One thing I love about the shoegaze scene is that if a new band appears that are absolutely nailing it then you’ll find out about them in no time. Everyone is so supportive and keen to share their latest discoveries. And so it was that I found Everything Else via a number of shoegaze pals. The fact that so many of my trusted sources were shouting about this album led me to placing a blind order for the vinyl, without ever hearing it. As expected, they weren’t wrong.
Everything Else are two childhood friends from Liverpool who’ve been playing together since they were six. By nineteen, they’d holed up and made this debut album for Big Potato Records with nothing but guitars, pedals, and an instinctive connection that’s impossible to fake. The label kept their promise to release it exactly as captured, no tinkering, no studio gloss. That decision matters, because what you get here isn’t polished perfection. It’s the sound of youth at full tilt, reaching for something epic from a bedroom floor. You hear traces of The Cure’s icy grandeur, Echo & The Bunnymen’s shadowed anthems, Flying Saucer Attack’s haze. But mostly, you hear two people trying to put the confusion and wonder of their nineteen years into noise.
Let’s drop the needle and see where this album takes us.
Kicking things off ‘Deep Mind’ sets the scene. The guitars are reverb drenched, tumbling over each other in waves, with a rhythm section that sits quietly at the back letting the guitars wash over them. It’s a gentle opener but already you can gauge the level these two lads are working at. There’s a nuance at play that belies their tender years. Wow, what is to come.
That bleeds straight into ‘Two Monkeys’, the track that first introduced them. Distortion thick enough to rattle windows, but inside it sits a melody that twists and clings like an echo of some lost nursery rhyme. The rough edges are the whole point. It’s the sort of fuzz that feels alive, messy, human. You can imagine them cranking the fuzz pedal too far in a rehearsal room and deciding, yes, that’s it, leave it.
‘Every Word Said’ brings a shift. The guitar lines get brighter, more intricate, and the song opens up into something closer to eighties goth pop, though still clouded by reverb. Vocals, now more up front in the mix, stretch into the sky, carrying a bittersweet weight. You can hear two friends locked in with each other, weaving something far bigger than their setting.
The title track is the centrepiece. ‘Another One Making Clouds’ feels like a storm rolling across the horizon. Layers stack until you almost lose your bearings, even though there’s no vocal it still maintains its humanity, fragile but steady, reminding you there’s a heart beating at the centre of the noise. The way it moves between heavy swells and quieter, breath-held moments recalls Flying Saucer Attack at their most engulfing. It feels like watching weather form and break apart.
From there, the record keeps shifting shades. ‘Hollow Surrounds’ has a darker pull, almost like something from C86 era Glasgow. Its slow and steady and even keeled start to finish. There’s something comforting about that.
‘Uncertain’ carries that restless teenage spirit, equal parts hope and frustration. There’s an ease about its pacing that feels like a walk through a city at night, streetlights flickering on puddles. Gone is a that even tempered approach and in comes a real dynamism. The bloom into that chorus is incredibly uplifting and life affirming.
‘Watch’ slows things down. The bass thumps like a heartbeat while guitars sway around it in looping arcs. You could lose yourself in this one, the way it hangs in mid-air, refusing to resolve. It’s a track that aches without saying much, which makes it hit even harder.
Then comes ‘So Long’, the shortest moment on the record. A two-and-a-half-minute sigh, like the band needed to step out of the fog and say something plain before diving back in. The guitars truly shimmer and glow on this one, warmth just oozes out the speakers.
And then the closer, ‘In Bed’. It’s intimate and woozy, the kind of song that feels like it was written at 3 a.m. with the lights off. The reverb folds in on itself, leaving just enough space for the listener to feel like they’re inside the room with them. If you’d told me this was a lost Slowdive single I wouldn’t have questioned you. It’s THAT good.
