual match — unfussy, but full of feeling.
This single doesn’t rely on production to carry the emotion. It trusts the song. It trusts the listener. That quiet confidence is what makes it land. Flock of Dimes is not trying to keep up with anyone else.
‘Long After Midnight’ is a beautifully restrained beginning to what looks like a deeply revealing chapter. If you’ve ever felt overwhelmed, unmoored, or simply unsure, this song is for you.
‘Long After Midnight’ is out now via Sub Pop Records and the album The Life You Save is up for pre order ahead of its October 10 release.
You can follow Flock of Dimes on social media here….
I’ve been obsessed with CASTLEBEAT for years. There’s something incredibly reassuring about the way Josh Hwang continues to carve out his own space in the indie world, one hazy groove at a time. Stereo was a real standout last year, an album full of sunny melodies and understated beauty. It felt like a fresh breeze through the Spirit Goth catalogue. Now he’s back with Revival, and it’s an even more confident, bolder step forward.
CASTLEBEAT has always been a bedroom project. That lo-fi touch is at the very core of what makes his music feel so personal. Every sound on Revival was tracked and mixed on a garage setup. You can hear the limitations and that’s the point. What makes it so addictive is how Hwang continues to refine his formula while refusing to polish the edges too much.
Revival is made up of a generous 16 tracks and moves at a brisk pace. Short songs, sparse arrangements, hooks that dig in quick. It’s effortless without ever sounding lazy. The reverb-drenched guitars are still here, the woozy synths too, but there’s a sharper bite to the rhythm sections and a heavier focus on vocals. There’s a feeling that Hwang is more present than ever before. He’s not hiding in the mix. He’s taking ownership of every word.
Let’s dive in and see what’s what.
‘Way Too Much’ opens the record in typical CASTLEBEAT fashion. A looping guitar phrase leads the way as a sleepy vocal settles in behind. It’s got that disaffected charm that fans will instantly recognise. What’s new here is how tight the structure is. This is a pop song through and through. No dead weight. No drifting.
‘Tonight’ follows and keeps the energy up. The tempo is quick and there’s a sense of movement baked into the production. It feels like a song you’d throw on when heading into the city for a night out. Synth leads sparkle in the background while the vocals land with that warm drawl he’s perfected.
The sun comes out on ‘Hat Trick’ next. The guitar tone here is divine. Soft and watery. There’s a touch of melancholy in the lyrics but the delivery is so lowkey it’s hard not to smile. You get the feeling Hwang enjoys playing with contrast like that. This is him at his most poppy and it’s an early stand out track for me.
‘Ivy League’ is another gem. A jangly, bouncy rhythm sits under a goth-tinged guitar line and heavily reverbed vocal. There’s something a little more biting here. The lyrics are a series of denials he sings, in a tone that says he’s over it. Yes. It’s a wee bit darker than usual but I’m here for it.
Keeping the pace moving along nicely ‘Call Me’ thickens the atmosphere. This one sounds like it was recorded through a fog. The vocals are layered and warped. It’s wistful and hypnotic. A classic example of how he uses texture to tell a story.
‘Lies’ leans into groove. The bassline is punchy and upfront. The guitars are more rhythmic than melodic here, giving it a funkier edge. Vocals have an 80’s electro vibe reminding me a little of Half Life era CASTLEBEAT. Confident and minimal.
‘Like A Dream’ does exactly what the title suggests. This is where the album floats into dreamy territory. There’s a laziness in the drum pattern that matches the lyrical theme. It’s a mood piece and it works perfectly in the middle of the record.
‘Heaven’ stands tall. The chorus is instant. His voice is buried slightly deeper in the mix again, like it’s echoing from another room. Guitars both glisten and bark where required. In that chorus though its like he flips a switch and his voice leaps to the front of the mix lifting the whole thing. Love that contrast.
‘Torn Up’ and ‘With You’ feel like siblings. Both are compact, tight, and emotional without leaning into sentimentality. The first is more direct. The second, more romantic. “With you, I’m sorry I can’t be here without you” is a simple line but in Hwang’s hands it carries a lot of weight.
‘Taking The Fall’ is raw. At just over two minutes it barely gets going before it ends, but that’s part of the charm. It feels like a demo in the best way. Just a riff, a beat, a vocal and a feeling. One of the most honest cuts here.
Then comes ‘Downtown’. A slower, sprawling piece. It runs over three and a half minutes and gives everything more room to breathe. There’s a nighttime vibe here that really hits. The synths pulse gently and the vocal melody is one of the strongest on the album.
