No Joy – Bugland

It’s wild to think how far No Joy have travelled to reach Bugland. Back in 2010, Jasamine White‑Gluz gave us Ghost Blonde, an album of snarling guitars and buried vocals that nailed the sweet spot between shoegaze haze and grunge punch. By the time Wait to Pleasure arrived in 2013, the fuzz had thickened and the songwriting felt sharper hinting at pop instincts under the noise.

Then came the left turns. More Faithful in 2015 dived even deeper into contrasts: crystalline guitars against bone‑rattling riffs. Motherhood in 2020 turned everything upside down. It swapped distortion walls for restless genre‑hopping, pulling in breakbeats, digital horns and near‑bubblegum hooks. White‑Gluz showed she could bend her sound without breaking it. All of this built the road to Bugland. It’s not a return to the old noise nor a complete departure. Instead, it’s something stranger and more intricate, a record that sits comfortably next to Boards of Canada, Autechre and yes, even the Stooges’ Fun House sax chaos.

Part of that evolution came through collaboration. White‑Gluz paired with Fire‑Toolz (Angel Marcloid), both having moved into wooded, secluded surroundings before recording. Marcloid was pretty clear on how she found the sessions.

 “The collaboration really felt limitless. I didn’t have to adhere to a certain vision in a way that made me feel like I couldn’t be Fire-Toolz. I could easily relate to this album because Jasamine and I liked a lot of the same music, and I was able to be creative in ways that were freeing as if I was making my own album. “

They spent days cruising empty rural highways, listening to rough mixes, letting the music sink into new landscapes. That openness filters into every layer of Bugland. At moments it brushes shoegaze, then drifts into digital sprawl, then swerves into something weirder still. It feels personal yet playful, futuristic yet rooted in love for past textures.

Let’s drop the needle and  wander through each track and see what secrets Bugland holds.

The album opens with ‘Garbage Dream House’ appearing like a slow‑moving fog. Digital textures ripple underneath guitars that flicker in and out of focus. White‑Gluz’s voice feels almost translucent, floating just above a pulse that never fully locks in. There’s a real sense of patience in all aspects of then production. Nothing’s rushed, everything breathes. It feels like stumbling on an abandoned neon sign flickering in the woods. Those “influence eggs” the band hinted at surface subtly: hints of Cocteau Twins sparkle and the ghost of early trip‑hop lurking in the background beats. The song really picks up intensity in that last section before resolving to digital orchestration and the artifacts that lead us into the title track.

‘Bugland’ steps forward with more muscle. Guitars bend around each other in warped shapes, refusing to settle into clean chords. There’s something almost playful in how White‑Gluz lets melodies fragment then reappear. The low-end rumbles in a way that’s physical without being heavy. Listening closely, you hear little synth details darting in the corners, adding an anxious energy. The tension never fully resolves,  it just coils tighter until the track fades out, unresolved but magnetic.

‘Bits’ bursts open as a euphoric slice of shoegaze pop wrapped in a trip hop blanket and flung through the internet at high speed and low resolution. There’s an instant charge — guitars shimmer in pixelated arcs, while stuttering beats rattle underneath. That pop‑leaning energy doesn’t hold for long though. Midway, the track softens into something closer to an eighties ballad, where synth lines glow and White‑Gluz’s vocals slip into a gentler, more reflective register. Just when it feels settled, the heavy guitar textures roar back in, pulling everything out of that dream and dropping us right back into noise and rush. It’s that tug‑of‑war between calm and chaos that makes ‘Bits’ stick, always moving, always catching you off guard making this my album highlight.

A title that feels throwaway at first glance, but ‘Save the Lobsters’ is anything but. It starts almost skeletal, a dry beat, minimal bass before it blooms into subtle synth washes. White‑Gluz’s voice floats like it’s been beamed in from a different song entirely. It’s a reminder of her skill at making contrasts feel seamless: hard edges against soft melodies, synthetic sounds brushing up against organic ones. It’s catchy in its own crooked way, never settling into a proper chorus but still lodging itself in your head.

‘My Crud Princess’ almost drifts into the territory of a traditional pop song (whatever that might mean in Bugland’s universe). There’s a clear verse‑chorus pull and a melody that feels instantly familiar. But it’s what surrounds that core that keeps it from feeling safe. Elongated, stretched‑out guitar notes float across the mix, bending and warping rather than settling into neat chords. The bass feels cavernous and drenched in effects, giving the track a woozy undercurrent that refuses to stay still. It’s recognisable but restless always hinting there’s something stranger lurking under the surface.