Across its nine tracks, Another One Making Clouds never loses that balance between scale and closeness. It sounds massive, but it always keeps you in the loop, like a secret being shared. That’s rare. Most records at this age shoot for volume and forget intimacy. Everything Else somehow caught both. Listening through, I kept flashing back to the bands I found as a teenager, the ones that made the world feel wider and stranger. This album carries that same charge. It doesn’t just speak to being nineteen. It bottles it. The confusion, the want, the weight of trying to understand yourself while everything around you shifts. They’ve managed to turn those feelings into sound. Another One Making Clouds is the kind of debut that will make you believe in albums again. It takes the noise, the haze, the shadows, and turns them into something you can hold onto. A record made by two friends who trusted their instincts, and in doing so created a world worth getting lost in.
Another One Making Clouds is out now on vinyl and CD via Big Potato Records.
You can follow Everything Else on social media here…
Spaceface have been around since 2012, carrying that lysergic sparkle through sunny song writing but shaping it into something sleeker, funkier, and unapologetically fun. Their debut Sun Kids leaned heavy into dreamy psychedelia. Following that Anemoia chased wistful nostalgia and left listeners in a daze of earworms and soft-focus bliss. They’ve toured relentlessly, throwing kaleidoscopic light shows, pulling weird props onto the stage, and always leaning into the joy. Over the years, they’ve traded verses and riffs with a who’s who of left-field pop friends, and now they are presenting us with yet another gem. Lunar Manor feels like the band finding their sweet spot, part disco ball, part bedroom window, part cosmic confessional.
The band is led by singer-songwriters Jake Ingalls, fresh from his years with The Flaming Lips, and Eric Martin, a long-time creative partner in the project. On stage they’re joined by Marina Aguerre of Teal Pop on bass and Garet Powell of Double Wish on drums, the four of them locking into grooves that teeter between woozy dream pop and sweaty disco. Across twelve years they’ve become known as much for their wild light shows and offbeat stage props as their knack for melodies that hang in your head for days.
The band have this to say about the album.
“Lunar Manor is a collection of songs written over many years, there are love songs, party songs, existential tunes all shuffled together. These are sincere attempts to make you and us feel good amidst the ever-shifting chaos of the world.”
Let’s not hang about, it’s time to drop the needle and take a trip!
The album opens with ‘Be Here Forever’, a woozy cruiser that glides like Burt Bacharach refracted through a sci-fi lens. It’s the kind of track that makes you slow your walk to match its sunny tempo, maybe even loop an extra block because you don’t want it to end. The lyrics sinks in like warm sunlight. There’s no rush, no big drama, just a reminder to hold still and let the moment hum. It’s a luscious welcome to the album, a great bit musical hug.
Then the pace picks up. ‘Acceleration’ does exactly what the title promises. The synths flash, the bassline struts, and suddenly we’re on roller skates, spinning under disco lights. You can hear the band smiling inside the groove, riding that line between psychedelic swirl and full-on funk workout. It’s the first hint that Lunar Manor isn’t all starry-eyed floating, it wants your body moving too.
That mood spills into ‘Beach Within Reach’, a playful little sunbeam of a track. Theres a baroque charm, like stumbling barefoot across hot sand at some exclusive euro resort just to dive headfirst into the waves. It’s carefree but never lightweight. Spaceface always tuck depth beneath the shimmer, and here it’s the way nostalgia creeps in, reminding you that summers fade even when the memory doesn’t.
Then comes the first curveball. ‘IDKW2G’ is jagged and strange. There’s a restlessness beneath it, an anxiety that feels like late-night indecision. Do you stay out? Do you head home? The production gets more fragmented here, fractured beats colliding with dreamy synth washes. It’s a head trip, and it works.
‘I Never Learn’ follows like a relaxing exhale, pulling back into something more tender. Short and sweet it’s melancholy wrapped in psychedelic shimmer, the vocals, here simply another blissed out texture, floating just out of reach. Spaceface have always known how to sneak sadness into the funhouse, and this track aches in the best way. You feel the sting, but you’re happy to let it linger.
The playfulness returns on ‘Everything Is Money’. Here the satire cuts sharper, bouncing over funky riffs while poking fun at material obsession. The groove is infectious, but the message bites. It’s the kind of track that makes you dance even as you’re nodding in recognition.
