Every now and then a release arrives in my inbox that feels like it already knows what I like to listen to. It doesn’t shout. Deciduous, the debut EP from Austin-based singer-songwriter Paige Morton aka Ellum, is exactly that kind of record. A quiet stunner. A bruised and beautiful hybrid of indie rock, shoegaze, slowcore and post-hardcore. It doesn’t chase genre—it kinda just bleeds through them.
Ellum, still cloaked in a bit of mystery, wears influence like a second skin. The palette is fascinating: the emotional turbulence of Converge, the bare fragility of Nick Drake, the noir elegance of Interpol—all running like veins through this deeply personal and richly textured six-track release. Production duties come courtesy of Carson Pace of The Callous Daoboys, a pairing that makes perfect sense once you hear the results. These songs ache in unexpected directions. And the further you go in, the harder they hit.
Let’s dive into it.
The EP opens with the bittersweet ‘Macy’, a song of two halves. It begins with disarming simplicity: a single, gently strummed guitar lays the foundation, wide open and raw, while Morton’s voice—delicate, exposed—trickles in like the ghost of an apology. There’s a deep sense of stillness in this first section, but it’s not peaceful. It’s the kind of quiet that trembles with tension, as though the track is waiting for something to break. And then, without warning, the second half crashes in. A sudden swell of fuzzed-out guitars and reverb-heavy distortion flips the emotional tone completely. This isn’t a slow build or a gentle shift—it’s a rupture. The track lurches from introspective singer-songwriter territory into full-blown shoegaze melancholy, guitars howling like they’re trying to outrun the weight of the words just sung. It’s cathartic but never messy—each layer of sound precisely placed to elevate the emotional stakes.
Up next, ‘Deciduous’ slips into something more fragile, more haunted. After the emotional rupture of ‘Macy’, this track feels like stepping through the smouldering wreckage. The guitars are cleaner here, bathed in chorus and delay—a glistening shoegaze shimmer that calls to mindthe more subdued corners of Whirr’s catalogue. But unlike their sprawling soundscapes, Ellum keeps things close and compressed. Everything here feels deliberate, tight, wound like a spring. Lyrically, the song plays like a quiet unravelling. The title itself—Deciduous—evokes ideas of shedding, of letting go as a seasonal necessity. There’s a suggestion of growth through loss, but also a fear of what remains after the fall. The emotional restraint is chilling—this isn’t melodrama, it’s the real thing. One of the standout features here is the way the instrumentation mirrors that emotional unease. Guitar’s chime and quiver, notes occasionally bending out of key, like nerves fraying at the edge. There’s a sense that everything might fall apart if held too tightly—and that tension gives the song a heartbreaking edge.
That quiet-then-profoundly-loud format continues into ‘Papercuts’, but here it’s distilled into its sharpest, most urgent form. This is the shortest track on the EP, but don’t let the runtime fool you—’Papercuts’ stings. It arrives like a whisper and leaves a bruise. The intro is skeletal—barely there. Morton’s voice comes in low and close, almost conspiratorial, riding a single repetitive guitar phrase that feels like it might vanish if you blink too hard. But it’s the restraint that’s so unnerving. You can hear the song tightening its grip from the first bar. And when it goes off, it really goes off. Guitars explode into the foreground in great shuddering waves, distorted just enough to give the edges that satisfying blur. The shift isn’t just dynamic—it’s physical. Your chest tightens. It’s the sonic equivalent of a paper cut: small, sudden, deceptively deep.
‘Easy’ arrives almost fully formed. There’s no coy build-up, no tentative lean-in—it kicks the door open with purpose. Drums pound with ritualistic insistence over a sublime, slow-burning chord progression that feels both familiar and otherworldly. Right from the off, there’s a gravity to it. The chord changes unfold patiently giving the song a grounded, almost meditative weight. As the bass slides in beneath the surface and harmony vocals begin to bloom around Morton’s lead, the track settles into a kind of hypnotic, head-nodding pulse. The arrangement breathes; it trusts the listener to sit inside the pocket, to feel the weight of each pause and swell. It’s a reminder that ease doesn’t mean absence of struggle, but maybe, just maybe, the ability to move through it with grace.
We settle back into that peaceful insistence of guitar and voice on ‘Sick’. It’s a gentle return to Ellum’s core sonic motif—Morton’s voice, calm but cracked around the edges, floating over cyclical guitar patterns that seem to breathe in and out. There’s a deceptive stillness here, like the kind that lingers just before a fever breaks. The title suggests discomfort, but what we get is something more quietly unsettling: exhaustion, perhaps, or the strange calm that comes from surrendering to what you can’t control. There’s a tension just under the surface, a kind of emotional drone that never resolves. The bass pulses like a second heartbeat and pared back drum pattern gives the track a sense of space and unease. The mix leaves just enough room for silence to become a character—one that presses in between each phrase, demanding to be felt. ‘Sick’ is a slow burn, a quietly devastating track that doesn’t demand attention but absolutely rewards it.
The closer is Morton at her most vulnerable. ‘Moonlight’ strips things down again—warm, lo-fi textures but with a vocal that’s in control and leading the song. It’s intimate and spectral, with the feel of a demo that was too pure to overwork. There’s a quiet confidence in the delivery, like she knows exactly where she’s taking us, even if we’re drifting through fog. From the outset, there’s a dreamlike stillness to the track. The guitar is hushed, slightly detuned, almost feeling like it’s been recorded to cassette—warped around the edges in that beautiful way where tone becomes texture. But instead of crumbling under its own fragility, the song holds its shape. Morton’s voice does the heavy lifting here, clear and grounded, threading purposefully through the mist. That shoegaze shimmer is dialled right back, but the influence is still there—in the reverb-drenched guitar tails, in the way the chords seem to hover rather than land. As the song begins to dissolve, there’s no grand finale. Just a slow fade, as if she’s walking out of frame, still singing. No resolution. No punctuation mark. It ends the way real emotion often does: mid-thought, still reverberating.
Deciduous is a stunning debut—not just for what it does, but for what it doesn’t do. It refuses to settle. It holds space for vulnerability without demanding resolution. These songs feel lived in and raw, like pages torn from an overstuffed journal. There’s an emotional precision here that makes each track land differently depending on when and how you hear it. Across six tracks, Ellum delivers a stunningly cohesive debut that feels like it was grown rather than written—rooted in emotional honesty and nurtured by a melting pot of influences that never overwhelm her own voice. Morton strips her sound back without ever losing complexity; every layer feels intentional, every moment of quiet carries as much weight as the loudest passages. Morton has built something special here. The leaves are falling, but spring is already humming underneath.
Deciduous is out now and available over on the Ellum Bandcamp Page.
When an artist takes the time to dive into their emotional well, you know you’re in for something honest, raw, and real. David Laing’s sophomore album, We Then Me, does just that—serving up a powerful mix of heartbreak, healing, and self-discovery. After years of delays and personal battles, Laing has returned with a record that is more than just an album; it’s a testament to resilience, personal growth, and, ultimately, acceptance.
Laing’s journey to We Then Me wasn’t an easy one. Having faced a long stretch of physical and mental health struggles, including an overwhelming period of anxiety and OCD, it’s clear that these challenges shaped the music we hear today. This is an album steeped in a vulnerable honesty—about love, loss, and the complicated aftermath of relationships. The tracks resonate with those universal themes, but it’s Laing’s unique perspective and musical craft that really elevate this record into something special. His band on this album are Stuart Guffie (lead guitar/backing vocals, producer), Ryan Ballantyne (bass/piano), Ryan McCluckie (piano), Scott McCluckie (Drums) and Megan Quinn (backing vocals).
Laing had this to say on the journey so far.
“The album’s been a long time coming. The vast majority of it, I wrote at a time when I was freshly out of a relationship and reeling in all the emotions that comes with it. For various reasons it was delayed and delayed until eventually coming to fruition over the last year or so.”
“From listening to the existing tracks, I was able to put myself back into those feelings and finish the album lyrically from more of a retrospective approach. I’m immensely proud of the work my band mates and I have put in and achieved in the finished product”.
Let’s drop the needle and see where the music takes us.
The album opens with ‘The First Time That We Met’, the intro stripped-back and vulnerable. The band slowly joins in the throng, tiptoeing around David Laing’s hushed vocal like they’re entering a room still echoing with ghosts. There’s something quietly cinematic about the build here—the way each instrument arrives with patience, not drama. The song feels like it’s unfolding in real time, drawing the listener into a memory as it’s being relived. What’s most striking is how this track acts as the emotional fuse for everything that follows. It’s the ignition point. You feel the tremble of something new beginning, even if you sense it won’t last forever. As the band settles into a subtle rhythm—restrained drums, low-mixed slide guitar, and a quietly humming bass—you get the sense that this isn’t just a story about love; it’s the prelude to a much bigger emotional journey. And just like that, We Then Me sets its tone: honest, reflective, and at its core, human.
Up next is the cautious optimism of ‘Best Thing’. The tone is immediately brighter and the pace quickens. There’s a bounce in the rhythm section, and the guitar work shimmers with just a hint of jangle, giving the whole thing a sense of forward motion, as though Laing is finally allowing himself to hope again. But this isn’t head-over-heels romance—it’s a slow thaw. Laing doesn’t give himself over completely; instead, there’s a gentle hesitation in the lyrics, like someone testing the water with their toes before diving in. He’s aware of how fleeting joy can be, how easily love can slip through your fingers, and it’s that awareness that gives the song its emotional weight. Lines land with bittersweet precision, hinting at the knowledge that even the “best thing” might be temporary.