‘Bather in the Bloodcells’ leans right into that eighties pop aesthetic at first, with glossy synth textures and a melody that wouldn’t sound out of place on an old cassette single. It doesn’t stay there long though. The track snaps back into futuristic experimentation, twisting familiar shapes into something more unsettling. Goth flourishes haunt the bassline, giving it a brooding undercurrent, while the drums flirt with industrial motifs, all clatter and grit. It turns into a veritable smorgasbord of sounds both nostalgic and forward‑looking all at once, refusing to settle or explain itself.

Up next ‘I hate that I forget what you look like’ maintains that eclectic, fast and loose genre‑hopping style that Bugland wears so well. It’s simultaneously nineties indie, eighties new wave and futuristic space rock. Guitars chime with an almost jangly brightness, synths drift in like radio signals from another planet, and the rhythm section keeps everything grounded without ever feeling rigid. What’s wild is how it holds together, not just as an experiment but as something that feels fully formed. It shouldn’t make sense, yet it does. It doesn’t just sound coherent; it feels deliberate, confident and oddly complete.

The big closer and a proper sprawl of a song comes ‘Jelly Meadow Bright’. Seven minutes where all the record’s ideas come together. Saxophone lines tear across the mix while synth pads swirl around like spa music gone beautifully wrong. Fire‑Toolz’s presence adds glitchy textures and unexpected chord turns. What makes it special is how it never feels stitched together; it flows, shifts and mutates organically. It ends not with a climax but with a gentle release, as if the album exhales and drifts away.

Bugland feels like a record built from contradictions that somehow slot together perfectly. Grit and gloss, nostalgia and future shock, pop instinct and wild experimentation, all sharing the same space without stepping on each other’s toes. What stands out most is how fearless it feels. Jasamine White‑Gluz and Fire‑Toolz never seem to ask whether something fits a genre or a scene. Instead, they lean into curiosity, letting each song wander where it wants That restless spirit makes Bugland a fascinating place to visit. It’s an album that makes you stay alert, to catch the strange details hiding under the surface. You come away with the sense that No Joy’s journey is far from finished. Each release moves further out, peeling back more layers. And if this is where that road has taken them for now, it makes you wonder just how much further they’re willing to go.

Bugland releases on August 8th 2025 via Sonic Cathedral. Make sure and go check out the album on the No Joy Bandcamp page.

You can follow No Joy on social media here…

Tired Panda – Voyage

There’s something endlessly fascinating about how Andrea Rubbio’s path winds through places and projects yet always circles back to the same restless creative core. With Geography of the Moon, Rubbio (aka Santa Pazienza) built something raw and thoughtful alongside Virginia Bones. Their debut album Fake Flowers Never Die set out a blueprint: psych rock, post punk, new wave and indie all fused under the banner of what they once called psychwave. The words mattered as much as the notes; each phrase delivered with a careful mix of spoken word and melody.

After returning to Glasgow for a spell — where Andrea’s family roots lie — the duo took to the road almost permanently. Over 450 gigs since lockdown lifted, taking them from Thailand to Indonesia, Japan and beyond. Those shows sharpened the edges of the band’s sound, but they also planted seeds for something different. That something different is Tired Panda.

Tired Panda is a solo project born out of hotel rooms, city alleys and long stretches of road where sleep blurs with thought. Here, the sitar steps forward, the beats sink deeper into trip hop and electronica, and the sense of place becomes even stronger. It isn’t just music made somewhere; it’s music about movement, about letting the places you pass through leave their mark. Rubbio’s move from the rainy familiarity of Glasgow to the humid streets of Thailand cracked open a new palette. Where Geography of the Moon leans into the dance of the guitar melody and lyrical push-pull, Tired Panda drifts, loops and meditates. Yet both projects share that quiet confidence: the belief that imperfections are worth keeping, that songs should sound lived in rather than polished.

After giving us a taster with the Indian Tales EP at the start of the year Rubbio has delivered us his debut album, Voyage.

Let’s dive in and see where each track takes us.

We are straight in with ‘Den Yllek’. Right away you’re caught by that eastern vibe looping around a slow, heavy beat. The title itself feels like a code you’re invited to crack. Everything moves in slow circles, snatches of reversed textures, delayed percussion, bass that slides rather than walks. There’s no drop, no climax, just a steady draw into Tired Panda’s world.

Next up ‘Shambala Blues’ is dusty and loose. It sounds like it was tracked straight to tape late at night, under a wide-open sky. Hints of shoegaze style chords, the walking bass notes and the sitar threading through like a ghost melody. What really strikes you though is the restraint. The track holds back, always on the edge of fully forming. That restraint is what makes it feel alive.