Their cover of ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ arrives like a glitter bomb in the middle of the record. The Verve’s original is all grandiose melancholy. Spaceface flip it into something stranger, more neon and pulsating. The strings are replaced with synth waves, the rhythm looser, the atmosphere heavier on groove than solemnity. It shouldn’t work, but it does. You hear the familiar melody wrapped in disco-pop haze, and it feels like walking into a party where everyone knows the words. I’m going to be controversial here and say I prefer this version.
‘Look Into the Sky’ drifts softer, opening like a dream sequence. The vocals echo into the ether, drums marching against a background of synth stardust. They really have created another musical world. It’s a pop moment of cosmic reflection before the record pivots again.
‘All We Have’ pulls the threads together. It’s bittersweet but warm, reminding you of those fleeting nights where the laughter fades and suddenly you’re aware of how fragile everything feels. The lyrics sting but the groove keeps you swaying in time, a contradiction Spaceface nail time and again.
By the time ‘Watching You Watch the Moon’ hits, the album has become almost cinematic. The title alone feels like a scene from a 70s cult film, and the song leans into that voyeuristic romance. Slow grooves, echoing guitars, and a mood that feels like lying on a rooftop watching someone else’s moment of wonder. It’s gorgeous and wonderfully haunting.
The closer, ‘Wonder About You’, ties it all back to intimacy. After all the galactic glitter, the swirling funk, the dancefloor detours, Spaceface end on something soft and personal. It’s dreamy, yes, but grounded too. The record doesn’t vanish into space, it leaves you with a lingering thought, a quiet reflection, the sense that beneath all the spectacle they’re still just singing about connection.
Lunar Manor is a house you’ll want to keep coming back to. Every room glows differently. Some are full of mirrors and strobe lights. Some are cozy with candlelight and whispers. Together, it feels like Spaceface finally built the home they’ve been sketching since their earliest days. A place where you can dance, sigh, laugh, and get lost all at once.
Selkie has always been a work in progress. Always in flux, adapting and changing her sound to suit her mood, her surroundings. She has played pianos in Glasgow, recorded in Berlin bedrooms, and now performs regularly in Japan. She has just released her latest single, ‘Hours’ but this is no overnight process. Far from it
The track’s origins reach back to 2019. It began as a song about a long-distance relationship, holding equal parts hope and ache. When the pandemic shifted the way we all stayed connected, it took on a broader weight. Over time it was played live, reworked in collaboration with different musicians, and shaped in studios across continents. This final version distils every one of those experiences into something luminous.
‘Hours’ opens with layered vocals that draw you close. A glimmer of synths moves in slowly; each note placed with care. She sings, “I’ve seen this hour in a different light, I stretch across time.” The words feel suspended, as if the song is already bending the sense of time it describes. There is restraint in the first section with percussion kept at a distance, atmospheres left to drift and settle.
The second verse shifts the focus. “I’m just a tiny piece, but I’m a part of this, and over oceans I am waving.” It’s an image that sits quietly in your mind, speaking to the shared need for connection. The production begins to bloom here, gentle rhythms and new synth textures folding in without disturbing the stillness.
By the final section the song has expanded into a wide-open space. The emotional build is gradual but steady, each added layer deepening the warmth.
From my experience Selkie’s live performances have always been immersive and comforting. ‘Hours’ captures that intimacy but frames it with the precision of a studio work. It asks for quiet attention and rewards it with a lingering calm.
With ‘Hours’ Selkie shows the confidence to let a song take its time. Every moment feels considered. Every sound serves the atmosphere. It’s a work shaped by years of movement and change, yet it lands with the clarity of something that has found its true form. An EP is planned for later in the year. Based on this, it’s going to be essential listening.
‘Hours’ is released on August 23 2025 arriving as a limited cassette, featuring alternate acoustic, live and dub remix versions along with her own artwork. Make sure and follow her over on the Selkie Bandcamp Page.