‘Anymore’ is the shortest track and probably the most fragile. A lo-fi drum loop and a barely-there guitar figure are all that’s needed. “You’re a ghost in my head” The line hits like a gut punch. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment but one that sticks with me.
The title track, ‘Revival’, is the emotional core of the album. There’s a weight to it that sets it apart. Longer, more layered, and more dynamic than anything else here. The vocal is clearer and more exposed. You can feel the shift. It’s a turning point. Not just in the album, but maybe in CASTLEBEAT’s whole trajectory. It’s reflective and forward-looking at the same time.
‘1990’ is a sweet downshift. A nostalgic number that wouldn’t sound out of place on an old Spirit Goth sampler. Breathy vocals and a gentle sway to the instrumentation. It’s a palette cleanser that helps transition to the closer.
‘Never Seen Your Face’ wraps the album on a dreamy high. The vocals here feel different again. They’re not quite sad, but there’s distance. A longing. The guitar phrasing is simple and beautiful. A slow fade to black.
This isn’t a reinvention. Revival doesn’t try to shock or surprise. It’s not full of twists. It’s something better. It’s an artist learning how to say more with less. It’s Josh Hwang at his most direct, his most focused, and his most comfortable. He’s never chased trends. His sound has always been internal. Dream pop, indie rock, slacker pop—it’s all filtered through his own voice. And what a voice it is. Quiet, sure. But unmistakable. If Stereo was CASTLEBEAT smoothing out his sound, Revival is him learning how to wield it. CASTLEBEAT has given us another reason to stay tuned. And for fans like me, that’s everything.
Blankenberge are a band I have followed maybe not technically from the start but from the first album for sure. Formed in St Petersburg with Daniil Levshin (guitars and synths), Dmitriy Marakov (bass), Sergey Vorontsov (drums) and of course Yana Guselnikova (vocals) .
When Radiogaze landed, it felt like a revelation: a swirl of noise and melody that seemed to hover just out of reach. Guitars like rolling fog, and Guselnikova’s voice, soft yet strong, cutting through the haze. It wasn’t trying to impress; it just enveloped you. The beauty lay in that balance between distance and intimacy. Their second album More in 2019 felt bigger, more direct. The haze remained, but songs like ‘Right Now’ and ‘Look Around’ had hooks you could grab hold of. It was a record about emergence, about stepping forward while keeping the shimmer. It made them stand out among their peers, adding urgency without losing what made them special.
Then came Everything in 2021. A heavier, darker listen. The guitars weighed more, the drums struck harder, and the mood felt more reflective. It was as if the band were processing the world’s unease alongside their own. It was the sound of a gaze band wrestling with gravity.
Which brings us to Decisions. This record feels neither a reaction nor a departure. It feels like an acceptance. A band no longer asking what they should be, but simply being. Eight tracks that breathe, reflect and sometimes ache.
Let’s drop the needle and see where it takes us.
‘Now You Know’ opens quietly confident. It takes us a full minute before the guitar textures evolve and bloom into the song proper. Guitars shimmer like light caught on water, the bass warm and steady. Yana’s voice feels closer, almost as if she’s speaking rather than singing. It’s intimate without being fragile. A song about shared truths, perhaps, or moments of clarity that land softly rather than crashing in. It feels like the band have found the “epic” knob on their amps and turned it up to eleven. Blankenberge are back baby!!!
Up next is single ‘New Rules’. It opens with Marakov’s surefooted bass line circling gently, almost hesitant. Yana Guselnikova’s voice enters softly, clear but distant, carrying words that hint at distance rather than closeness. Guitars are very light touch until they need to erupt, and erupt they do with a new texture we haven’t heard thus far. Listening closely, you can hear echoes of Slowdive’s quieter moments, or the delicate weight of Cocteau Twins. But Blankenberge sound less like they’re chasing the past and more like they’re speaking from it. Their music has always felt oceanic, and this track feels like standing on the shoreline, watching something slip under the waves.
Following that ‘Too Many Voices’ really stands out. For me this feels like a song built from a career spanning toolkit of sound. A slow build, guitars layering a hook that they will return to again and again over a steady pulse. It carries both warmth and melancholy. The title hints at overwhelm, of struggling to hear your own thoughts. But it doesn’t feel defeated. Instead, it feels like acknowledgement, an acceptance that the noise is part of living. That acceptance is reflected in the euphoria of it’s second half. This is a song that goes for the feels and sticks the landing. Undoubtedly my stand out track.
‘Our Home Our Planet’ opens with a guitar line that circles back on itself, almost like a question repeated. The band have always felt connected to wider concerns, and this track feels both personal and shared. It’s neither protest nor lament. It’s a gentle reflection on belonging, on what it means to care for something bigger than yourself. Gently paced, balancing the epic with the sublime it’s a real treat for the ears.