‘The Last Radio Station’ arrives. There’s a lazy swing to this one that instantly calls back to those late 90s beats. Think Alabama 3 if they packed up the drum machine and took a cheap flight to Bangkok. The rhythm shuffles and stomps, built from vinyl crackle, half-heard samples and sitar runs that drift in like stray thoughts. Ultimately it feels handmade, dusty, and quietly hypnotic, but all the more real for it.

‘Ghosts of Phnom Penh’ drifts between two worlds. Miss Sarawan’s vocal feels ancient, carrying the weight of old stories in every note. Then come these bursts of noisy, almost abrasive guitar that cut through like passing traffic in a quiet temple courtyard. The sitar weaves gently underneath, never fighting for space, just adding colour around the edges. What keeps it compelling is that contrast: the softness of the vocal against the raw scrape of the guitar, modern noise crashing into something timeless. It doesn’t settle, and that’s exactly why it lingers. I keep coming back to how it feels simultaneously ancient and modern, a quality Rubbio capture’s well.

‘From Brian’s to Mumbai’ is built around a slow, plodding beat that feels like tired footsteps on a winding mountain path. The sitar stays patient, playing sparse notes that seem to pause and look around rather than rush ahead. Underneath, gentle drone and busy tabla give the track quiet momentum without forcing it forward. The title hints at humour, but the sound feels reflective. It is less about reaching a destination and more about each careful step along the way.

‘God am I Awake?’ stands out right away because of Darthreider’s vocal approach. He raps in Japanese, words tumbling over each other in loose, conversational bursts, then slips into English almost mid-thought once or twice. The switch is really clever. I t keeps you leaning in, wanting to catch every syllable. Behind him, the track leans on a thick dub-style bassline, slow and deliberate, anchoring everything in low-end warmth. Then you get these unexpected shards of bright Thai pop guitar, sharp and sweet, almost dancing across the rhythm. The sitar sits out here, letting the vocal take the spotlight, but guitar is there in the spaces, colouring the beat rather than leading it. What makes it click is the contrast: Darthreider’s freestyle feels restless and fluid while the bass stays rooted, heavy and calm. It feels like listening to three cities at once, each part pulling in its own direction but somehow still travelling together.

‘Road to Gokarna’ feels like stepping off a side street and stumbling into an unexpected fairground, lights spinning and bells ringing in the warm night air. Then something shifts. You’re no longer standing still, the sound pulls you forward, like travelling through time and space on a slow drift.
Field recordings blur with chimes and gentle drones until you find yourself on a Thai shore at midnight. The sitar plays soft, scattered notes, never telling a full story, just hinting at one. Above it all, a quiet sky full of stars seems to watch in silence, giving the piece a calm, unhurried magic.

‘The Night’ is nothing short of beautiful. At its heart this feels like post rock set adrift on an eastern excursion, swapping guitars for sitar and hand percussion. Mahesh Vinayakram’s vocal lifts the track into something quietly spellbinding. He moves between phrases so effortlessly, blending classical Indian ornamentation with freer, softer lines that feel almost improvised. Each passage brings a new texture, drawing you closer until you can almost feel the heat rising from the shoreline. What stays with you isn’t just the technique but the grace behind it, turning a simple arrangement into something quietly unforgettable. Easily my album highlight!

Built around a squelchy, restless guitar riff that never quite settles ‘Thin Line’ is always poking at the edges. The sitar answers with huge, spaced-out swells drenched in reverb, rising and falling like distant sirens. Underneath, tablas keep the time, not rushed, but insistent and quietly probing, almost asking where the track might go next. Just when you start to drift with the sitar, the guitars crash back in, crushing and chaotic, shaking you awake and pulling the track into rougher territory. It’s that sudden clash, calm sitar and restless, almost violent guitar and the big beat boutique drums that makes this track hit harder than it first appears.

‘The New Normal’ brings in someone deeply familiar for long-time listeners: Virginia Bones, Rubbio’s wife and creative partner from Geography of the Moon. Her voice doesn’t just add melody; it feels like a conversation, part spoken, part sung, always poetic and quietly observant. Every line feels carefully placed, giving the song a thoughtful, human heart. Beneath her words, a pulsing beat keeps the track moving forward while alien bleeps and bloops flicker in and out like stray signals. It’s a strange balance, kinda mechanical and intimate but do you know what, it works because Virginia’s delivery never tries to dominate. She drifts just above the beat, letting the music breathe around her words. That’s her gift. To sound thoughtful without sounding forced, to speak softly and still be heard above everything else.