You know that feeling when the world slows down for a second. The air thickens. Colours blur and shimmer in a way that makes you question if you’re awake or already dreaming. That’s exactly where The Stargazer Lilies music lives. The new release is less an album you listen to and more a place you drift into. Once you’re there, you don’t want to leave.
Kim Field and John Cep have been bending sound into strange and beautiful shapes for years. First with Soundpool, where they managed the unimaginable, disco and shoegaze colliding in a glitter-soaked blur. Now, they are The Stargazer Lilies, where their vision has turned denser, darker, and more intoxicating. They’ve always had a knack for making reverb feel alive, like it breathes in the spaces between the notes.
My first real encounter with The Stargazer Lilies was Occabot. That record floored me. Like a hidden portal opening up, where distortion wasn’t just a texture but a whole new terrain. I can still remember hitting play and sitting stunned, thinking how the hell have I missed this until now. That moment of discovery has never left me, and every release since has been a reminder of how deep their sound can run when you give yourself to it fully. Love Pedals pushes even further. It carries the same slow-burning magic but drenched in more weight, more atmosphere, more heart.
Let’s see what new worlds this album will take us to. Time to drop the needle.
The album begins with ‘Ambient Light’. It is both an opening and an invitation. Guitars stretch like molten glass, bending and sliding into strange shapes, while Field’s voice hovers, fragile but unyielding. This is a new sound for the band. Almost sludgy, driven by that busy bassline. Still unmistakably The Stargazer Lilies though. Theres no mistaking Ceps unique guitar style.
From there, ‘Love Radio Show’ breaks through with a pulse that feels warmer, looser. It’s hazy but alive, the kind of song that flickers between romance and menace depending on where your head is at. The guitar tones are sharper, cutting little slashes into the haze. The chorus doesn’t so much announce itself as it blooms suddenly, like headlights hitting fog. By the time the song settles into its hypnotic groove, you’re deep inside their world. Only two songs on and I’m in heaven here.
‘Perfect World’ pushes things further inward like some dissolving memory. The tempo is slow and steady but the sounds wash over you in waves, giving the sense of time stretching. There’s a sweetness buried beneath the fuzz, it seduces while leaving you unsettled. This is the sound of the band taking that sound they created on Occabot and elevating it to new angelic highs and for that reason it has to be my album stand out track.
Then comes ‘By Your Side’, which feels like the closest thing to a ballad here, though of course nothing The Stargazer Lilies do is straightforward. The guitars cradle the vocal, not smother it, wrapping Field’s delivery in fuzz and haze. But through all that weight, the sentiment cuts clear. You feel the intimacy, the promise of connection, even if it’s delivered through layers of distortion. It’s claustrophobic and tender at once. How Cep simultaneously gets his guitars to sound like a choir and a space ship taking off is beyond me.
The midway point is marked by ‘Shining Yellow’, and the title says it all. It really does glow. The guitars chime brighter, the textures open up, and suddenly there’s space to breathe. After the heaviness of the first half, this track feels like stepping outside into sunlight after travelling through the night. The shoegaze wash is still there, but it’s tinted with a psychedelic summer shimmer that gives it lift. It’s a real trick to create these new moods and textures but you know your still in The Stargazer Lilies world.
‘Heaven Knows’ turns the mood again. The low-end digs deeper, the guitars stretch into feedback-drenched delayed wails, and the track moves with a slower crawl. There’s resignation in it, but also beauty. The vocal melodies hover above the maelstrom like a flicker of hope refusing to be stamped out. The guitars hit in waves washing over you whilst the vocals anchor us in its wake. This is such a visceral listening experience.
Then the strangeness peaks with ‘Trans Med’. It feels more like a sound ritual than a song, with tones bending and breaking apart, percussion dissolving into the ether. It’s hypnotic, unsettling, and yet utterly compelling. You get the sense that they wanted to break the dream open here, let you see the seams of the world they’ve built. It’s the boldest cut on the album, the one where they stop hinting at psychedelia and just throw you into the deep end. This is lysergic at its most extreme. This song made me hear colours!