‘Maybe Maybe’ has a folksy charm that immediately makes it leap out the speakers. The rolling piano and locked-in-the-pocket drums drive the whole song forward like a train that doesn’t quite know its destination but can’t afford to stop. It’s warm, rootsy, and rhythmically alive—one of the album’s most instantly engaging tracks. There’s a looseness to the performance here that adds to its charm, like the band hit record mid-rehearsal and captured lightning in a jar. But while the instrumentation dances with an almost carefree energy, the lyrics tell a more complicated story. For the first time, we can start to hear the doubt starting to creep in. The repeated “maybe” of the title becomes a sort of emotional seesaw—hope on one side, uncertainty on the other. Laing masterfully uses this lyrical indecision to mirror that stage in a relationship where you begin to second-guess the things you were once so sure of. What’s so effective here is that duality—this is a song that could soundtrack a road trip or a breakdown, depending on your emotional state. It captures the essence of romantic limbo: not quite in, not quite out, holding your breath and hoping it all makes sense tomorrow.
The piano motif evolves further on ‘If You Want Me To’. This time it’s looser, more questioning. It tumbles gently around the spaces, hesitant and searching. It’s another slow burner, opening on the sparsest soundstage so far, and you can practically hear the air between the notes. There’s bravery in that emptiness. Laing trusts the listener to lean in. Lyrically Laing sounds like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to, but needs to ask anyway—because not asking would hurt more. The band slowly arrives, but they don’t fill the space—they colour it in soft hues: brushes of percussion, subtle swells of strings, a bassline that barely breathes. It’s a beautifully restrained crescendo but there’s no resolution here, and that’s the point. ‘If You Want Me To’ doesn’t try to tidy up the mess—it just sits in it. And sometimes that’s the most honest thing a song can do.
The ‘We’ side of the album comes to a close with the finality of ‘We Lie’. In the tradition of all the great singer-songwriters—think Randy Newman with a broken heart or early John Lennon after a sleepless night—it opens on a rolling piano phrase and an almost conversational vocal, like we’ve walked in on a one-sided confession. Laing’s delivery is weary but direct, the kind of tone that only arrives after you’ve stopped trying to convince anyone, including yourself. It isn’t long before the band lift the song, and when they do, it’s like a dam giving way—not in a sudden rush, but in a controlled surge. The drums arrive with slow, pulsing intent, and the bass begins to boom like a warning signal. Guitars shimmer and swell around the edges, never overwhelming the central piano motif but building a tension that feels impossible to shake. It’s the sound of truths finally surfacing. As the final notes taper off, we’re left with the unmistakable sense that something has fractured. The intimacy that once felt so full of promise now feels performative, hollowed out by denial and routine. ‘We Lie’ is a devastating way to end the “We” side of We Then Me, and it sets the stage perfectly for the album’s turn inward.
Heading into the ‘Me’ side now, we open with a familiar and gut-wrenching favourite. Having been a standout on BBC Radio Scotland, ‘Something’s Gone’ is a song that many will recognize immediately—and not just from the airwaves. This is the kind of track that burrows under the skin. It’s a deep, aching piece that explores the moment when you realise something essential has quietly slipped away—not in a dramatic explosion, but in the subtle erosion of connection. There’s a stark vulnerability to the opening here. The instrumentation is restrained, skeletal even, giving Laing’s voice full command of the emotional terrain. He doesn’t overplay it—his vocal is measured, weary, but never self-pitying. It’s the sound of someone looking directly at the wreckage and, for the first time, admitting that the damage can’t be undone. Laing delivers some of his most devastating lines with near-deadpan clarity. It’s the absence that hits hardest, the space left behind.
‘Be There’ is a tender, hopeful plea—a soft exhale after the gut-punch of ‘Something’s Gone’. Where its predecessor deals in absence, this track gently asks for presence. The piano returns, delicate and deliberate, forming the spine of the song with a steady, calming pulse. It’s one of the more tender offerings on We Then Me, wrapped in a warmth that feels like an arm around the shoulder at just the right time. What’s striking is the emotional clarity Laing brings to this track. After the haze and confusion of earlier songs—where doubt crept in, where disconnection took root, ‘Be There’ feels like a turning point. It doesn’t deny the pain, but it doesn’t wallow either. It acknowledges the mess and still asks for connection. There’s a courage in that honesty.
One of the more unique tracks on We Then Me is the beautifully titled ‘The Time I Fell in Love With You for Half a Day’—and it’s a stunner. This is Laing at his most idiosyncratic, weaving whimsy and melancholy together with that trademark sleight-of-hand that somehow makes both feelings hit harder. It’s an idea that sounds throwaway at first—a fleeting love, gone as quickly as it arrived—but he doesn’t treat it as disposable. Instead, he honours the moment. The result is one of the most charming, and quietly affecting, tracks on the album. A gentle groove bounces underneath and a breezy guitar line that feels like a walk through golden-hour light. There’s even a twinkle of keys in the mix that evokes a kind of childlike wonder, like you’re rediscovering joy in a moment you didn’t expect to matter. Beneath it all, there’s a real sense of longing. Laing sings about this brief, beautiful connection with the same reverence someone might reserve for a lifelong love. It’s not ironic or flippant. It’s sincere. And that’s the magic trick—he takes something small and gives it weight, lets it linger in the listener’s memory with the same aching significance as any grand romantic gesture.
The title track is where the threads finally knot together—a summation of everything that has come before it, but also a stepping stone into something new. It’s a moment of deep reflection, a sonic exhale after the emotional tightrope Laing has walked so far. Fittingly, it doesn’t burst with resolution; instead, it unfolds gently, with quiet dignity and hard-earned acceptance. The arrangement is spacious and deliberate. The band gives Laing’s voice all the room it needs to tell the story. Soft guitar chords anchor the piece, while subtle ambient textures hum beneath, like echoes of the “we” that once was. You can hear a sense of distance, but not detachment—this is a goodbye with love, not bitterness. Laing captures the strange dissonance of post-relationship identity with painful clarity. “We” once defined the world, but now he’s learning to live in the singular. There’s sorrow in that, yes, but also strength. It’s not about erasing what was shared—it’s about acknowledging its impact and moving forward with its memory as part of you, not the whole of you. As the track draws to a close, the instrumentation becomes increasingly sparse, almost as if the song is evaporating, leaving only the self behind. It’s a subtle but masterful bit of production—mirroring the emotional arc from union to solitude with a natural grace. It leaves you feeling like something profound has ended, but something equally valuable has just begun.
‘Had It All’ takes the listener by the hand and walks them gently into the gloaming—into that hazy, golden-hour moment where memory and regret sit side by side. It’s a song steeped in introspection, but not indulgent. Instead, it’s measured and considered, like looking through an old photo album with equal parts love and longing. Of all the tracks this might be the one that hits closest to the bone for anyone who’s looked back and wondered: when did it all start to slip away? From the first few notes, there’s a noticeable shift in sonic palette. The track leans into a subtle country feel—not the rhinestone swagger of Nashville, but something more in line with the late-night, heart-on-sleeve vulnerability of artists like Gram Parsons or early Jayhawks. Fingerpicked acoustic guitar lays the foundation, warm and earthy, while slide guitar flourishes swell in and out of view like memories you can’t quite shake. The lyrics don’t reach for drama; they sit with the facts. “We had it all,” he sings, and the line lands not as a boast or even a lament, but as a plainspoken truth. There’s power in that kind of honesty. It doesn’t ask for sympathy—it asks for understanding.
The album comes to a close with the searing vulnerability of ‘To Whom This May Concern’—a track that strips everything back until there’s nowhere left to hide. Just Laing, a guitar, and a truth that’s been building quietly in the shadows across the entire record. It’s not just a song—it’s a reckoning. A final, unfiltered open letter to a former lover, delivered with such raw honesty that it almost feels intrusive to listen. But that’s precisely the point. We’re meant to feel it all. Where earlier tracks leaned on lush arrangements or band interplay, here Laing opts for complete exposure. The acoustic guitar is delicate and unadorned, every creak and slide of the fingers audible, grounding the performance in reality. There’s no reverb to hide behind, no layered harmonies to soften the blow—just one voice, wounded but resolute, laying everything out. That sparseness gives the song a gravity that’s hard to shake. It demands attention, and it rewards it with some of the most affecting lyrics Laing has ever penned. In many ways, this track completes the transformation hinted at in the title We Then Me. It’s the moment where Laing fully embraces the “me” side, not with bravado or self-help platitudes, but with a calm acceptance of everything that’s come before. It doesn’t reach for closure, but it does offer catharsis. And in that catharsis, there’s healing.
We Then Me is an album that reflects both the fragility and strength of the human experience. David Laing has poured his heart into these tracks, and the result is a deeply emotional and resonant record that will stick with you long after the final note fades. With its mix of introspective ballads, tender moments, and reflective songwriting, We Then Me is a triumph of vulnerability, a stunning piece of work that feels as much like a personal journey as it does a universal exploration of love and loss.
If you’ve ever been through a breakup, struggled with your own identity, or simply wondered about the nature of love, this album will speak to you. Laing’s ability to craft deeply emotional and relatable songs is what makes We Then Me such a standout release—both musically and lyrically. It’s an album that feels like a conversation, one where you can’t help but lean in and listen closely.
Chicago’s Pet Symmetry, Evan Weiss (Vocals, Bass), Marcus Nuccio (Vocals, Drums), and Erik Czaja (Vocals, Guitar), have always been the kind of band who wrap massive feelings in big fuzzy guitars and even bigger inside jokes. If, like me, you’ve followed them from their earlier records like Pets Hounds and the perfection that is Vision, you’ll know them as the kind of outfit who blend the sincerity of emo’s golden age with the unshakable energy of power-pop and the sideways humour of three best mates who really should know better. But with Big Symmetry, their long-awaited third album, they’ve gone and done something none of us saw coming: they’ve made a record about love. Real love. Big love.