On ‘What You Do At Night’ the sound shifts from sitar to sarod, inviting Arnab Bhattacharya, a true master of the instrument, to take the lead. His playing carries the track into a transcendental musical journey. The sarod’s rich, resonant tones weave through the slow, steady pulse of the beat and the intricate rhythms of the tablas. It feels like drifting through soundscapes that blend tradition with a hypnotic modern groove. Bhattacharya’s touch brings a deep sense of calm and focus, anchoring the track while opening space for the music to breathe and unfold.

The album closes with ’45 a Round’, anchored by the gravelly voice of Cove Aaronoff, known from Phnom Penh’s originals scene with Japan Guitar Shop. His vocals bring a raw, smoky edge that immediately sets a sultry mood. The track unfolds slowly, gliding with a relaxed, almost lazy rhythm that pulls you in gently. Then, just when you’re settled into that groove, it erupts with massive, crashing guitar chords in the choruses. Those moments feel like a release of pent-up energy, adding weight and drama to the song’s laid-back foundation. The contrast between Cove’s intimate delivery and the powerful instrumentation makes the closing track linger long after it ends, leaving you with a sense of both warmth and drama.

Voyage is exactly what the name promises: a record about movement, both physical and emotional. There are no easy anthems here, no forced climaxes, just a steady, thoughtful drift across moods, textures and cities. It feels less like a collection of songs and more like one long breath held between multiple continents. A record that opens its palms rather than closes its fists. If you give it time, it slowly reveals where it’s come from and where it wants to go. It’s the sound of someone letting the world in, track by track. Right now, that feels so much more important than anything else.

You can check out Voyage now over on the Tired Panda Bandcamp Page.

You can follow Tired Panda on social media here ….

Photo Credit

Steve Porte 

The Miracle Seeds – Nuclear Watermelon

Back when The Miracle Seeds first broke cover with Inca Missiles in 2021, they sounded like a group possessed by restless curiosity. Dundee-born but world-minded, weaving strands of Andean folk into modern psych riffs that felt equal parts spiritual and stormy. That record announced them as something special, a project that worked with big ideas and built them into its foundations.

Fast forward to now. A few years of line-up changes, headline shows in Glasgow and London, and a support list that reads like a who’s who of modern psychedelia: Tess Parks, Elephant Stone, The Warlocks. All signs pointed to something brewing.

And it lands here, on Nuclear Watermelon. This is an album designed for live rooms, big amps and bigger spaces. The guitars are bolder, the jams stretch further, the songwriting sharper than ever. Across nine tracks, they’ve pushed the envelope without losing what made them magnetic in the first place.

Let’s drop the needle and see what’s what.

Kicking things off is the all-out assault of ‘I Am the Sherpa’. We talked about this single before release and it still feels like the centrepiece. That lumbering riff, half warning and half invitation, sets the tone. Bass spirals around it, drums play it loose but lock back in just when it needs it. The vocals echo across an imagined Himalayan ridge, never quite revealing their hand. There’s something about the restraint that makes the release hit harder. Each listen unearths a new texture. This song still impresses after umpteen listens. This is how you start an album!

The pace eases back on ‘Float Me’. It’s warmer, almost playful at first glance. Layers of reverb ripple across the guitars, like sunlight reflecting off water. The drums stay gentle but sure, giving the track an undercurrent of quiet urgency. Vocals sit closer to the mic, less distant than on the opener. The chorus rises but doesn’t explode, holding the tension just long enough to keep you leaning in. It’s subtle, but the craft shows. It’s a perfect sunny summer afternoon listen. Shades on, beer in hand and this on the speakers.

‘What You Know’steps forward with an edge from the first few bars. There’s this swirling organ line that winds itself around the reverbed lead guitar, each part nudging the other to greater heights.The chorus opens up just enough to let subtle harmony vocals drift in, adding a warmer layer that softens the edges without losing the bite. The organ and guitar circle around each other again, leading the track out. It’s a dynamic piece that moves with its own unpredictable logic, always shifting but never feeling scattered. You get the sense this one really came alive in rehearsal, tested and shaped until it settled into this perfectly unsteady balance.

Next up we have something different right away. Imagine Pink Floyd, but with teeth. That’s ‘Little Pig’. The groove is deep and loose, built around a bassline that loops like it could go on forever. Guitars swirl out on long tendrils of fuzzed out bliss, scratching at the edges without ever overwhelming the pulse. There’s a laid back, psychedelic drift to it that feels almost effortless, but you can tell it’s been carefully put together. The rhythm section holds everything steady, letting the guitars and vocals stretch out into stranger corners. You catch fragments, hints of something lurking just out of reach. It’s groovy, hypnotic, and more than a little far out. The whole thing feels like it could slide off the rails at any moment, but always pulls back just in time. Oh, these guys are good. No wonder this was chosen as a single.