‘Hold Tight’ pulls things back into something more grounded, though only slightly. The rhythm feels like it’s dragging its feet, but there’s warmth in the way the melodies wrap around each other. After the chaos of ‘Trans Med’, it’s almost like a hand on your shoulder, a reminder that you’re still being carried through. The mood makes this feel like a lost track from The White Album that was excluded for being too out there. The chorus carries a sense of defiance, a whispered mantra to cling to connection even as everything else unravels. That guitar solo though. It utterly melts your brain. I have no idea how that is achieved.
The album closes with ‘Love Radio Show (Radio Edit)’. On the surface, it’s just a shorter version of the earlier track, but it works beautifully as a bookend. The repetition feels deliberate, like a dream you slip back into just before waking. The edit strips away some of the haze, leaving a sharper silhouette of the song. It’s a reminder of what you’ve passed through, but cleaner, brighter, as if the band wanted to leave you blinking in the morning light.
By the end of Love Pedals, you’re left in that strange half-place between exhaustion and renewal. The Stargazer Lilies have always blurred lines, between past and future, between shoegaze tradition and new territory, between intimacy and vastness. With this record, they lean fully into that, letting it define the experience. It’s music that consumes you, stretches you, leaves you disoriented in the best way. How do I feel about The Stargazer Lilies after listening to Love Pedals? I continue to be in awe of their creativeness, their ability to transport me into their records and completely consume me. How do I feel about them. I love em! If you’ve been looking for a record that makes the familiar feel uncanny, that takes the weight of shoegaze and bends it into strange new shapes, Love Pedals is it. Just don’t expect to stay the same once you step inside.
Space Waves have been sending ripples through shoegaze and psych rock for over fifteen years now. Formed by Kelley and Sarah Bourland in Oregon, they relocated to Long Beach in 2013. On & On is their eighth album, following Delusion Days in 2019. The band’s sound blends psych swirl, shoegaze drift, dream pop shimmer and the patience of slowcore. Drummer Brandon Werts rejoins after his sterling work on previous albums Night ’Til Day and Delusion Days. Phil Cobb takes up guitar duties for the first time on record, though he has been part of the live set for years. Tavis Werts guests on trumpet for the closing track, giving the finale an soulful glow.
The record moves between shadowed psych tones and moments of light. Recording was split between the bands home studio and the renowned Jazzcats Studio in Long Beach California. This has resulted in lending an open and immediate quality to some of the tracks. Conversely the vocals often feel submerged, as if coming from another room. Guitars bend, chime and shimmer while bass and drums give the songs quiet weight.
Let’s dive in and see where the album takes us.
‘Fall’ is a brooding opener built on dense guitars. Reverb lingers on each chord, creating a thick atmosphere. Vocals are restrained, almost whispered. It draws you into the mood and keeps you there. I love how the flashes of guitar in the chorus take me back to classic 60’s psychedelia but the rumbling verses drag us whooping and hollering back to the future. It’s a strong opener and locks you in for the ride.
‘Keep Away’ slips in with a descending chord pattern that almost makes you lean back and exhale. The lyrics feel like a quiet request; a personal bubble extended to the listener. The guitars loop steadily and patiently, and I found myself noticing every micro shift in the percussion. That steadiness in the guitar allows everything else to really shine. Great track and some very cool production choices too.
From there, ‘Folding Chair’ keeps that introspective energy but adds a touch of lightness. Guitars both vibrate like healing energy and scream into the ether. The mood is still reflective, but there’s space to breathe, to watch little details move in the background. It’s easy to get lost here, and I did, caught between the organ, swirling feedback and the thoughtful lyrics about finding calm in your own corner of the world.
Then ‘Repair’ arrives and slows everything down. It’s a ballad in waltz time, soft and elegant, with guitar slides that feel like silk brushing against skin. The chorus lands in a way that makes your chest lift, but quietly, subtly. You can almost imagine the band leaning into one another in the studio, letting the song find its shape naturally.