This isn’t a love album in the traditional sense, though. It’s not soft-focus ballads and candlelit choruses. Instead, Big Symmetry is a full-throttle fuzz-fest written in a burst of inspiration and recorded over four years of weddings, side-projects, global pandemics, and the sort of joyful chaos that comes from growing up without letting go of your inner goofball. It’s a record forged in snowy cabins in Illinois, shaped by card games, psychedelics, and prank t-shirts. According to the band’s own (very charming) press release, it wasn’t even meant to be about love. But it turns out, when you put three long-time friends in a cabin with guitars and no distractions, love just kind of leaks out.
The result is the band’s most cohesive, most heartfelt, and—dare we say—most mature effort to date, without sacrificing the toothy grins or tongue-in-cheek humour that made them so endearing in the first place.
That charming press release was written by the band members wives. Here’s a short extract telling us what to expect.
“Pet Symmetry went big – literally and figuratively – with Big Symmetry. Our husbands might not have set out to write an album about love, but somehow that’s exactly what they did. It’s a record that captures the energy of three longtime friends pouring their hearts into something bigger than themselves. Big Symmetry is big on heart and big on sound. And, like being in love, it rocks. Big time.”
Let’s dig in and see how big this goes!
The album opens up low-key with a lo-fi demo take of the title track. It’s stripped back to just voice, acoustic guitar, and sparse keys, which really lets the emotion at the heart of the song shine through. There’s a quiet bravery in starting a record known for its full-band bombast with something this vulnerable. It feels like being let into the room where it all began—before the amps, before the production, before the clever winks and hooks. Weiss’s voice sounds close and unvarnished, almost like he’s sitting next to you on the floor, quietly working through feelings too tender to dress up. There’s a rawness in the delivery—cracks in the voice, slight hesitations—that speak volumes. The lyrics are impressionistic but emotionally direct, sketching out the themes of the record: connection, intimacy, and the unexpected gravity of friendship and love. ‘Big Symmetry’ sets the tone for the album that follows—honest, heart-driven, and unafraid to be a little messy in the name of something real. It’s a gutsy move, this opening. Instead of launching straight into a big guitar track, Pet Symmetry ask us to pause, to listen closely, and to take their big love seriously.
We’re back in classic Pet Symmetry territory next with the emotive and explosive ‘Big Engagement’—a track that sees the band fire on all cylinders, channelling anxiety, excitement, and elation into a fuzz-blasted, shout-along anthem. It’s a study on the whole experience of popping the question, but not in a Hallmark card way. This is Pet Symmetry, after all. The track opens with a taut, nervous energy—angular chords and tightly coiled drums that mirror the internal panic of overthinking the biggest decision of your life. Evan’s lyrics cut right to the marrow but what makes ‘Big Engagement’ so effective is its emotional duality. ‘Big Engagement’ is everything Pet Symmetry do best: melodic chaos with heart, humour, and a hook that lingers long after the rings on the finger.
Up next, we’re making a ‘Big Wish’, and with it comes one of the album’s most uplifting moments. It’s a triumphant return to soaring melodies, dynamic arrangements, and the kind of storytelling lyrics that Pet Symmetry have quietly mastered over the years. If ‘Big Engagement’ was the nervous flutter before a leap, then ‘Big Wish’ is the rush of air once you’re in freefall—wide-eyed, weightless, and weirdly at peace. Musically, the track glides. Shimmering lead lines sit atop a tight rhythm section that sounds like it’s running on pure adrenaline, yet still leaves plenty of space for Weiss’s vocals to breathe. There’s a little Midwest emo DNA baked in—mathy flourishes and subtle rhythmic tricks—but it’s all anchored by a killer chorus that feels instantly timeless. This is Pet Symmetry at their most melodically generous.
A warm and breezy highlight, ‘Big Island’ finds Pet Symmetry indulging their most laid-back impulses, and the result is nothing short of golden-hour magic. This track is the sound of sand between your toes, a cold drink in your hand, and not a deadline in sight. The band drape the track in chorus-drenched guitars that glisten like sun off the waves. There’s a gentle sway to the rhythm section—Marcus Nuccio’s drumming is easy going but tight, while Erik Czaja lays down melodic basslines that bounce like flip-flops on a boardwalk. It’s not showy, it’s not trying to prove anything. Instead, it’s confident in its cool, happy to just be. Lyrically, it’s a celebration of simple pleasures and you can practically smell the coconut sunscreen. There’s a genuine gratitude here, a kind of sunburnt nostalgia that avoids the trap of cliché by staying rooted in specific, lived-in imagery. It’s not paradise as fantasy—it’s paradise as a lucky accident.
‘Big Diamonds’ could easily be a sister track to ‘You & Me & Mt. Hood’ from Pet Symmetry’s Vision era. There’s a shared DNA here—the laid-back pace, the gently melancholy tone, and that now-signature call-and-response vocal interplay that feels like an overheard conversation between old friends. But while Mt. Hood gazed inward with a slightly bruised heart, ‘Big Diamonds’ reframes the introspection for a different time, a different lens—one that glints with maturity, warmth, and acceptance. The arrangement is deceptively simple. Clean, chiming guitars ripple while the rhythm section keeps things spacious and grounded. There’s a real elegance in how it all unfolds—never in a hurry, never reaching for bombast. It’s that mid-tempo sweet spot Pet Symmetry pull off so well, where every instrument feels like it’s breathing in sync. There’s a subtle emotional arc in ‘Big Diamonds’. It starts almost tentative, uncertain, but gradually builds into something quietly triumphant. No big crescendo, just the feeling of resolution. Like someone finally exhaling after holding their breath for too long. The whole thing plays like a sigh—peaceful, earned, and just a little wistful.
Now here’s where the emotional weight hits hardest. ‘Big Steve’ is a eulogy wrapped in fuzz—a heartfelt, tribute to a friend gone too soon. It’s raw, it’s ragged, and it might just be the emotional core of Big Symmetry. Pet Symmetry have always had a knack for sneaking gut punches between the jokes and jangly riffs, but this time they lean all the way in. There’s no wink, no irony. Just grief, laid bare. The guitars come in heavy, thick with distortion, but there’s a tenderness beneath the noise. It’s that classic Midwestern emo trick: marry sadness to volume and let the listener scream their sorrow into the ether. And that chorus—my god. It’s massive. A cathartic, melodic detonation that sounds like it was recorded in a single take, heart in mouth. You can hear the ache in Weiss’s voice. But ‘Big Steve’ isn’t just about sadness. It’s also a celebration. The track surges with love, with memories, with gratitude for having known someone worth missing this much. In a record full of big feelings and bigger sounds, ‘Big Steve’ is the moment that swells beyond music. It’s communal mourning, it’s shared healing, and it’s a reminder that the loudest songs are sometimes the ones about loss.
‘Big Water Cooler’ kicks off with a thumping bassline that immediately grabs you by the collar. It’s chunky, it’s confident, and honestly? It’s a hook in its own right. The bass work here is masterful—groovy and propulsive, like a heartbeat in steel-toe boots. From the first few seconds, you know you’re in for something punchy and playful, but still razor-sharp. Musically, this is one of the album’s most rhythm-forward cuts. The drums lock in with that swaggering low-end to build something irresistibly taut, almost danceable. It’s got a touch of Talking Heads in its DNA—a little off-kilter funk woven into the emo tapestry—but still distinctly Pet Symmetry, especially when the fuzz kicks in and the guitars join the party with chunky downstrokes and sly little flourishes. Lyrically, it’s a sharp and wry number, turning everyday mundanity into something weirdly profound. But like all good Pet Symmetry songs, there’s a clever emotional bait-and-switch: what starts as a song about corporate ennui slowly transforms into a commentary on modern disconnection. ‘Big Water Cooler’ is a smart, deceptively heavy track that proves Pet Symmetry can do groove just as well as grit.
Arguably the most whimsical and joyfully unhinged moment on Big Symmetry, ‘Big Barker’ is the kind of song only Pet Symmetry could pull off without it collapsing into novelty. It’s a love song of sorts—just not to a partner, or even a van this time. No, this one goes out to Charlie Barker, the dog next door, whose antics clearly made a big enough impression to warrant an entire track in his honour. From the jump, the energy is pure dopamine. The rhythm section bounces with a light, almost ska-adjacent skip—Nuccio’s drums are tight but playful, while the bassline hops like a tennis ball being chased through tall grass. The guitars are jangly and bright, echoing the sunny disposition of their four-legged muse. And yes, there are actual woofs layered into the backing vocals. Not overdone, not kitsch—just perfectly timed little yips that land somewhere between charming and completely deranged. The Fountains of Wayne comparison is so spot-on. There’s that same ear for sticky melodies and tongue-in-cheek storytelling, that same ability to write something ridiculous that somehow ends up being secretly poignant. Think ‘Stacy’s Mom’ meets a suburban dog park fever dream. It’s fun. It’s fearless. It’s got bark and bite. And it proves Pet Symmetry aren’t afraid to follow their hearts—even if it leads them to a song about a neighbour’s dog.
It’s time to grab a ‘Big Opportunity’, and Pet Symmetry do just that with one of the most ambitious and theatrical tracks on the record. This one’s a masterclass in their ability to juggle the playful and the profound—all big dynamic flourishes, unexpected twists, and those ever-reliable signature backing vocals. From the outset, there’s a sense that this track is about to go places. The guitars lurch into action like they’ve been waiting impatiently in the wings, all jagged edges and glorious dissonance, before dropping away just as quickly into verses that flirt with restraint. It’s this push-pull dynamic—loud then soft, heavy then hushed—that gives ‘Big Opportunity’ its theatre-kid-on-a-sugar-rush momentum.