Built around a soft bossa nova beat, ‘Masquerade Eyes’ drifts into view like late-night smoke curling through a back room. There’s an elegance running through the rhythm, a bongo beat that sways rather than stomps, giving the song an unhurried poise. Guitar lines stay cool and uncluttered, adding flickers of reverb that echo off into the corners of the mix. The bass keeps close to the floor, barely rising above a whisper, letting the groove do the talking. Vocals come in low and half-lit, like a confession shared over the rim of a glass. Words feel like shadows on a wall you can’t quite see directly. Everything carries the hush of a late show in a faded Casablanca nightclub. It’s alluring without trying too hard, mysterious without forcing it. By the time the final notes fall away, you’re left with the sense of something glimpsed through cigarette smoke and half-closed eyes,  something you’re not quite meant to catch fully, and that makes it all the more captivating.

A serpentine, sexy slouch towards foreign climes, ‘A Ripple in Time’ moves with an unhurried grace that feels almost liquid. The rhythm section lays down a languid pulse, never rushing, always letting each note settle before the next emerges. Guitar solos wind in and around each other like smoke trails, twisting together then drifting apart. There’s something quietly hypnotic about the way the melodies repeat and reshape themselves, hinting at something familiar before slipping away again. Everything is given space to breathe. Nothing feels crowded or forced. The bass keeps to the edges, while deliberate and nuanced percussive touches fill out the backdrop without ever drawing too much attention. The result is a track that feels both intimate and expansive, as if you’re being led by the hand through a half-remembered landscape. By the end, you’re left somewhere far from where you started, without ever noticing the moment you crossed over.

An ever-escalating trip, ‘Follow the River’ flows forward on swirling guitar lines that twist and fold back on themselves, pulling you along without resistance. Beneath it all, the bassline stays beautifully expressive, rising and dipping in gentle counterpoint, adding colour rather than just holding the rhythm. As the song unfolds, there’s a subtle lift in pace. The beat picks up, almost unnoticed at first, then reveals itself like the rapids you find deeper downstream. That extra push gives the second half a breathless energy without losing the laid-back grace of the opening. Each instrument keeps its own course yet stays locked to the current. By the final stretch, guitars shimmer and spiral outward, letting the rhythm pull everything towards a quietly thrilling close. It feels less like a song that ends and more like a river that simply flows out of sight.

Utterly spellbinding from the first moment, ‘Santiago’ feels like stepping into a warm embrace you never want to leave. Pillowy vocals settle just above the mix, soft and inviting, drawing you closer without ever demanding your attention. Sultry organ tones drift through like slow-moving clouds, adding a richness that anchors the whole track. Guitar lines waft gently around them, never rushing, each phrase stretched out until it dissolves into the next. Everything feels wrapped in a comforting haze. There’s no sharpness here, only a slow, deliberate drift that feels both intimate and endless. By the end the song slips quietly into silence, leaving the warmth still lingering in its place. This track won’t appear on the vinyl release but you will hear it on streaming!

The album comes to a close with ‘Twisted’ landing with a grin and a riff that refuses to sit still. Guitar’s grind and curl around each other, locking into grooves that spark off quick bursts of energy before dropping back again. There’s a playful confidence here, a sense the band know exactly where to push and where to pull back. The rhythm section keeps things punchy, giving the guitars space to roam without ever losing the pulse. What makes it land so well is the way it mirrors the album’s opener, bringing the journey full circle without feeling like a repeat. It’s heavier, rawer and maybe a little more reckless, but it carries that same promise of controlled chaos we first heard on ‘I Am the Sherpa’. A closing note that doesn’t so much end the record as nudge you back to the start for another spin.

Nuclear Watermelon feels like a band growing into their own sound without losing what made them compelling in the first place. The Miracle Seeds build on the psychedelic textures of Inca Missiles, but this time with a stronger sense of purpose and a sharper live energy running through every track. Heavy riffs rub shoulders with swirling organs, and grooves stretch out without drifting off course. It’s an album that invites you in on the first listen but keeps revealing details the more time you spend with it. Confident, well-crafted and never in a rush to impress, Nuclear Watermelon shows The Miracle Seeds hitting their stride and makes you want to see where they go next. If you’ve got an hour, headphones and a taste for a psychedelic journey, let Nuclear Watermelon take you somewhere off the map. Here there be monster riffs!

Nuclear Watermelon is out on July 11th 2025 via Fuzzed Up & Astromoon Records. You can check it out over on The Miracle Seeds Bandcamp Page.

You can follow The Miracle Seeds on social media here ….