‘Together’ opens with the contradictory sounds of fuzzed out bass, glow in the dark guitar and almost Motown drums. It’s a curious blend, warm, immediate and surprisingly tender. There’s a looseness in the rhythm that feels almost like a live take, as if the band wanted to preserve the feel of the room. Blankenberge have always had a gift for finding emotion in textures, but here they do it through restraint. The guitars drift upward in soft waves, never dominant, more like gentle suggestions than statements. There’s no urgency in how the song moves. It walks, not runs. Yana’s voice carries through the haze like a memory. Not reaching for resolution. Just letting the moment unfold.
That subtle pace continues into ‘Escape’ but the drums really step forward to frame the various sections of this song. I think this is as close to a pure pop song as we’ll get from Blankenberge. There’s structure here, clear rises and falls, and a forward motion that never feels hurried. The beat pulls everything along, guiding the song without overpowering it. What makes it feel pop, though, isn’t just the shape of the song. It’s the clarity. The vocals are more direct. The guitars still shimmer, but they’re used with more precision. Each phrase lands with intention. It’s still wrapped in their signature haze, but there’s a lightness that makes this track feel immediate.
‘There Was a Time’ slows things down again. Part tone poem, part ballad, it is designed for you to lay back, eyes closed and just let it wash over you. There’s no urgency here, no need to arrive anywhere. It’s a song that trusts the listener to stay still. The opening is sparse. A single guitar line drifts like a distant signal, not quite resolved. The space between notes becomes as important as the notes themselves. It’s a lesson in restraint. The bass and drums barely rise above a whisper. The whole thing sounds like it’s being remembered more than performed. As the song moves forward, subtle layers creep in reverb trails, background harmonies, the faintest swell in the mix. But it never tips over into drama. It stays grounded in that low light feeling. It holds its emotional centre right through to the last note.
‘Waiting for the Sun’ closes the record gently. It starts sparse, guitars like distant echoes, then gradually fills out. Instead of the super saturated crescendo we’re expecting, Blankenberge choose a gentler path. No walls of distortion. No final burst of noise. Just a slow and deliberate fade into stillness. The first few bars barely register as melody. They feel like the beginning of a thought, not yet formed. Yana’s vocals drift in as if carried on a breeze, unhurried, untethered. She sings as if the words might disappear as soon as they’re spoken. What’s remarkable here is how much feeling the band get out of doing so little. The chords are simple, the structure minimal, but the weight of the track builds quietly in the background. It grows not in volume, but in presence. There’s a subtle shift midway through, a deepening of tone, a thickening of the air and suddenly you realise how far you’ve travelled without noticing. There’s a quiet bravery in choosing to end this way. No fireworks. No swelling strings. Just a slow dissolve. The track fades as if it’s still going somewhere without us. As if the album hasn’t really ended, but simply stepped into another room.
Across Decisions, what stands out is the trust the band have in their sound. They aren’t racing toward the crescendo anymore. They’re letting songs arrive where they arrive, without pushing. The production feels warmer, closer, as if inviting us in rather than keeping us at arm’s length. It still sounds unmistakably like Blankenberge: lush guitars, airy vocals, a rhythm section that holds everything together. But there’s more space here, more patience. They’re not chasing the song’s peak; they’re exploring its valleys too. It feels deeply personal, yet widely relatable. The record asks quiet questions rather than shouting answers. Blankenberge have crafted something that feels both fragile and steady, grounded yet still willing to drift. It’s music that doesn’t demand attention but rewards it deeply. And in times when everything urges us to speak louder, Decisions gently reminds us to listen.
Decisions is out now via Automatic Music, Vinyl has long sold out on pre order but if you’re quick you can still grab a CD. Give the band a follow over on the Blankenberge Bandcamp Page.
Anyone who has heard The Cords play immediately knows one thing. This band is the real deal. That debut single, ‘Bo’s New Haircut’ paired with ‘Rather Not Stay’, hinted at something immediate, raw and quietly extraordinary. It wasn’t just the charm of it, though there was plenty, it was the sense that Eva and Grace Tedeschi were already operating at a level way beyond the usual debut curve. Their songs were short, sharp and disarmingly melodic.
Now they’re back with their new single ‘Fabulist’ and it confirms what many of us suspected. This band are going places.