Oh Vanessa, you glorious rust bucket. ‘Big Mileage’ is exactly what it sounds like: a full-throttle, open-road love song to Pet Symmetry’s dearly departed tour van. But in true Pet Symmetry fashion, it’s not just funny—it’s oddly emotional. This track is a blast of bittersweet adrenaline, mixing punk urgency with garage-rock charm and a lyrical wink that’s as sincere as it is side-splitting. From the opening riff, you know this is going to be a rager. The guitars are crunchy and insistent, driving like bald tires on a sun-baked interstate. The rhythm section revs with propulsive energy, like the van itself pushing past its limits one more time for the sake of one last show. It’s kinda Weezer-meets-Superchunk, with just enough grime in the tone to keep things raw and real. There’s a sense of chaos in the playing—like the van could fall apart mid-song, but everyone’s still having a blast. What’s incredible is how Pet Symmetry turn a song about a smelly, dying van into one of the album’s most heartfelt highlights. It’s funny, yes, but it’s also about friendship, loyalty, and the bittersweet feeling of moving on from the things that once held your world together. ‘Big Mileage’ is a fuzzed-out, full-hearted farewell to the beast that carried the band’s dreams across countless state lines.
Next Pet Symmetry take a sharp left turn into hushed, lo-fi territory with ‘Big Guilt Trip’—a soft, stripped-back comedown that’s soaked in introspection and subtle heartbreak. It’s a return to the acoustic intimacy of the album’s opener, bookending the record with a deep sigh rather than a bang, and it’s all the more powerful for it. The production is delightfully raw. There’s no polish, no reverb-soaked theatrics—just Evan Weiss quietly unraveling his regrets like a crumpled note left on a kitchen table. The lo-fi aesthetic lends the song a confessional tone, like you’re overhearing someone working through something they haven’t quite figured out how to say aloud yet.
Closing out Big Symmetry is ‘Big Doink’, and it’s the perfect way to cap off this wild ride of an album. ‘Big Doink’ finds itself gently driving with a laid-back groove, but still carrying that distinct Pet Symmetry pulse. It’s laid-back, but there’s an undeniable energy that propels it forward, keeping things grounded while still giving a sense of spaciousness. Lyrically, ‘Big Doink’ seems to channel a moment of blissful release—a snapshot of living in the moment and the occasional thrill of indulgence. There’s a subtle sense of finality in the track, not in a way that says “goodbye,” but more like a quiet acknowledgment that things can end without fanfare. It’s a track that leaves space for the listener to decide what the end of the album means for them—whether it’s a moment of satisfaction or a reminder that sometimes, the best way to finish things is to just let the music flow. A fitting send-off for a record that’s about love, life, and everything in between—nothing more, nothing less.
Big Symmetry is Pet Symmetry’s most vulnerable, joyful, and fully-formed record yet. It’s an album that radiates affection—for each other, for the lives they’ve built, for the tiny absurd details that make up our days. In stepping away from irony and leaning into feeling, they’ve created something that still rocks big time, but hits even harder emotionally.
What’s so magical here is that nothing feels forced. The love pours out naturally—from riffs written in snowy cabins, lyrics inspired by daily life, and the kind of deep friendships that have weathered the wilds of the indie touring circuit. It’s a big record with a bigger heart. And like all the best love letters, it’s messy, passionate, and utterly sincere. So, go listen. Fall in love a little. Hug your dog. Text your mates. And for god’s sake, get your van serviced.
Louth-based producer and songwriter David O’Farrell-McGeary, under the moniker Haunted Images, has delivered something quite extraordinary. Known already to those paying attention through a string of excellent singles— ‘If You Want’, ‘Grey Days’, ‘Sometimes’, and the devastatingly good ‘Stay Awake’—this self-titled album feels like the full arrival. A fully realised vision forged in isolation, insomnia, and introspection.
David’s sound is a curious thing. Take the rich fuzz-textures and dreamlike layering of classic shoegaze, throw in the brooding weight of Deftones and Deafheaven, then lace it with the glitched ambience of Aphex Twin. It’s a sound that both swells and shatters, that finds grace in the grit and melancholy in the noise. Lyrically, the album turns inward, unpicking memory, trauma and forgiveness—not with grandstanding, but with intimate precision.
On what the album is about David says:
“Overall, this album is about forgiveness. Forgiveness within yourself and forgiveness of the people around you. An exploration of dark periods of time through the lens of music. Although each song has its own individual identity, the piece as a whole definitely has its own unique identity. It’s a deeply introspective album where I dissect myself at every song and put many personal and traumatic experiences under a musical microscope”
Ok let’s adjust the lens and have a closer look and listen to this then.
The album begins not with a bang, but with a burden. ‘I Forgive You’ unfolds in slow motion. Sludgy and mournful, the track’s first half crawls through layers of thick distortion and ghosted vocal lines — not so much sung as exhaled. There’s a real sense of weight here, both emotional and sonic, like something unresolved is being dragged to the surface. Then comes the break — and what a break it is. The track erupts into a euphoric finale, as if the weight has finally lifted, even if just for a moment. The guitars bloom, the textures soar, and as an opening statement, it sets the emotional tone perfectly: heavy, human, and unflinchingly honest.
‘If You Want’ dives headlong into that gloriously fuzz-caked 90s sandpit, kicking up grit and gold in equal measure. Built around a deceptively simple two-chord structure, the track wastes no time pulling you in with its quiet strummed intro — a lull before the fuzzstorm. When the distortion hits, it hits, soaked in the unmistakable flavour of that Smashing Pumpkins Big Muff grind. It’s tactile and physical, a sound you feel in your chest. But it’s not just about weight — there’s a delicacy too, especially in the vocals. David’s delivery floats in the mix, dreamy and disembodied in a way that clearly nods to My Bloody Valentine’s lovelorn murmurings. There’s a push and pull here between heaviness and softness, where the melodies weave their way through the noise like threads of sunlight through fog.
The first instrumental interlude offers a surprising shift in mood. All soft classical guitar and glowing synth ambience, ‘Arklow emo’ opens a different dimension of David’s sound world—tender, nostalgic, and ghostly. It’s a palate cleanser, but more than that, it speaks to his compositional depth. The title nods cheekily to press descriptions of his sound as “Arklow emo,” and to the Irish hometown that shaped his sonic identity.
With ‘Stay Awake’, Haunted Images doesn’t flinch. This is a track that looks directly into the darkest corners of the human condition and doesn’t look away. Written in the stillness of the night — those long, stretched-out hours where sleep won’t come and your thoughts start to circle — this song is steeped in a raw, emotional honesty. It’s one of the most powerful and personal moments on the album, tackling the crushing weight of depression and the terrifying impulse to simply stop existing. The lyrics don’t sensationalise or dramatise; instead, they gently unpack the burden of witnessing someone you love fall into that kind of despair — when you can’t fix them, can’t save them, but you can stay awake with them. It’s a heavy responsibility, beautifully articulated. Musically, the track moves between quiet, reflective passages and swelling, emotional crescendos, like breathing through a panic attack. The shoegaze textures are dialled in perfectly: thick but not suffocating, immersive but never overwhelming. In its vulnerability, ‘Stay Awake’ becomes an act of quiet defiance — a hand reaching out into the dark.
There’s something slow-burning and cinematic about ‘Sometimes’. At its core, it hums with restraint — all half-light and hesitation, like watching dust drift through a shaft of dying sunlight. David’s delivery here is ghostly, almost weightless, with that same airy vulnerability you’d hear in a Whirr or early Nothing track. It doesn’t rush or push. Instead, it lingers — reflective, lost, slightly out of time. And it makes sense. This was a song born from isolation, written in a dimly lit room where the sun barely crept in. That setting is palpable in the music. There’s a dull greyness that hangs over the track, not in a lifeless way, but in a way that feels numbed by repetition — days bleeding into nights. Then just when you think it might drift away entirely, ‘Sometimes’ swells into something fierce and emotionally uncontainable. An avalanche of drums, fuzz, and melody crashes down in the final stretch, tearing through the stillness with glorious abandon. It’s not chaos for chaos’ sake — it feels earned, cathartic even.
Placed dead centre in the album, ‘I Don’t Know Where It Begins or Where It Ends Anymore’ feels like the stillness at the heart of the storm — a necessary pause, yet one that carries its own quiet intensity. This instrumental plays like a dream you’re trying to hold onto, but that keeps slipping through your fingers. A pulse of ambient synths, chimes and vaporous textures drift slowly outward, untethered from any fixed structure. There’s no rhythm to lock into, no verse-chorus cycle — just the gentle unfolding of sound.
‘Take Me Instead’ marks a thrilling left-turn in the flow of Haunted Images — a sharp-edged, sonically daring moment that leans into industrial abrasion and experimental textures without losing sight of the album’s emotional through-line. It’s arguably the boldest piece on the record, one that doesn’t just expand the sonic palette but smashes it open and rebuilds it with scorched circuit boards and found sound fragments. What’s especially striking is David’s use of real-world sonic debris — notably capturing the buzz and glitch of cellular data interference from his phone, running it through distortion and mangling it into something strangely musical. It’s a fascinating act of transformation, alchemising technological detritus into something raw and expressive. The guitars here are less about walls of fuzz and more about texture and friction, scratching against the mix like rusted wire. Despite its abrasive core, there’s still something deeply human underneath it all. It’s that same aching vulnerability that runs through the record — only now refracted through digital decay and chaos.