Photo Credit

Aneta Maeso

Fragile Animals – Tourist EP

Y’know that friend you have? The one that when they tell you to check a band out you do so immediately? I’m lucky enough to have a few of those but yeah, I got a nudge from one this week about Australian band Fragile Animals. “I think you’ll really like it man” was the message, So I dutifully hit play and whaddya know.

Since first hearing Fragile Animals, I’ve been completely hooked by how they blur the lines between melancholy and melody. Formed when Victoria Jenkins (vocals/bass) and Daniel Parkinson (guitars) crossed paths back in school, their sound has always felt raw and personal. They have since been joined by Dylan Stewart (Drums) and Melinda Huurdeman (Guitars) completing their line up. Over time, they found their voice on earlier EPs Light That Fades and Only Shallow // Only More. Then came Slow Motion Burial, an album that made even bigger waves. Now they’re back with Tourist, six tracks that stretch out, breathe, and wrap you in something darker yet more alive.

On the thoughts behind that title choice Victoria had this to say.

 “I was really fascinated with the thought that we’re all kind of all tourists in each other’s lives, perceiving each other with varying degrees of accuracy. Much like when a tourist visits a place and their experience shapes their reality of the place. But truthfully, they’re only seeing a portion of that reality. I think that’s how we experience everything in life.“

“The people we know, the places we visit, our entire experience of the world is that of a tourist. It’s unsettling, but also quite a romantic thought. I find it beautiful that we can feel so strongly about someone or something alongside an awareness of how flawed the representation of it could be.“

Let’s get into why this EP really spoke to me.

Short, haunting, and drenched in reverb is our opener ‘People I’ll Never Know’. Guitars shimmer and drift, tremolo trembles left and right, and everything feels distant yet immediate. Victoria’s words come from that loneliness of being shaped by people we’ll never meet. It’s the idea that a thought or a line from someone unseen can hit you harder than anything close by. The track feels like a memory floating by rather than a statement. It’s a subtle but perfect start.

Then we burst into the title track. Straight away, the bassline grabs hold. It never lets go, becoming the backbone as guitars circle in loops of echo and tremolo. Dylan’s drumming keeps it fluid, never settling into a predictable groove. Victoria’s voice stands tall, framed by open space, letting every word land. This song has hooks for days. Halfway through, that glide guitar sound stirs the shoegaze spirit even deeper. Victoria has shared how this song grew from the strange comfort of connecting with strangers through their words. It’s about validation and clinging to it when you’re questioning yourself. You feel that push and pull in every note.

For ‘Sending Flares’, the band changed location, recording vocals in a quiet room at the station where Dylan works. Victoria sat on the floor, eyes shut, still clutching the notebook she wrote the lyrics in. The result is raw and exposed. Her voice sounds like it’s carrying the weight of what she’s singing. The words ‘I’m not alone’ hit especially hard. Baritone guitars fill out the low end, and there’s a lead part that soars but never overpowers. It’s a track that aches with longing yet feels powerful, wrapped in the gentlest fuzz and mournful tones.

An older idea that finally found its moment comes next. ‘Into It’ keeps that late-night feel, a song shaped by quiet hours when everything feels more real. The chorus opens up, guitars swell under heavy reverb, and there’s a melody that cuts through like a lost signal. They tracked this one late into the night, and you can almost feel the exhaustion bleeding into the song. Lyrically, it carries that sense of being pulled apart by the world yet still moving forward. The guitar line slides around like it’s searching for something it never fully finds.

‘Worldview’ is a real standout for me. It’s driven by a bass riff that feels urgent yet never forced. The guitars shimmer, but underneath, there’s a tension you can’t ignore. The lyrics speak to seeing the ugliness around us without letting it overshadow the small flashes of beauty that keep us going. Victoria explained that knowing the truth helps us keep fighting, but beauty makes life worth living. The song mirrors this perfectly, balancing gloom with brightness. The production keeps her vocals upfront, clear and strong, breaking from shoegaze tradition where voices often sink into the mix. It makes the message impossible to miss.

The EP closes out with ‘Allergic’ which for my money might be the most immediate track here. It came together quickly, and you can hear that energy. The bass drives everything forward, and Dylan’s drumming gives it an urgent pulse. Melinda and Dan’s guitars swirl, clash, and sometimes simply drift past each other. It reflects on feeling too much, the helplessness of seeing pain in others and knowing you can’t fix it. Yet there’s a strange beauty in that empathy. Victoria summed it up best: caring enough to hurt might be our saving grace. The track closes the EP not with resolution but with a burst of feeling that lingers.