‘Fabulist’ opens with that trademark Cords jangle. Loose and chiming, the guitar tone is all sparkle and spite. You get a crash of drums straight after, no soft introduction, no indulgent build. Just bang, we’re in. Grace’s drumming is locked and tight. Not flashy, just exactly what the song needs to move forward. It’s got the same kind of precision you hear in late-period Shop Assistants. Fast, clipped, and heart-skipping. Vocally, Eva has taken a step up here. There’s a clarity to the delivery. She sounds confident, like she knows this song will hit home.
And this is the real kicker. On the surface, ‘Fabulist’ is breezy and catchy. It’s got the same immediacy that made the debut so moreish. But it doesn’t take long to realise there’s a bigger agenda here. This is a takedown. A pointed refusal to let liars off the hook. The word fabulist itself carries weight. It’s not a word that crops up in many songs. It implies more than just deception, it’s about manipulation, fantasy, control. Politicians. Media figures. That kind of thing. But it’s written in such a way that it could be about anyone who spins their own truth.
What stands out most is how full this sounds for a duo. There’s no empty space. Grace’s drumming covers the ground a bass would usually take, and Eva fills the rest with those scratchy rhythm parts and flashes of melody. They’ve clearly worked at this and it pays off. You never feel like anything’s missing.
It would be easy to namecheck all the usual indiepop reference points, and yes, they’re there. The Primitives. Pains of Being Pure At Heart. A touch of Lush maybe. But The Cords are quickly becoming their own thing. The influences are clear, but they’re not clinging to them. They’re pushing forward. They’re part of that wave of young bands that understand the tradition but aren’t weighed down by it.
This is the first taste of their debut album and if the rest follows this lead, we’re in for something really special. You can hear it in the urgency. There’s no hesitation in this track. No second-guessing. Just a blast of smart, fizzing guitar pop that says exactly what it wants to say. Needless to say, I’ll be breaking down the eponymous debut album track by track right here before it releases in September.
Kombynat Robotron have been a band I’ve been meaning to check out for months now. Like minded psych heads have been singing their praises to me long enough now it’s time I treated my ears. It just so happens the band are getting set to release a new album, this seems like fate.
Since 2018, the amazingly names Kombynat Robotron have built something compelling: a steady, slow-burn rise from the basements of Kiel in Northern Germany to the festival stages of Europe. Over six albums on esteemed labels like Tonzonen, Cardinal Fuzz and Clostridium, they’ve pushed repetition, raw fuzz and sprawling jams into something that feels communal and alive. Anyone who’s seen them live knows those sets aren’t recitals. They’re living, breathing noise rituals built on instinct and risk.
As the band get set to release their new album AANK they are keen to make us aware that it doesn’t abandon that spirit. Instead, it wrestles it into something sharper. For the first time, they’ve embraced vocals and written songs rather than pure jams. That change didn’t happen overnight. According to the band, most tracks began as improvisations too good to let drift into the past. Over two years, they shaped them, tested them live, then finally recorded the album across a single weekend. They captured it live, all three musicians in one room, chasing the energy that’s always been at the heart of what they do.
The band promises that AANK sounds both heavier and more deliberate than anything before. The loose, spacey drift of earlier albums narrowed into a tighter, grittier sound.
Let’s drop the needle and see where it takes us.
Kicking the album off ‘Staub’ wastes no time announcing this new phase. The bass locks into a repetitive groove, drums crash forward and guitars pile distortion into thick, dusty layers. Vocals push through like a voice from a radio left on in another room, not leading, but haunting. The repetition doesn’t numb; it sharpens, creating a tension that feels ready to spill over. As the chorus blooms the riff quotient rises and, if you’re like me, the head banging begins in earnest. As openers go it doesn’t get stronger than this.
Up next ‘Morast’ digs in even deeper. Guitars scrape and swirl above a churning bass, the rhythm section driving forward without release. It feels murky, restless, like being pulled through thick water. Vocals peer through the void and make themselves known before being engulfed in cyclical guitars. Guitars that in the verses compliment and play of the bass line then veer off on their own path towards oblivion. The solos on display here could cut metal they’re that sharp. This utterly engulfing and all-consuming music and I’m here for it.
With a squall of feedback ‘Schnee’ slowly reveals itself. Bass pulses, drums casually pick out beats before settling on a direction just in time for towering guitars stabs to dominate the scene. It’s colder and more hypnotic. Vocal wails attempt to break through the maelstrom only to be sent packing by a riffstorm. This is proper intense listening and definitely not for the faint hearted.
It’s the title track next. ‘Aank’ steps away from the heavier fuzz of the surrounding tracks and offers something unexpected. Built around an acoustic guitar, it carries a quiet resolve rather than the restless churn heard elsewhere. Ebowed guitar lines weave gentle cries above the chords, sketching out a melody that feels fragile but determined. It’s a welcome palate cleanser, giving the album room to breathe before the noise returns. Rather than feeling out of place, it anchors the record reminding us that heaviness doesn’t always come from volume, but from mood and intent.