The energy shifts with ‘Something Spinning Fast Through Outer Space’. It’s playful and bright, bass running little laps beneath shimmering guitar lines. The lyric about an orange light flashing around jumps out, a moment of weird wonder drawn from a real-life experience in Portland. As someone who has also seen a UFO I totally get the band’s eyes wide open wonder spilling into the song. Incidentally the colour the band chose for their vinyl comes partly from a line in this song! See if you can spot it!
‘Creepy Creeps’ is brief but lively, the guitars flicking and bouncing with a mischievous energy. It reminds you the band can still be cheeky, playful even, after years of perfecting their introspective side. It sits perfectly after the cosmic swirl of the previous track, giving your ears a little shock of movement. This is about as immediate a pop song on the album there is. In the chorus you can imagine a 50’s girl group track swathed in fuzz. Love this!
By the time ‘Eyes Floating By’ rolls around, you’re totally immersed in this new world. Sparse and spacious, it hovers in the air like a quiet observation post above everything. The vocals pull you into this half-alien perspective that questions the human view of the world. It’s one of those songs that makes you tilt your head and wonder what it would feel like to float through space and still feel your heart thump in time with Earth below. The guitar cycles hypnotically swathed in reverb and static. Are these the last signals of a lost civilisation from across the cosmos?
The title track, ‘On & On’, feels like a walk you wish would never end. Guitars catch the glow of sunset, the lyrics painting pink and orange skylights. It carries the sense of being both observer and participant, and the experience feels cinematic yet intimate. It’s playful and reflective, bridging the album’s lighter and darker moments effortlessly. For me, this is the most psychedelic moment on the record and I get lost in the guitar jam each and every time.
Finally, ‘Stages’ stretches out like the closing scene of a film you didn’t want to end. Tavis Werts’ trumpet cleverly curls through the guitars like smoke in the twilight, and the vocals drift softly on top. It’s patient, calm, and leaves you feeling suspended, the way only a long, carefully constructed record can. There’s warmth and sadness intertwined, and the slow fade leaves a trace that lingers on your skin like a memory.
On & On moves like a stream through day and night, past quiet reflections and bursts of colour, all held together by the band’s decades of experience. Every track has a purpose, every pause matters. There’s an intimacy that makes you feel like you are wandering through their world, catching glimpses of moments you weren’t meant to see. Space Waves have crafted a record that invites you in and won’t let go, leaving you thinking about light, space, and the gentle turn of the world around you.
On & On is out now via Mindwave on stunning coloured vinyl and CD. Follow the band on the Space Waves Bandcamp page.
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a big shoegazer at heart. It’s my go to music and over the years I’ve really refined my taste in gaze to the heavier side of things. The mountains of fuzz wall of sound kinda gaze. You’ll understand why I was beaming ear to ear when I dropped the needle on Glares debut album Sunset Funeral for the first time.
Let’s pump the brakes here and just introduce the band to you. Glare are from Texas’s Lower Rio Grande Valley where heat seems to melt sightlines. They arrived quietly in 2017 with “Into Me” and “Blank” then gifted us the Heavenly EP in 2021. In April this year they dropped Sunset Funeral after teasing us with “Mourning Haze” back in August last year. Toni Ordaz sings and plays guitar. Cesar Izzy Izaguirre also plays guitar. Homero Solis anchors things on bass and Jes Morales drives the drums.
The bands promo tells us this about the album.
“Sunset Funeral, the band’s debut LP, is a fog of dreamy grief, where feeling supersedes language. It’s music, as guitarist Toni Ordaz puts it, “for people who don’t know how to talk about how they feel.” An album that’s been years in the making, Sunset Funeral is a document of unspeakable grief, charting the process of mourning and how it travels through our subconscious and dreams.”
This is going to be an emotional journey for sure, let’s get this on the turntable.