Fragile Animals seen to have a knack for balancing fragility and force, and Tourist feels like a most assured step. The themes of perspective, connection and quiet desperation run through every note, giving it a sense of unity. Victoria’s voice is confident yet still vulnerable, the guitars dive deep into gloom yet remain warm, and the rhythms feel alive rather than mechanical. They’ve managed to make something intimate and vast all at once.

If you’re drawn to bands like Wolf Alice, My Bloody Valentine or Alvvays, this is a record worth living with. Let it play late at night, on headphones, and let those sounds wrap around you. Fragile Animals have made something that feels honest and deeply human. These songs open quiet doors into other lives and leave us reflecting on our own with a gentle kind of understanding.

Tourist is out now and available over on the Fragile Animals Bandcamp Page.

You can follow Fragile Animals on social media here…..   

Hotline TNT – Raspberry Moon

Hotline TNT began as the brainchild of Will Anderson, a project that balanced heartbreak with distortion and made fuzz feel deeply personal. They emerged quietly yet quickly became something of a secret handshake among fans of shoegaze and noisy pop in general.

Debut album Nineteen in Love landed in 2021, recorded mostly by Will himself. It sounded raw in the best way. Bedroom production, clipped drums, walls of guitar fuzz that sometimes buried the vocals so deep you had to lean in. But there was real melody fighting its way through, and that battle made it stick. It caught ears across indie circles, showing a songwriter willing to blur the edges until only the feeling mattered.

Then came Cartwheel in 2023, and something shifted. The fuzz was still there, but the songs stepped out from behind it. Hooks felt sharper, choruses bigger, and the vocals less hidden. It felt like a record trying to balance two impulses: stay noisy and vulnerable, but also reach out, pull people in. Reviews called it “fuzz-pop built to last” and fans noticed how the songs stayed with you long after the reverb faded.

Meanwhile the band’s live shows became part of the story. Reports of ear-splitting volume, melodies peeking out through walls of feedback, and a growing sense that this wasn’t just a bedroom project anymore. Hotline TNT was becoming a band in the fullest sense.

That brings us to Raspberry Moon. Their third album, but really the first one that feels built as a band from the ground up. Written and recorded together, played loud in the same space, not pieced together alone at home. You can hear that difference straight away: guitars still hiss and hum, but the songs breathe, the choruses lift, and the vulnerability feels clearer, closer. It’s a record that doesn’t drop the noise but knows when to hold it back.

Let’s drop the needle and see where it takes us.

The album kicks off with ‘Was I Wrong?’. The vocals front and centre over a fuzzed out lone guitar. Then about a minute or so in dense layers of overdrive arrive that feel sculpted rather than raw. The drums hit with real weight, giving the track muscle it might have lacked on earlier records. There’s a tension between that melodic bassline and the burn of the guitars that keeps the song moving. The solo isn’t a technical showcase but it lands with impact, cutting through rather than floating above. This is a gentle hello to this album and the full band approach is evidently a winner.

Up next ‘Transition Lens’ is a short tone poem linking into the next track. The synth textures feel glassy and slightly cold, almost a palate cleanser after the opener. It gives the ears a moment to reset, which helps the next song hit harder.

‘The Scene’ wastes no time. A sharp riff cuts through, immediate and biting. The drums snap tight, propelling everything forward. Vocals feel resigned, almost weary, as if the words are being forced out. The brevity of the lyrics adds to that sense of exhaustion. Guitars hover between jangle and fuzz, never settling fully into either. The whole track sits under two and a half minutes but feels complete. It captures that tired frustration of being part of something you’re not sure you even want. You catch glimpses of influence here: a bit of Sugar’s crunch, a flash of MBV tremolo. The bass carries its own melodic weight, keeping things grounded. It’s short, punchy and leaves just enough unresolved to keep you thinking about it after it ends.

My album highlight and single ‘Julia’s War’ bursts in next. Right away you hear the difference: vocals brought right to the front. The chorus begs to be shouted back by a crowd. Fuzz isn’t draped over everything. Here it’s used to lift and push the hooks. The guitar line circles around the vocal melody, creating a tight interplay that keeps the ear hooked. Drums play it relatively straight, adding force without distraction. The song structure feels classic, almost power pop, but filtered through their shoegaze instincts. Na na na backing vocals add a ragged charm, as if recorded live in a small room. It’s a rare moment of lightness that still holds weight. I think I took an instant like to this song because you can hear a band playing together, rather than tracks layered piece by piece. It feels like a highlight not because it’s the loudest or most distorted, but because it’s the most open. A genuine step forward in songwriting. I salute you Mr Anderson!