The calm disappears in moments as ‘Ikarus’ crashes in. Feedback shrieks, the bass growls, and we’re hurled headlong into a rush of speed and noise. It feels like the Kombynat are back on the autobahn, pedal down, locked into a groove that’s more pursuit than journey. Guitar’s shimmer and crash, drifting between soaring lines and sudden bursts of distortion. The repetition becomes a chase, each loop circling closer to something too bright to hold onto. It captures the spirit of its namesake perfectly: the heady thrill of ascent shadowed by the inevitability of the fall. Even as the noise threatens to smother everything, there’s the vocals, a call into the night, keeping it all just on the edge of collapse.
‘Unbehagen’ opens with an almost conversational moment, The lead guitar throws out a phrase, and the rest of the band answers back, building a dialogue that quickly becomes the spine of the track. When the full band kicks in, that exchange tightens into a stubborn, looping riff that drives everything forward. Vocals slip into the mix, adding colour rather than narrative, but the real tension plays out between the guitars and drums. The drums push, the guitars push back, and together they create a sense of unease that never fully breaks. It circles its own centre without ever breaking free, which makes the listening strangely gripping.
‘Sauerstoff’ features the most thrilling drumming on the album. There’s a wild precision to it — fast, intricate, and constantly shifting without ever losing the thread. It demands attention, and the bass rises to the challenge with a driving groove that locks in tightly but never plays it safe. Together they create a rhythm section that feels alive, like it’s making decisions in real time. Vocals are more prominent here, pushed up in the mix and delivered with urgency, almost like they’re being shouted into the void. They stretch skyward, full of desperation and defiance, only to dissolve back into the storm of sound. It’s a track that bristles with energy, refusing to settle, always pressing forward.
‘Finsternis’ brings everything to a close, but not quietly. It sinks into darkness with a fury the album had only hinted at until now. The guitars find their motorik groove early, tight, relentless, almost mechanical, and they don’t let go. The repetition is punishing but purposeful, creating a foundation that pulses with menace. Vocals start out almost playful, weaving through the verses with a casual tone that feels at odds with the tension underneath. But when the chorus arrives, they follow the lead of the guitars and erupt. It’s a sharp turn, shouted, fraying at the edges, and it drives the track into its most unrestrained moments. As the song spirals toward its final stretch, everything turns dense and overwhelming. There’s no fade-out or retreat. It barrels forward until there’s nothing left to give. A brutal, deliberate ending to an album that never once flinched.
Listening to AANK feels like standing in front of a machine built to shake itself apart, but somehow never quite doing so. It’s not a record chasing optimism. The themes of decay, loss of control, the friction of living in a world coming undone, sit quietly in the background, never overstated but always felt. What keeps it compelling is the balance. Structured songs born from jams, heaviness tempered by space, chaos always lurking but never fully unleashed. It feels honest, almost defiant. This is the sound of a band refusing to repeat themselves yet not forgetting what made them worth following.
Kombynat Robotron have turned instinct into something sharper, but without sanding off the raw edges that made them vital in the first place. AANK doesn’t promise hope. It offers something better: a stubborn, living sound that still moves, still breathes and still asks questions rather than answers them. Play it loud, let it surround you, and see what questions it asks you.
It’s wild to think how far No Joy have travelled to reach Bugland. Back in 2010, Jasamine White‑Gluz gave us Ghost Blonde, an album of snarling guitars and buried vocals that nailed the sweet spot between shoegaze haze and grunge punch. By the time Wait to Pleasure arrived in 2013, the fuzz had thickened and the songwriting felt sharper hinting at pop instincts under the noise.
Then came the left turns. More Faithful in 2015 dived even deeper into contrasts: crystalline guitars against bone‑rattling riffs. Motherhood in 2020 turned everything upside down. It swapped distortion walls for restless genre‑hopping, pulling in breakbeats, digital horns and near‑bubblegum hooks. White‑Gluz showed she could bend her sound without breaking it. All of this built the road to Bugland. It’s not a return to the old noise nor a complete departure. Instead, it’s something stranger and more intricate, a record that sits comfortably next to Boards of Canada, Autechre and yes, even the Stooges’ Fun House sax chaos.
Part of that evolution came through collaboration. White‑Gluz paired with Fire‑Toolz (Angel Marcloid), both having moved into wooded, secluded surroundings before recording. Marcloid was pretty clear on how she found the sessions.