We kick off with the lead single ‘Mourning Haze’. What hits you immediately is a mood, a feeling. The guitars glide from grunged out fuzz to dreamy chimes. From the first second, you are in Glare’s world. The drums keep a steady, almost hypnotic pulse while bass hums low and constant, a dark river beneath the swirl. Vocals sit back in the mix, blurred just enough to make them feel like part of the weather rather than a separate element. Every chord change carries weight, not in a showy way but in how it subtly shifts your emotional footing. One moment you feel the grime under your fingernails, the next you’re staring into soft light breaking through cloud, almost like the waves of grief you feel.
‘Kiss the Sun’ next keeps that dynamic going, although this time it’s the vocals in the driving seat. The droning guitars support the melody rather than drive it. The vocal delivery is more forward here, gliding above the haze with a clarity that catches you off guard after the opener. The phrasing is unhurried, each line allowed to hang in the air before the next arrives. Guitars act almost like a backdrop rather than a focal point, a long-sustained shimmer that feels infinite. There’s a warmth to this track that contrasts with the opener’s grit. It still exists in that same heavy-gaze universe, but the emphasis shifts to how melody can cut through the density without breaking its spell.
We’re into ‘Saudade’ next and the fuzz curtain is pulled back to reveal a dreamier side of the bands sound in the intro. The opening is almost weightless, the guitars bright and airy, as if they’ve stepped into a room filled with light after two tracks spent in shadow. That is short lived. Within seconds the distortion swells, swallowing the edges and dragging us back into the thick of it. It’s a push and pull that feels deliberate, a reminder that moments of clarity can be fleeting when grief is the undercurrent. The vocal never rises to match the storm, which is what makes it so affecting. It’s the calm inside the chaos. It’s the balance of beauty and abrasion that makes ‘Saudade’ one of the record’s most quietly devastating moments.
That Philly edge shows again on ‘2 Soon 2 Tell’. The feedback squawks, like punctuation, pepper the chorus whilst the calm of the verses draws you in closer. There’s a rawness in the way the guitars spit and squeal between vocal lines, a reminder of Glare’s hardcore-adjacent roots. Those bursts of noise don’t dominate so much as accent the emotional spikes, giving the choruses a jagged frame. The verses, by contrast, are stripped back just enough to let the bass and drums carry the weight. The drumming is precise but never rigid, leaving space for the vocals to float across the top without losing momentum. It’s a clever bit of dynamic control. The track moves between restraint and release without feeling disjointed, and the moments of feedback almost act like a knowing wink to fans of heavier shoegaze in the Nothing or Whirr vein. You get that grit, but you also get melody and poise.
‘Chlorinehouse’ feels like what would happen if you merged a Cure and Nothing track. The guitars really dig in and bite but the bass has this ethereal quality that ultimately is the backbone of the whole song. The interplay is hypnotic. The guitar tones are sharp enough to cut through the mix, each chord landing with purpose, yet they’re wrapped in enough reverb to keep the edges from feeling harsh. Meanwhile, the bass is painting the atmosphere. The notes bloom and hang in the air, creating a ghostly undercurrent that the rest of the band builds on. There’s a sense of slow, deliberate movement here, as if each section is carefully considered before it arrives. By the end, you’re left in that sweet spot where heaviness and delicacy meet, unsure whether you want to come up for air or stay submerged.
We fade into a short tone poem next with ‘Felt’. Lots of reverse guitar tones over a gentle wash of static. It’s barely more than a minute, but it shifts the mood completely. The reversed notes feel like fragments of a dream playing backwards, moments you’re trying to remember but can’t quite hold onto. There’s no percussion, no obvious structure, just an atmosphere that lingers for a breath before dissolving. It’s gone quickly, but its ghost stays with you into the next track.
Next up is the smooth sound of ‘Nü Burn’. The fuzz has been dialled back here to allow the drums to really go to town. They take full advantage of the space, laying down a driving beat that gives the track an almost rolling momentum. It’s the most rhythm-forward moment so far, and that shift in focus changes the way the whole band feels. The guitars still shimmer and snarl in places, but they’re more restrained, leaving room for the percussion to push and pull at the pace. There’s still weight in the mix, but it’s carried differently. Instead of a wall of sound pressing in, ‘Nü Burn’ lets you ride on top of it, carried along by the steady drive of the drums. By the end, it feels less like an interlude and more like a turning point.