After the chaos and corrosion of ‘Take Me Instead’, ‘Grey Days’ returns us to more familiar shoegaze territory — but it’s not a retreat. Instead, it’s a recalibration. Here, David shows that he doesn’t need maximalism to make an impact. What makes ‘Grey Days’ so affecting is its restraint: the fuzz is still there, the layers still hum and churn, but they give way more easily. There’s breathing room between the noise. The song glides on a delicate, sugar-spun melody — the kind that slowly unfurls and quietly lodges itself in your memory. David’s vocals feel more foregrounded here, offering a clear emotional anchor amid the haze. There’s a softness to the delivery, almost conversational, which makes the weight of the lyrics hit even harder. It’s a bittersweet track, all shimmering melancholia and subdued beauty. That balance between sadness and something almost serene is masterful. There’s a sense of resignation in the lyrics, but also a kind of grace — the way we carry pain not because we want to, but because it never quite leaves. As David suggests, it’s the grey days — not the catastrophic ones — that linger longest, that work their way into the texture of your life.
!FLASHING IMAGES WARNING!
‘A Grey Sky Over A City Of Ghosts’ is the haunting instrumental epilogue to ‘Grey Days’, but it feels more like an extension of its soul than a direct follow-up. This is where the music sheds any remnants of structure and settles into something more ephemeral, like a fading echo of an echo. If ‘Grey Days’ was the raw, exposed emotion, this track is the hazy, distant reverberation of that feeling — like remembering a dream just before it slips away for good.
And then, we reach the final chapter. ‘Heavenlevel7’ the oldest song in the collection, is both an epilogue and a delicate resolution. After an album steeped in introspection, pain, and dissonance, this track arrives as the softest of sighs — but still full of that careful emotional complexity that defines the record. Lyrically, it’s a song about grappling with identity and the disorienting distance of disassociation. The line “I think it’s OK now” — quietly tentative — hangs in the air like a question rather than a declaration. It’s the album’s closest moment to peace, but it’s a fragile, almost hesitant peace, borne from the weary acceptance that things might not be “OK” in the traditional sense, but they are now — at this moment. And sometimes, that’s enough.
Haunted Images is a record of stark honesty and vast scope. It’s a deeply introspective work, but never self-indulgent—the careful songwriting and production choices invite the listener in rather than shutting them out. What’s striking is how current it sounds. There’s a weight and precision in the production—those drums thundering through the mix, every layer tuned to the emotional frequency of the moment—that makes this album feel contemporary and vital, rather than nostalgic or referential.
More than just an impressive debut, this is a statement of intent. David has carved out a space that’s uniquely his: shoegaze for the haunted, post-rock for the heartbroken, ambient noise for the emotionally curious. It’s an album that doesn’t just explore darkness—it brings lanterns and maps.
Emerging from the fertile creative soil of the West Midlands, Our Worlds Collide have rapidly carved out a name for themselves as purveyors of emotionally rich, sonically overwhelming shoegaze/post-rock. Drawing inspiration from genre legends like Slowdive and Explosions in the Sky, alongside the crushing noise textures of My Bloody Valentine and Lovesliescrushing, the band’s sound is both rooted in tradition of the genres and thrillingly forward-looking.
Built around the powerhouse rhythm section of Nicko Cureton and the atmosphere-drenched guitar and vocals of Finlay Hatton, Our Worlds Collide have already caused waves locally, where their live shows have left audiences spellbound. Now signed to 1991 Recordings, the band is gearing up for a full-length album — an exploration of both the hazy, soft-edged corners of shoegaze and the euphoric walls of static noise that threaten to topple over you.
Their latest single, ‘All The Light We Shall Never See’, is the dazzling opening salvo from this new chapter, and it’s nothing short of breathtaking. It’s been edited down from the sprawling and all-consuming twelve-minute live experience to a more radio friendly four minutes of fuzzed out bliss.
From the very first note, ‘All The Light We Shall Never See’ sets out its stall with shimmering intent. A slow, glittering build of feedback and melody immediately envelops the listener, setting a tone that feels simultaneously delicate and crushing. Hatton’s guitar work is particularly spellbinding here — weaving glowing threads of distortion and clean tones into an intricate tapestry that feels almost tactile in its richness. Cureton’s drumming is equally deserving of praise. Rather than simply underpinning the haze, his percussion feels alive — dynamic, expressive, and at times almost conversational with the swirling chaos around it. There’s a real sense of weight behind every snare crack and cymbal swell, grounding the track even as it threatens to drift into the ether. Vocally, Finlay Hatton delivers a performance that feels less sung and more breathed into existence. His voice merges with the instrumentation rather than sitting above it, becoming another blurred colour in the song’s sonic watercolour.
In its waves of sound, in its yearning vocals, in its overwhelming climaxes and tender silences, Our Worlds Collide have created something truly special. If this single is any indication of what’s to come on their debut album, then make no mistake: Our Worlds Collide are very much the ones to watch.
‘All The Light We Shall Never See’ is out now via 1991 Recordings and you can check it out over on the Our Worlds Collide Bandcamp page. Here’s all twelve minutes for your aural enjoyment.
You can follow Our Worlds Collide on social media here….
Let me take you back to a smoky, feedback-drenched night in Glasgow, just a few weeks back. I was there to catch the always-brilliant DEHD, but as fate would have it, the evening’s true revelation came courtesy of the support act—Mass Text. A solitary figure bathed in stage fog and pedalboard glow, he sent waves of shimmering sound across the venue that stopped me dead in my tracks.
What followed was one of those rare sets that doesn’t just warm you up—it blows you away. Drenched in reverb and emotional resonance, Mass Text didn’t just open for DEHD—he carved his own lane entirely. His sound felt like it had seeped in from the edges of a dream, each song blooming with gorgeous decay and bittersweet melody.
And here’s the thing—I got to meet him after the show. Chris Sutter, the man behind the Mass Text moniker (and frontman of Chicago’s fearsome post-punk trio Meat Wave), was every bit as gracious and thoughtful as his music. No rockstar posturing—just a humble, passionate craftsman talking about pedals, process, and future plans. It’s rare to find someone so tuned in to the emotional undercurrent of their sound, and it made this music feel even more personal.
That night sent me down a Bandcamp rabbit hole. And what I found there? An early glimpse of something special. Let’s dive in.
‘Exercise’ opens with a gorgeously ghosted-out chord progression—guitars all fuzzed and looped like a half-remembered daydream. There’s a woozy, gravitational pull to it, like the track is orbiting its own emotional centre. When Sutter’s vocals finally arrive, they’re drenched in reverb whispering like they’re echoing from the next room over. The brilliance of ‘Exercise’ is in its restraint. It doesn’t rush. It builds mood, texture, and a sense of slow-burning intensity. It reminds me a bit of early Grandaddy but with more emotional bite—less escapism, more confrontation. It’s as if Sutter is pulling a memory out of static, then slowly letting it dissolve again.
On the other hand, ‘Dancing with a Shadow’ feels darker, thicker in the atmosphere, as if it’s pressing up against the walls. Guitars chug and shimmer in equal measure, and the rhythm section marches forward like a slow-motion landslide. It’s a track that’s both seductive and sad, and it paints with a palette of greys, blues, and crushed neon. Lyrically, it feels like a song about wrestling with the past—about feeling haunted not by ghosts, but by versions of yourself. The production is lo-fi in all the right places, adding intimacy rather than distance. There’s a spiritual connection here to mid-period Sonic Youth, particularly Murray Street, where melody meets menace and lingers.
This one gets under your skin. You’ll find yourself humming the central riff long after it ends, like I did after the gig. Emily and Jason from DEHD joined Sutter on stage for this one. ‘Dancing with a Shadow’ was my highlight of his set with its ever-increasing power and reach.
Sutter sent me on a whole bunch of great songs he’s been working on for his debut album and from the easy swagger of ‘Birthed’ to the alt electro folk of ‘Light Light’ he has a plethora of amazing music ready and waiting.
Mass Text is a thrilling, emotional departure for Sutter—a sonic world apart from the high-decibel angst of Meat Wave. These first two singles are nuanced, slow-burning, and totally immersive. They whisper more than they scream, and in doing so, they invite you to lean in closer, to sit with the weight of things. It’s shoegaze with muscle memory or post-punk with poetry.
And the best part? This is just the beginning. With an LP currently in the works, Sutter’s solo venture is one to watch closely. Fans of Cloakroom, Nothing, early Deerhunter, and even Galaxie 500 will find plenty to get lost in here.
Don’t sleep on this. Head to the Mass Text Bandcamp page, hit follow, and support these first glimmering dispatches from what promises to be one of the most compelling new projects out of Chicago’s underground. This is the kind of stuff I live for here in the Static Sounds Club—a gem in the seam.
Cloth, for the uninitiated, are the twin siblings Rachael and Paul Swinton. They first made waves with their 2019 self-titled debut Cloth, a record that immediately marked them as something different in the Scottish indie landscape—low-lit, late-night indie that drew on minimalism and atmosphere more than bombast. With Paul’s intricate guitar work and Rachael’s serene, whisper-soft vocals, Cloth felt like a secret you were lucky to stumble across. It was all space and suggestion, a masterclass in how to say more by playing less. That debut went on to be shortlisted for the Scottish Album of the Year Award and won them the admiration of tastemakers across the UK, from BBC 6 Music to Rough Trade.
Then came Low Sun in 2022, a shift in both tone and scope. Still unmistakably Cloth, but tinged with a darker, more exploratory mood. Where Cloth sounded like the dusk falling gently over the city, Low Sun ventured into midnight—a little more layered, a touch more rhythmic, as if they were beginning to push gently at the walls of their own sound. You could hear the confidence growing, and with it, a quiet hunger.