“The collaboration really felt limitless. I didn’t have to adhere to a certain vision in a way that made me feel like I couldn’t be Fire-Toolz. I could easily relate to this album because Jasamine and I liked a lot of the same music, and I was able to be creative in ways that were freeing as if I was making my own album. “
They spent days cruising empty rural highways, listening to rough mixes, letting the music sink into new landscapes. That openness filters into every layer of Bugland. At moments it brushes shoegaze, then drifts into digital sprawl, then swerves into something weirder still. It feels personal yet playful, futuristic yet rooted in love for past textures.
Let’s drop the needle and wander through each track and see what secrets Bugland holds.
The album opens with ‘Garbage Dream House’ appearing like a slow‑moving fog. Digital textures ripple underneath guitars that flicker in and out of focus. White‑Gluz’s voice feels almost translucent, floating just above a pulse that never fully locks in. There’s a real sense of patience in all aspects of then production. Nothing’s rushed, everything breathes. It feels like stumbling on an abandoned neon sign flickering in the woods. Those “influence eggs” the band hinted at surface subtly: hints of Cocteau Twins sparkle and the ghost of early trip‑hop lurking in the background beats. The song really picks up intensity in that last section before resolving to digital orchestration and the artifacts that lead us into the title track.
‘Bugland’ steps forward with more muscle. Guitars bend around each other in warped shapes, refusing to settle into clean chords. There’s something almost playful in how White‑Gluz lets melodies fragment then reappear. The low-end rumbles in a way that’s physical without being heavy. Listening closely, you hear little synth details darting in the corners, adding an anxious energy. The tension never fully resolves, it just coils tighter until the track fades out, unresolved but magnetic.
‘Bits’ bursts open as a euphoric slice of shoegaze pop wrapped in a trip hop blanket and flung through the internet at high speed and low resolution. There’s an instant charge — guitars shimmer in pixelated arcs, while stuttering beats rattle underneath. That pop‑leaning energy doesn’t hold for long though. Midway, the track softens into something closer to an eighties ballad, where synth lines glow and White‑Gluz’s vocals slip into a gentler, more reflective register. Just when it feels settled, the heavy guitar textures roar back in, pulling everything out of that dream and dropping us right back into noise and rush. It’s that tug‑of‑war between calm and chaos that makes ‘Bits’ stick, always moving, always catching you off guard making this my album highlight.
A title that feels throwaway at first glance, but ‘Save the Lobsters’ is anything but. It starts almost skeletal, a dry beat, minimal bass before it blooms into subtle synth washes. White‑Gluz’s voice floats like it’s been beamed in from a different song entirely. It’s a reminder of her skill at making contrasts feel seamless: hard edges against soft melodies, synthetic sounds brushing up against organic ones. It’s catchy in its own crooked way, never settling into a proper chorus but still lodging itself in your head.
‘My Crud Princess’ almost drifts into the territory of a traditional pop song (whatever that might mean in Bugland’s universe). There’s a clear verse‑chorus pull and a melody that feels instantly familiar. But it’s what surrounds that core that keeps it from feeling safe. Elongated, stretched‑out guitar notes float across the mix, bending and warping rather than settling into neat chords. The bass feels cavernous and drenched in effects, giving the track a woozy undercurrent that refuses to stay still. It’s recognisable but restless always hinting there’s something stranger lurking under the surface.
‘Bather in the Bloodcells’ leans right into that eighties pop aesthetic at first, with glossy synth textures and a melody that wouldn’t sound out of place on an old cassette single. It doesn’t stay there long though. The track snaps back into futuristic experimentation, twisting familiar shapes into something more unsettling. Goth flourishes haunt the bassline, giving it a brooding undercurrent, while the drums flirt with industrial motifs, all clatter and grit. It turns into a veritable smorgasbord of sounds both nostalgic and forward‑looking all at once, refusing to settle or explain itself.
Up next ‘I hate that I forget what you look like’ maintains that eclectic, fast and loose genre‑hopping style that Bugland wears so well. It’s simultaneously nineties indie, eighties new wave and futuristic space rock. Guitars chime with an almost jangly brightness, synths drift in like radio signals from another planet, and the rhythm section keeps everything grounded without ever feeling rigid. What’s wild is how it holds together, not just as an experiment but as something that feels fully formed. It shouldn’t make sense, yet it does. It doesn’t just sound coherent; it feels deliberate, confident and oddly complete.
The big closer and a proper sprawl of a song comes ‘Jelly Meadow Bright’. Seven minutes where all the record’s ideas come together. Saxophone lines tear across the mix while synth pads swirl around like spa music gone beautifully wrong. Fire‑Toolz’s presence adds glitchy textures and unexpected chord turns. What makes it special is how it never feels stitched together; it flows, shifts and mutates organically. It ends not with a climax but with a gentle release, as if the album exhales and drifts away.