We feel like we are soaring next as ‘Turquoise Dreams’ blooms on the speakers. Rhythm guitar drives the song forward but it’s the vocals that dictate the tone. There’s a lift in the opening bars as the guitars lock into a fluid, almost wave-like motion. They keep the momentum going, but it’s the vocals that shapes the emotional weather. The interplay between guitar and vocal feels almost conversational. The instruments set the pace, and the voice colours in the mood, giving the track its soft, upward pull. By the time the song opens up in its final moments, you’re fully inside its turquoise haze!
‘Guts’ is centred around a killer vocal melody that is mirrored by a guitar line that fills in the spaces. It’s one of the album’s most immediate hooks, the kind that feels etched into your head after a single listen. The way the guitar shadows the vocal phrasing gives the song a tight cohesion, like the melody and instrumentation are breathing in unison. There’s a satisfying rub in the arrangement too. The rhythm section keeps things steady, almost understated, so that every shift in the guitar’s tone or vocal inflection lands with extra impact. The distortion here isn’t too dense, certainly not overpowering, letting the melody shine through without losing the record’s heavy-gaze character. The drums pound out an almost hypnotic beat at times taking full advantage of the gaps to bring something really interesting to the table. ‘Guts’ manages to balance sweetness and grit in equal measure, making it one of the tracks that best encapsulates the tension running through Sunset Funeral.
If this album has a ballad, or as close to damn it as you can get, it’s ‘Sungrave’. It’s luxurious in tone and feel. Guitars taking their time, slow and languid. The vocal delivery is tender but distant, as though singing from another room, the sound spilling in softly through the doorway. There’s a patience to the whole arrangement, no rush to build, no urgency to break into distortion. When the fuzz does arrive, it’s more like a warm blanket than a sudden jolt, wrapping around the song without smothering it. When it does arrive, the drums come in and by God are they heavy. Just so satisfying. ‘Sungrave’ feels like the exhale after a long, heavy breath. It’s intimate yet expansive, a reminder that even in a record this dense, Glare know how to slow the heartbeat without losing the emotional weight.
The album comes to a close with ‘Different Hue’ which has an acoustic guitar swathed in trilling electric strums. That acoustic foundation feels almost fragile after the layers of distortion that came before, but it’s not exposed for long. The electric textures wrap around it, spiralling in soft, chiming patterns that give the song a gentle sense of motion. There’s a brightness here, but it’s the kind that comes at the end of a long day. The vocals sit closer to the front than on most of the record, carrying a clarity that makes the final lines linger. As the song moves towards its close, the interplay between acoustic and electric builds a feeling of closure without ever becoming heavy-handed. It’s a graceful way to end Sunset Funeral. Not aiming for a dramatic finale but leaving you in a soft afterglow.
Across these eleven tracks, Glare show an instinctive grasp of mood and pacing, balancing moments of sheer, blissed-out heaviness with passages of delicate clarity. The album moves like a tide, pulling you in and letting you drift. The band’s command of texture is remarkable. Guitars shift between sandblasting distortion and glassy chime, bass lines carry as much melodic weight as the vocals, and the drums shape the flow without ever crowding it. What’s striking is how cohesive it all feels. Even when Glare shift gears the record holds its emotional centre. It’s a sound steeped in the lineage of shoegaze giants like My Bloody Valentine, Nothing and Whirr, but there’s nothing imitative about it. Glare’s take on the genre is personal and human, rooted in feeling over form. This debut doesn’t read as a band testing the waters. It plays like a confident statement from a group who know exactly what they want to say. Sunset Funeral is heavy gaze at its most affecting.
Sunset Funeral is out now via Sunday Drive Records and Deathwish on various vinyl variants. Make sure to follow the band on the Glare Bandcamp page.
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….
Static Sounds Club 