Which brings us to now. To Pink Silence. An album that doesn’t so much announce itself as seep in under your skin. Released via Rock Action Records (yes, that Rock Action—home of Mogwai), Pink Silence sees Cloth stretch further than ever before, but they do it with the same hushed poise that made us fall for them in the first place. Produced by Ali Chant (Perfume Genius, PJ Harvey), and featuring contributions from luminaries like Adrian Utley of Portishead, Owen Pallett, and Stuart Braithwaite, it’s an album that feels expansive, confident, yet still deeply intimate. It’s twilight music with muscle.
Let’s get into it.
The opener—and title track—sets the tone with a stunning emotional ambiguity. Built around a skeletal guitar figure and Rachael’s signature feather-light vocals, it’s an invocation of stillness. But listen closely: there’s tension lurking beneath. That phrase “pink silence” is borrowed from the light just before dusk or dawn, and the song embodies that liminal beauty—part longing, part peace, part dread. It’s a curtain-raiser that doesn’t explode, it glows—and in doing so, it tells you everything about the slow-burning world you’re stepping into.
‘Polaroid’ lands like a memory you’re not sure you want to revisit. Released ahead of the album as a single, it gives us one of the strongest melodic hooks Cloth have written so far. There’s a heartbeat pulse to the rhythm, a sense of propulsion that makes this one of the most immediate tracks on the album. It’s shimmering, sad, and quietly devastating.
A claustrophobic and hypnotic highlight. ‘Stuck’ does what it says on the tin—its groove is a loop, a cycle, a spiral. Rachael’s delivery becomes almost mantra-like, and it works brilliantly. Paul’s guitar drips tension, and the way the production folds layers in and out creates a dizzying sense of stasis. This is Cloth at their most experimental without losing that signature clarity. You feel trapped, but willingly so. Like you’re letting the track hold you in its vice grip.
Up next might just be the crown jewel of Pink Silence. ‘Golden’ flirts with outright pop, but with Cloth’s typical restraint and emotional intelligence. There’s a hi-hat skip in the beat, some real brightness in the mix, and a yearning chorus that absolutely kills you. It’s beautiful and bruised—hopeful but haunted. It gives me Radio Dept. vibes, or a slightly euphoric Beach House moment. An end-of-summer song with the first cool wind in the air. Sublime.
Minimal, melancholy, and so emotionally pure it feels intrusive. ‘The Cottage’ unfolds slowly, like a letter being read in real time. The instrumentation is stripped way back and distant, giving space to Rachael’s voice, which here feels especially fragile and intimate. The lyrics are sparse but suggest deep memory—images of a retreat, a shared escape, now tainted or gone. It feels like grief, but also closure. Like someone saying goodbye to the past without bitterness, just truth. It’s the stillest song on the album, and perhaps the most powerful.
‘It’s A Lot’ arrives next all edgy, jittery and checking the corners. Every space in the mix gets its own highlight throughout the song. Rachael’s voice assuming more authority and the guitars both short and sharp as well as serpentine in the latter stages—like they’re trying to find an exit that isn’t there. There’s a beautifully restless energy here, like a person pacing a small room, mind racing, heart pounding. It’s anxious music—but held with such grace.
‘I Don’t Think So’ might be the most pop moment on the record, but still delivered in that unshakeable, whispery Cloth fashion. The sparse guitars here are angular, with an almost post-punk energy, and Rachael’s delivery has a cold detachment to it. But come the chorus, there’s a fire. This is where the restraint is, the drama. It’s one of those rare songs that feels like a quiet scream.
‘Stones’ feels like a classic Cloth deep cut—textured, moody, and metaphorical. The “stones” of the title feel symbolic of all the small burdens we carry, the invisible weight that accumulates. There’s a looping, seasick rhythm and a slow drift in the chord progressions that echo the lyrics perfectly. It’s not flashy, but it stays with you. The kind of track you go back to weeks later and realise it’s been playing in the background of your brain the whole time.
Now we get a real shift in temperature. ‘Burn’ is raw and cathartic—its sonic edges sharper than much of the album. There’s a scorched-earth feel to it, as though Cloth are exorcising something. The instrumentation hits harder, the reverb is deeper, and the emotional arc is undeniable. The closest they’ve come to a musical purge.
The closer is one of the finest endings to an album I’ve heard in ages. ‘Write It Down’ is Cloth looking directly into the heart of everything they’ve built up over the album. It’s about memory, communication, and the need to document our pain before we forget it—or worse, rewrite it. There’s something sacred about the stillness here. A looping, almost music box-like motif anchors the track, gently unfurling like the kind of thought you only dare have at 2AM. Rachael’s vocal is at its most tender and clear, almost like a voice inside your head. The instrumentation remains sparse, but there’s a quiet grandeur in the restraint. It’s not a goodbye. It’s more like a memory being sealed. A moment held in amber.
Pink Silence isn’t an album that chases your attention. It earns your trust. It unfolds like a slow emotional film—quiet, detailed, devastating. Cloth have managed something really special here: an album that feels like a natural progression, but also a huge artistic leap. More confident, more exposed, more them. This is music for the quiet moments. For the deep-end thinkers. For the dreamers and the emotionally fluent.
If you haven’t heard Pink Silence yet—really heard it—go find a still hour, some decent headphones, and let it wash over you.
There’s something beautiful about witnessing an artist grow in tandem with their subject matter. Since 2014, Alexander Donat has been releasing an annual album under the Fir Cone Children moniker, crafting lo-fi dream-punk songs inspired by fatherhood, family, and the fleeting intensity of childhood. But as his daughters have grown, so too has the scope, tone, and emotional depth of the project.
What began as a sonic scrapbook of youthful mischief and bedtime adventures has quietly evolved into something richer—more contemplative, more complex. The songs are no longer just snapshots of playtime and puddle-jumping. They’re about milestones, memory, and the bittersweet awareness that nothing stays the same for long. The fuzz is still there, the melodies still sticky, but the sentiment has matured. Now with the release of this year’s entry, Gearshifting, I’ve come to realise that the music doesn’t just document the passage of time—it feels it. This is the sound of a father watching the world change through the eyes of his children—and realising he’s changing too.
Let’s dive in.
Opener ‘Let’s Calm the Senses’ has that trademark FCC hustle and bustle but the bpms’s have dropped a bit. We’re in a more contemplative mood here. There’s a lovely sense of restraint in the way it builds—like trying to steady your breathing while the world spins around you. The guitars shimmer rather than shout, and the drums patter along with a half-sleepy urgency. It feels like the moment just after a tantrum or just before a dream—still buzzing, but searching for peace. It sets the tone: we’re not in the sandpit anymore—we’re in our heads.
And here’s the chaos! This is ‘Madness!’ Fir Cone Children rarely sound this propulsive. Drums tumble like a bag of fireworks, guitars detonate and reform mid-measure. Lyrically, it’s a teenager’s anthem—brimming with frustration, absurdity, laughter, and eye-rolls. But it’s also tight as hell. The hooks hit, the structure’s clever, and despite the pandemonium, it’s all held together with feeling. Somewhere between Sonic Youth at their most giddy and The Ramones in full-speed mode.
I’ve already had this one on repeat since the single dropped and premiered right here on Static Sounds Club—a massive emotional centrepiece. Donat turns the camera around here, singing not as the child, but as the father. Inspired by his daughter’s first time on stage, it’s brimming with nervous joy, swelling pride, and pure love. Full of arresting lyric drops. Stunning.
A tempo switch and attitude reset for ‘Now is Now’. This is an existential pep talk in punk-rock form. Short, sharp and refreshingly bratty, it serves as a kind of sonic espresso shot. Echoing the punch of early Fir Cone Children albums, this track brings back the lo-fi urgency but infuses it with the reflective tone of a parent trying to teach their kids the power of the present moment. It burns bright and fast.
‘Ghost in the Frame’ is a real a standout. It swaggers in like some new romantic 80’s pop gem crossed with an early Cure track. The bassline is thick with drama, and the guitars drip in chorus and reverb, conjuring that dusky, cinematic gloom that makes you feel like you’re driving through fog in an oversized trench coat. But beneath the noir-pop sheen, there’s something more fragile at work—memories flickering, presence fading. It’s both cool and haunted, like the sound of growing up and realising your childhood bedroom isn’t quite the same anymore. A real emotional sucker punch in sequins.
‘Spelling Your Name’ might be the catchiest cut on the album. Straight-ahead melodic punk with a gorgeous vocal refrain that’s part playground chant, part love song. You can feel the smile behind the mic. There’s something incredibly pure here: like singing your crush’s name into a tape recorder and pressing rewind a hundred times. Sugary and sincere, without veering into twee. The guitar motif reminds of the wonky jitter pop of Spirit of the Beehive. A sound I love.
Up next ‘Swedish Shades’ explores the reaction of Donat’s nine-year-old daughter. To be more precise how wearing a pair of shades changes her social behaviour and even the way she moves. The guitar is choppy and played at pace. It’s fast, playful, and completely alive—like watching someone discover a new layer of confidence in real time. The track captures that giddy metamorphosis from shy kid to full-on swagger queen with nothing but a tilt of the chin and a pair of oversized sunnies. There’s a punky looseness in the rhythm, but it’s tight where it counts—mirroring the sudden boldness that comes with costume and play. Joyous and just a little bit feral.
That wonky pop returns as ‘Ball on Lawn’ bursts on to the speakers. It’s a tight yet airy number about losing a ball over the fence into the neighbour’s garden. There’s a wonderful sense of scale here—turning a small domestic drama into a full-blown emotional epic. The guitar jangles like a sunny-day wobble, while the rhythm section skips with the kind of nervous anticipation only a child can feel while weighing up whether to knock on a stranger’s door. It’s pure Fir Cone Children magic—everyday innocence filtered through fuzz pedals and frantic energy.