Bugland feels like a record built from contradictions that somehow slot together perfectly. Grit and gloss, nostalgia and future shock, pop instinct and wild experimentation, all sharing the same space without stepping on each other’s toes. What stands out most is how fearless it feels. Jasamine White‑Gluz and Fire‑Toolz never seem to ask whether something fits a genre or a scene. Instead, they lean into curiosity, letting each song wander where it wants That restless spirit makes Bugland a fascinating place to visit. It’s an album that makes you stay alert, to catch the strange details hiding under the surface. You come away with the sense that No Joy’s journey is far from finished. Each release moves further out, peeling back more layers. And if this is where that road has taken them for now, it makes you wonder just how much further they’re willing to go.
There’s something endlessly fascinating about how Andrea Rubbio’s path winds through places and projects yet always circles back to the same restless creative core. With Geography of the Moon, Rubbio (aka Santa Pazienza) built something raw and thoughtful alongside Virginia Bones. Their debut album Fake Flowers Never Die set out a blueprint: psych rock, post punk, new wave and indie all fused under the banner of what they once called psychwave. The words mattered as much as the notes; each phrase delivered with a careful mix of spoken word and melody.
After returning to Glasgow for a spell — where Andrea’s family roots lie — the duo took to the road almost permanently. Over 450 gigs since lockdown lifted, taking them from Thailand to Indonesia, Japan and beyond. Those shows sharpened the edges of the band’s sound, but they also planted seeds for something different. That something different is Tired Panda.
Tired Panda is a solo project born out of hotel rooms, city alleys and long stretches of road where sleep blurs with thought. Here, the sitar steps forward, the beats sink deeper into trip hop and electronica, and the sense of place becomes even stronger. It isn’t just music made somewhere; it’s music about movement, about letting the places you pass through leave their mark. Rubbio’s move from the rainy familiarity of Glasgow to the humid streets of Thailand cracked open a new palette. Where Geography of the Moon leans into the dance of the guitar melody and lyrical push-pull, Tired Panda drifts, loops and meditates. Yet both projects share that quiet confidence: the belief that imperfections are worth keeping, that songs should sound lived in rather than polished.
After giving us a taster with the Indian Tales EP at the start of the year Rubbio has delivered us his debut album, Voyage.
Let’s dive in and see where each track takes us.
We are straight in with ‘Den Yllek’. Right away you’re caught by that eastern vibe looping around a slow, heavy beat. The title itself feels like a code you’re invited to crack. Everything moves in slow circles, snatches of reversed textures, delayed percussion, bass that slides rather than walks. There’s no drop, no climax, just a steady draw into Tired Panda’s world.
Next up ‘Shambala Blues’ is dusty and loose. It sounds like it was tracked straight to tape late at night, under a wide-open sky. Hints of shoegaze style chords, the walking bass notes and the sitar threading through like a ghost melody. What really strikes you though is the restraint. The track holds back, always on the edge of fully forming. That restraint is what makes it feel alive.
‘The Last Radio Station’ arrives. There’s a lazy swing to this one that instantly calls back to those late 90s beats. Think Alabama 3 if they packed up the drum machine and took a cheap flight to Bangkok. The rhythm shuffles and stomps, built from vinyl crackle, half-heard samples and sitar runs that drift in like stray thoughts. Ultimately it feels handmade, dusty, and quietly hypnotic, but all the more real for it.
‘Ghosts of Phnom Penh’ drifts between two worlds. Miss Sarawan’s vocal feels ancient, carrying the weight of old stories in every note. Then come these bursts of noisy, almost abrasive guitar that cut through like passing traffic in a quiet temple courtyard. The sitar weaves gently underneath, never fighting for space, just adding colour around the edges. What keeps it compelling is that contrast: the softness of the vocal against the raw scrape of the guitar, modern noise crashing into something timeless. It doesn’t settle, and that’s exactly why it lingers. I keep coming back to how it feels simultaneously ancient and modern, a quality Rubbio capture’s well.
‘From Brian’s to Mumbai’ is built around a slow, plodding beat that feels like tired footsteps on a winding mountain path. The sitar stays patient, playing sparse notes that seem to pause and look around rather than rush ahead. Underneath, gentle drone and busy tabla give the track quiet momentum without forcing it forward. The title hints at humour, but the sound feels reflective. It is less about reaching a destination and more about each careful step along the way.
‘God am I Awake?’ stands out right away because of Darthreider’s vocal approach. He raps in Japanese, words tumbling over each other in loose, conversational bursts, then slips into English almost mid-thought once or twice. The switch is really clever. I t keeps you leaning in, wanting to catch every syllable. Behind him, the track leans on a thick dub-style bassline, slow and deliberate, anchoring everything in low-end warmth. Then you get these unexpected shards of bright Thai pop guitar, sharp and sweet, almost dancing across the rhythm. The sitar sits out here, letting the vocal take the spotlight, but guitar is there in the spaces, colouring the beat rather than leading it. What makes it click is the contrast: Darthreider’s freestyle feels restless and fluid while the bass stays rooted, heavy and calm. It feels like listening to three cities at once, each part pulling in its own direction but somehow still travelling together.
‘Road to Gokarna’ feels like stepping off a side street and stumbling into an unexpected fairground, lights spinning and bells ringing in the warm night air. Then something shifts. You’re no longer standing still, the sound pulls you forward, like travelling through time and space on a slow drift. Field recordings blur with chimes and gentle drones until you find yourself on a Thai shore at midnight. The sitar plays soft, scattered notes, never telling a full story, just hinting at one. Above it all, a quiet sky full of stars seems to watch in silence, giving the piece a calm, unhurried magic.
‘The Night’ is nothing short of beautiful. At its heart this feels like post rock set adrift on an eastern excursion, swapping guitars for sitar and hand percussion. Mahesh Vinayakram’s vocal lifts the track into something quietly spellbinding. He moves between phrases so effortlessly, blending classical Indian ornamentation with freer, softer lines that feel almost improvised. Each passage brings a new texture, drawing you closer until you can almost feel the heat rising from the shoreline. What stays with you isn’t just the technique but the grace behind it, turning a simple arrangement into something quietly unforgettable. Easily my album highlight!
Built around a squelchy, restless guitar riff that never quite settles ‘Thin Line’ is always poking at the edges. The sitar answers with huge, spaced-out swells drenched in reverb, rising and falling like distant sirens. Underneath, tablas keep the time, not rushed, but insistent and quietly probing, almost asking where the track might go next. Just when you start to drift with the sitar, the guitars crash back in, crushing and chaotic, shaking you awake and pulling the track into rougher territory. It’s that sudden clash, calm sitar and restless, almost violent guitar and the big beat boutique drums that makes this track hit harder than it first appears.
‘The New Normal’ brings in someone deeply familiar for long-time listeners: Virginia Bones, Rubbio’s wife and creative partner from Geography of the Moon. Her voice doesn’t just add melody; it feels like a conversation, part spoken, part sung, always poetic and quietly observant. Every line feels carefully placed, giving the song a thoughtful, human heart. Beneath her words, a pulsing beat keeps the track moving forward while alien bleeps and bloops flicker in and out like stray signals. It’s a strange balance, kinda mechanical and intimate but do you know what, it works because Virginia’s delivery never tries to dominate. She drifts just above the beat, letting the music breathe around her words. That’s her gift. To sound thoughtful without sounding forced, to speak softly and still be heard above everything else.
On ‘What You Do At Night’ the sound shifts from sitar to sarod, inviting Arnab Bhattacharya, a true master of the instrument, to take the lead. His playing carries the track into a transcendental musical journey. The sarod’s rich, resonant tones weave through the slow, steady pulse of the beat and the intricate rhythms of the tablas. It feels like drifting through soundscapes that blend tradition with a hypnotic modern groove. Bhattacharya’s touch brings a deep sense of calm and focus, anchoring the track while opening space for the music to breathe and unfold.
The album closes with ’45 a Round’, anchored by the gravelly voice of Cove Aaronoff, known from Phnom Penh’s originals scene with Japan Guitar Shop. His vocals bring a raw, smoky edge that immediately sets a sultry mood. The track unfolds slowly, gliding with a relaxed, almost lazy rhythm that pulls you in gently. Then, just when you’re settled into that groove, it erupts with massive, crashing guitar chords in the choruses. Those moments feel like a release of pent-up energy, adding weight and drama to the song’s laid-back foundation. The contrast between Cove’s intimate delivery and the powerful instrumentation makes the closing track linger long after it ends, leaving you with a sense of both warmth and drama.
Voyage is exactly what the name promises: a record about movement, both physical and emotional. There are no easy anthems here, no forced climaxes, just a steady, thoughtful drift across moods, textures and cities. It feels less like a collection of songs and more like one long breath held between multiple continents. A record that opens its palms rather than closes its fists. If you give it time, it slowly reveals where it’s come from and where it wants to go. It’s the sound of someone letting the world in, track by track. Right now, that feels so much more important than anything else.
Static Sounds Club 