Inspired by his daughters “adopting” a neighbour’s cat, ‘Perfect Trade’ is perhaps the album’s most emotionally open song. It’s slow and gauzy, built on clean chords and soft harmonies. But the simplicity is deceptive—this song glows with understanding. What at first seems like a whimsical tale of feline friendship quietly blooms into a meditation on kindness, connection, and the ways children instinctively care for the world around them. There’s real depth in the softness—each note floats gently but lands with meaning. Like all the best Fir Cone Children moments, it finds profound beauty in the ordinary.
And here’s the closer—and what a closer it is. ‘Life Rearranges’ is a perfect encapsulation of the Fir Cone Children journey to date. It’s got everything, that frantic energy, that uncertainty that comes with becoming a teenager and more. There’s a glorious push-pull at play—the verse sections feel like they’re trying to hold things together, while the choruses spill out with emotional openness. The title says it all. Change isn’t just coming, it’s already here. Donat captures that dizzying blur of shifting friendships, moods, and milestones in motion. It’s a curtain call that feels like a doorway.
With Gearshifting, Fir Cone Children moves from capturing moments to confronting movement itself. It’s an album about flux, growth, and emotional velocity. Still punk, still dreamy, still rooted in family—but more grounded, more reflective, more alive than ever.
Donat has made his most accomplished and emotionally resonant record yet—and that’s saying something, given how consistently brilliant this project has been. If you’ve grown up with Fir Cone Children over the years, this one’s going to hit deep. If you’re new to the party, there’s never been a better place to jump in. This album feels transitional. It’s got dirt under its fingernails and a telescope in its pocket. There’s joy here—but also awe, sadness, curiosity. The sound of gears catching. The next phase.
Gearshifting is out now and available now on tape, CD and digitally from the Blackjack Illuminist Bandcamp page.
You can follow Fir Cone Children on social media here…
Cyanide Sisters formed in Stockholm at the tail end of the 2020s — a time when a lot of indie rock was playing it safe. But these two, Christian Baringe and Daniel Jansson, brought something more unruly and unapologetically loud to the table. Christian, the punk-turned-producer, supplies the grit and the gnarl, while Daniel brings the melodic chops and emotional gravity. Together, they’ve sculpted a debut album that feels like a love letter to lost youth, slacker spirit, and the enduring power of a great, fuzzy riff.
Some albums don’t knock politely — they kick down the door, spill fuzz all over the floor, and demand your full attention. It’s a record that feels both haunted and defiant, channelling the primal noise-pop of Psychocandy-era Jesus and Mary Chain and injecting it with the garage-born weirdness of bands like The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band. The result? A glorious, unkempt mess of melody, menace, and emotional wreckage.
Let’s take a walk through the noise…
The album’s opener, ‘Kill the Light’, is an understated fuzzed out lullaby. It’s a sugar sweet 60’s pop gem swathed in perfectly restrained feedback. The kind of tune that might’ve been penned by The Shangri-Las if they’d traded in their beehives for battered Jazzmasters. Guitar’s shimmer and hiss like a distant storm, while the vocals drift in soft and sorrowful — barely there. There’s a fragility beneath the distortion that’s quietly devastating. It doesn’t try to blow the doors off; instead, it slowly dissolves them with melancholic charm. A bold move to start the album so gently, but it pays off beautifully — it sets the tone for a record that’s as much about heartache as it is about volume.
Up next ‘Get in Line’ pulls off a masterful illusion. If you only listened to its intro, you’d think you were about to get a Sonic Youth like angular art rock number. Instead, what appears out of the cloud of distortion is another pop gem. The guitars wobble and detune like they’re melting in real time, but underneath it all lies a pristine melodic core — bright, buoyant, and oddly uplifting. The verses shuffle along with a lazy coolness, vocals delivered with a detached croon that recalls early Beck or even Lou Reed on a particularly glam day. There’s a subtle tension in the rhythm — a push-pull that keeps the track teetering on the edge — but the chorus opens wide, all sunlight and grit. It’s this constant tug-of-war between chaos and clarity that gives the track its charm. Cyanide Sisters are showing their hand early: this isn’t noise for noise’s sake — it’s noise in service of something beautifully bittersweet.
Now we’re floating in more psychedelic waters. ‘All That Glitters Isn’t Gold’ is a hazy, sunshine-soaked highlight — a gauzy wash of reverb-drenched guitars and tape-warped vocals. Think early Mercury Rev if they’d grown up listening to Revolver and Loveless on repeat. There’s a woozy, slow-motion grandeur to it — like falling backwards through a kaleidoscope of paisley and feedback. The track pulses with a dream logic all its own; melodies drift in and out like forgotten nursery rhymes, and the vocals sound like they’ve been dipped in honey and left out in the sun. There’s a touch of The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band here too — that sense of something beautiful just slightly out of reach, warped at the edges by time and tape hiss. Lyrically it’s one of the most evocative on the album — all tarnished promises and decaying glamour, delivered with a shrug and a sigh. It’s one of those songs you want to get lost in completely, eyes closed, volume up, letting the reverb rinse you clean.
‘Rainbows’ is next and the band are channelling their inner Stones as they play their most psychedelic card yet. The cyclical melody is hypnotic and pulls you in. It seems like there’s very little going on — but again, that’s an illusion too. Beneath the minimal surface is a swirling undercurrent of texture and tension. The guitars chime and pulse like they’re breathing, while the bass snakes its way through the mix with a lazy menace. There’s a wooziness here, like you’ve taken a wrong turn into the Velvet Underground’s more cosmic side. It’s the kind of song that’s deceptively simple — it feels like it’s looping endlessly, but tiny details keep shifting: a ghostly harmony here, a flicker of fuzz there, subtle shifts that keep you under its spell. It captures the feeling of being stuck in a beautiful daydream you’re not quite sure you want to wake up from. And just when it feels like it might lift off into something explosive, it dissolves instead, like smoke in sunlight.
The feedback returns for ‘Stay Down Here’, another Spectoresque wall of sound track that takes that 60s aesthetic and throws Mary Chain guitars into the mix. The backing vocals are simply sumptuous — all sighs and soft harmonies, like The Ronettes floating ghostlike over a sea of distortion. There’s a romantic desperation at the heart of this one, buried under squalls of fuzz and echo, like someone yelling “don’t go” into a hurricane. The production is massive — layers upon layers that somehow never swamp the melody. It’s like Cyanide Sisters are building their own cathedral of reverb, brick by brick, crash by crash. The drumbeat is primal and pounding, the guitars both caress and crush, and through it all those backing vocals shimmer like mirages. It’s a modern doo-wop meltdown, soaked in heartbreak and amplifier buzz — and it’s absolutely glorious.
It’s a moody, darker atmosphere next with ‘Trash Can’. The delicious descending chords create an understated vibe that gives the vocals much more room to breathe. This one’s less about attack and more about space — that glorious negative space where the tension simmers quietly. There’s a downtempo menace to the rhythm, something slow-burning and cynical in its bones. It’s got shades of The Velvet Underground’s Pale Blue Eyes but passed through a filter of Scandinavian gloom and post-punk grit. The vocal delivery is almost conspiratorial — close-miked, intimate, like it’s being whispered right into your ear at closing time. Lyrically, it’s loaded with imagery that’s both bleak and strangely beautiful: decay, repetition, the comfort of giving up. It’s a standout moment of restraint — a reminder that Cyanide Sisters know when to go big, and when to let the cracks speak for themselves.
‘Fat and Old’ next reminds me of Manfred Mann’s Earth Band with its spacey pop sensibilities. The distortion is dialled down here, with vocals being pushed through the tightest of compression to great effect. It feels like a transmission from some lonely satellite — distant, metallic, yet oddly warm. There’s a woozy charm to the whole thing, like it’s floating through zero gravity with only a busted keyboard and broken dreams for company. The chord progression is simple but evocative, full of melancholy wrapped in shimmer. And lyrically, it’s one of the album’s most tender punches — grappling with aging, identity, and the slow disintegration of youthful ambition. But there’s humour too, that Cyanide Sisters balance between sadness and smirk. It’s a slow dance for the disenchanted, a space-age crooner for the romantically wrecked. And despite the title, it’s one of the most emotionally youthful tracks on the record — wide-eyed and wondering, even through the fog of time.
The curtain call, and what a haunting one it is. ‘Another Winter’ is slow, swirling, and nearly ambient at points. The vocals are ghostly and distant, as if the singers already halfway gone. It doesn’t so much end the album as it dissolves it — like ice melting in the morning sun. An elegy in fuzz, echo, and frostbite. The guitar tones are fragile and skeletal, trembling over a bed of glacial synth textures and looping reverb trails. It’s less a song in the traditional sense and more a feeling — cold breath in the air, a cracked windowpane, a memory you’re not sure is yours. There’s something deeply cinematic about it too — you can almost see the closing credits rolling over grey skies and deserted streets. If Pet Sounds had a goth cousin raised on delay pedals and Scandinavian winters, it might sound something like this. Cyanide Sisters bow out not with a bang, but a shimmer, proving once again that restraint can be the most devastating instrument of all.
So, there it is — a debut album that doesn’t just arrive, it quietly infiltrates. Cyanide Sisters aren’t here to blow the roof off, they’re here to haunt the hallway afterwards. From the sugar-rush fuzz of ‘Kill the Light’ to the glacial dissolve of ‘Another Winter’, this record plays like a love letter to pop’s faded glamour and guitar music’s ghost-stained past. They’re not reinventing the wheel — they’re burying it in distortion, digging it back up, and giving it a hug.
What’s most striking is how deftly the band dances on the edge of contradiction. Every moment of noise is carefully measured, every sweet hook layered in shadow. This is an album that sounds like it was made by two men obsessed with the beauty of decay — pulling threads from The Jesus and Mary Chain’s nihilistic romance, tapping into the zoned-out wonder of The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band, and wrapping it all in a very modern, lo-fi sort of existential ache.
It’s shoegaze for the soft-hearted cynic, psychedelic pop for the broken dreamer, and indie rock for anyone who ever fell in love with a band that no one else at school had heard of. Cyanide Sisters have made a debut that feels less like a statement and more like a secret — one that’s whispered through tape hiss, buried in fuzz, and meant just for you.
So, what are you waiting for? Dim the lights. Press play. Let it all wash over you. And when it’s done? Play it again. This one’s not just worth hearing — it’s worth holding onto.
Cyanide Sisters is out now streaming in all the usual places and you can grab a digital copy over on the Cyanide Sisters Bandcamp Page.
You can follow Cyanide Sisters on social media here….
The indie underground has long been a breeding ground for the most visceral, urgent, and emotionally raw music. Enter Bedridden, the Brooklyn-based quartet whose debut album, Moths Strapped to Each Other’s Backs, is set to release via Julia’s War Recordings—a label revered for its dedication to the restless and the reckless. Bedridden are the latest torchbearers in this lineage, carving out their own niche at the intersection of shoegaze, punk, and ’90s alt-rock.
Helmed by frontman Jack Riley, Bedridden have been steadily building a reputation for their unfiltered sound and intensely personal lyricism. Their 2023 EP, Amateur Heartthrob, was a glimpse into their chaotic world—blown-out guitars, lo-fi production, and anthems for the disaffected. It was enough to catch the ear of Douglas Dulgarian, the mastermind behind Julia’s War Recordings, who promptly brought them into the fold. Fast forward to 2025, and Bedridden’s lineup has cemented into a formidable four-piece: Riley (vocals/guitar), Sebastian Duzian (bass), Nick Pedroza (drums), and Wesley Wolffe (guitar). Their combined influences, ranging from jazz to hardcore, infuse Bedridden’s sound with a dynamic, unpredictable energy.
The album title comes from a mysterious missive Riley received on astrology app Co-Star.
“Last year I was way too reliant on other people — my partner at the time, my friends.
I was strapped to them in a weird way — and flying in circles. This album is about that time.”
Let’s get right in amongst this!
If there’s a mission statement buried anywhere on Moths Strapped to Each Other’s Backs, it might be ‘Gummy’. From the first clatter of drums, it’s like being flung into someone else’s memories mid-chaos—no warning, no easing in, just full-body impact. The guitars are serrated, slicing their way across a rhythm section that lurches like a panic attack in real time. Is this grunge? Is this gaze? The answer is yes and what a great blend of the two it is. As an opener, it’s a gutsy move. No room for polite introductions or easing the listener in. Instead, it grabs you by the collar and drags you through the emotional undergrowth. If you’re still standing after ‘Gummy’, you’re ready for the rest of the ride.
There’s a distinct shift in temperature next with ‘Etch’. Less about chaos, more about the kind of slow-burn resentment that builds behind gritted teeth. Sonically, it’s hostile but hollowed out; the band dial back the immediacy just enough to let the tension breathe. It captures that sensation of spiralling through an imaginary argument, reliving each hypothetical punchline or sharp comeback you should’ve said. It’s a haunting, uneasy track and one of the album’s most emotionally articulate moments.
‘Chainsaw’ follows. Clocking in like a three-minute eye-roll set to distortion, it’s Bedridden at their most sardonic, most wired, most fed up. This one kicks all sorts of ass, and it does so with purpose: it’s petty, it’s specific, and it’s gloriously unhinged. Inspired by an argument over the purchase of a lamp (yes, really), ‘Chainsaw’ transforms domestic squabbling into pure sonic carnage. It’s fast, furious, and fuzzed-out, chasing that Lemonheads-meets-Jawbreaker sweet spot, but without the bittersweet gloss—this is more like being chased through IKEA with a power tool.
From the jump, ‘Heavens Leg is heavy. Not just in tone, but in sheer weight. The guitars are monolithic, layered like geological strata—thick, feedback-laced slabs of sound that hit like concrete. Wolffe and Riley go full tectonic here, trading dense, chugging riffs with dizzying melodic fragments that flicker and vanish like stained glass catching the light. The Smashing Pumpkins parallels are there but with added sneer. By the time the song hits its soaring climax, walls of guitar blazing, drums thundering like a church collapsing—it’s clear: this is Bedridden at their most anthemic, their most emotionally charged. And yet, it never feels grandiose. It’s grounded in dirt and doubt, in awkward conversations and uncomfortable truths.
‘Philadelphia, Get Me Through’ is the deluded geography-as-salvation anthem none of us asked for, but all of us need. It thrashes, it burns, it sweats desperation. Right from the opening snare crack, the energy is feral. Pedroza’s drumming is completely unhinged—nervy, stuttering, relentless—while the guitars explode in this messy, slightly out-of-tune swirl that sounds like someone trying to outrun their own brain. The production leans into the mess too. Everything’s a little too close, a little too loud, like it was recorded in a moving vehicle that’s on fire. Utterly compelling and leaves you breathless.
Coming in hot like a DIY hardcore demo left too long in the microwave, ‘Mainstage’ is mean, messy, and over almost before you realise it just set your eyebrows on fire. The backstory’s classic Bedridden lore: a New Year’s Eve show in the suburbs, Riley misfiring internally while everything around him goes pear-shaped. There’s no resolution here, no redemptive arc. Just flailing limbs, bad lighting, and the kind of drunk emotional intensity that leaves dents in drywall and friendships. Musically, this is a full-blown sprint. No intro, no easing in—just snarling guitar stabs and drums that sound like they’re trying to break out of the kit. Wolffe’s guitar work here is more weapon than instrument, screeching and gouging like nails across a whiteboard, while Duzian’s bass pulses with the kind of punky defiance that dares you to stay on your feet.
Forget tenderness. ‘Snare’ is a blast of full-frontal rejection, a punk anthem with a bruised emo undercurrent that cuts deep because it’s fast. This one barrels in with a wiry, impatient urgency, like it’s trying to outrun the shame of showing up somewhere you shouldn’t be. And honestly? That’s exactly what it’s about. It’s is a whiplash-inducing sprint. The guitars are jagged, melodic in that punchy kind of way. Wolffe’s leads scurry around the edges like they’re avoiding eye contact, while Duzian’s bass holds everything steady in that classic “barely-holding-it-together” emo-punk fashion. Pedroza is locked in on drums—tight, aggressive, but with just enough swing to give the whole thing that scrappy, heart-on-fire energy.
With its jangly, melancholic guitars and that unmistakable air of theatrical self-loathing, ‘Uno’ might be the most Smithsian moment on Moths Strapped to Each Other’s Backs—and not just musically. It’s bitter, wry, and delivered with a wink so crooked it’s practically a twitch. Riley’s vocal delivery is sly but exhausted, like he’s trying to maintain a smirk while the room spins. “I guess the big finale of that song was my response to dealing with this recurring experience of feeling like I wasn’t good enough by getting really into whippets,” he confessed in a recent interview—and that pretty much sums it up. ‘Uno’ is the sound of spiralling inward with a sad little flourish, masking pain with detached irony and just enough glammy sparkle to pass it off as cool.
Well, if there was ever a track that truly earned its name, it’s ‘Bonehead’. This one’s got all the rawness and deliciously messy simplicity of classic nu-metal, wrapped in a self-aware, tongue-in-cheek bow. Think Deftones, but with the messy emotional fallout of a cringey dinner turned full-on disaster. Yeah, it’s ridiculous—but it’s also strangely effective. The real gem here, is the self-awareness. The name ‘Bonehead’ isn’t just about the argument; it’s a nod to the almost delicious simplicity of the track itself—because sometimes, the best songs are the ones that don’t overthink it. The guitars grind away with a satisfying, almost stoic repetition, while Pedroza’s drums crash along like a dude who’s just lost his patience. Riley’s vocals bring just the right amount of self-deprecating bite.
After all the chaos, the flailing, the self-loathing, and the messes we made—Bedridden finally take a step back, wipe the sweat off their brows, and point their gaze toward the future. ‘Ring Size’ may be their answer to the question that hangs heavy through the whole record: What now? Musically, this one’s a whole different beast. The jangly guitars glide in, immediately giving us that shimmer of hope—the kind of radiant, crisp texture you’d expect from a band that’s ready to leave behind the distortion and find some clarity. It’s effortlessly dreamy, yet tinged with that uncertainty that defines their whole journey. You can almost hear the sunshine peeking through the clouds—only, like Riley says, it’s hard to see clearly when you’re still trying to figure out what to do with your life.
Moths Strapped to Each Other’s Backs is a fiery, cathartic journey through the chaos of self-doubt, messy relationships, and the angst of growing up. From the fast-paced, punk-infused urgency of ‘Snare’ to the jangly, hopeful uncertainty of the closer ‘Ring Size,’ the band blends raw, emotional honesty with a punk-rock defiance, creating something both cathartic and relatable.
Through it all, Moths Strapped to Each Other’s Backs feels like a messy, imperfect attempt to understand what it means to grow up. It’s not about neatly tying up loose ends—it’s about embracing the uncertainty and finding beauty in the struggle. Bedridden make it clear that this is only the beginning of their journey, and if this album is any indication, the road ahead is bound to be just as thrillingly messy.
Static Sounds Club 