We’re into ‘Letter To Heaven’ next where its all about the jangle. Guitars ring rather than roar, leaving room for the melody to stretch out. Lyrics lean into reflection rather than frustration, giving it a slightly softer tone. The solo arrives unexpectedly, bright rather than heavy, and it fits perfectly. Drums keep a steady mid-tempo pace, giving the song a gentle push forward. There’s an almost nostalgic feel, like flipping through old photos you’re not quite ready to let go of. Production choices matter here: reverb gives the track a floating quality without muddying it. Background vocals quietly double the lead, adding depth without drawing attention. It’s the kind of song that sneaks up on you rather than demanding your attention. The shift to a minor chord before the last chorus is subtle but powerful, catching the listener off guard emotionally. It feels honest, not forced. The end fades rather than finishes, leaving an echo rather than a period.

A darker mood settles in from the first note on ‘Break Right’. Bass anchors everything, thick and insistent. Drums lock into a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. Guitars cut like rusted metal, less about heaviness and more about texture. Vocals sound distant, as if sung through clenched teeth. The lyrics are blunt, more spoken than sung, adding to the rawness. There’s a sense of contained anger, never boiling over but always close. Small details matter: a brief guitar squeal, a cymbal hit slightly out of time. The track doesn’t rush, letting tension build and settle. When the chorus hits, it doesn’t lift but digs deeper. It’s not cathartic release, it’s quiet confrontation. The ending doesn’t resolve, it simply stops, leaving a question mark hanging in the air.

A bright riff opens ‘If Time Flies’, almost hopeful. Production pulls back on distortion, letting the melody breathe. Vocals sound clearer, carrying a tone somewhere between regret and acceptance. Lyrics paint small images rather than big statements, letting listeners fill in the blanks. Bass takes a more melodic role, weaving around the guitar lines. Drums hold steady, never flashy, serving the song. The chorus feels like it opens up a window, letting in fresh air. Subtle backing vocals add warmth without turning saccharine. You hear influence here from classic indie pop, but it’s filtered through their fuzzed sensibility. It ends softly rather than crashing out, leaving space for reflection. It feels quietly confident, never straining to impress.

As we head into ‘Candle’ guitars fizz, not quite clean, not quite dirty. Drums pulse like a quickening heartbeat, giving the track momentum. Vocals sit gently in the mix, neither shouting nor whispering. Lyrics lean toward romantic rather than bitter, a shift from earlier tracks. A mid-song instrumental section drifts pleasantly, guitars layering textures rather than riffs. Production brings out small details: a string squeak, a breath before a line. The chorus feels comforting, like a warm room after cold rain. Even the distortion feels soft around the edges, more embrace than attack. Bass keeps things moving, adding subtle melodic shifts that reveal themselves on repeat listens. There’s a real dotted line drawn here to the early sound of Teenage Fanclub. Which as we all know is the best era of the band.

‘Dance The Night Away’ immediately stands out with its more pop driven intro. A lighter touch immediately stands out. Guitars chime rather than buzz, giving the track a floating quality. Drums skip along, adding bounce without forcing the tempo. Vocals feel conversational, almost like overheard thoughts. Lyrics evoke images rather than stories, leaving interpretation open. It’s a rare moment of brightness that still feels grounded. Small melodic flourishes keep the ear interested, rewarding closer listening. Bass moves higher up the neck here, adding unexpected colour. Production keeps everything crisp, letting instruments breathe. There’s a sense of quiet joy, but it’s never overplayed. The ending circles back to the opening riff, tying it neatly together. It feels like a necessary pause before diving back into heavier waters.

‘Lawnmower’ has an intimate start, almost like you’re in the room with them. Acoustic guitar takes the lead, strummed plainly without effects. Vocals sound closer than anywhere else on the record, catching breaths and imperfections. Lyrics lean confessional, not dramatic but honest. Small touches appear: a gentle electric guitar line, a quiet bass note. The song doesn’t build to a climax but stays quiet, asking you to lean in. It’s a reminder of the songwriting underneath the fuzz. Even the occasional string buzz or slightly off beat adds to the humanity of it. The emotional weight isn’t in what’s said, but what’s left unsaid.

The album closes out on ‘Where U Been?’. Slow burn from the start. Guitars roll in like distant waves rather than crash. Drums keep a steady march, giving the track gravity. Vocals stretch out words, letting them hang. Lyrics suggest distance and return, questions rather than answers. Bass moves deliberately, adding depth rather than speed. Guitars layer gradually, building tension rather than volume. There’s an undercurrent of melancholy that never tips into despair. The final minute lets feedback swell, not as chaos but as resolution. It feels like closing a chapter, not erasing it. The last chord hangs, echoing in the silence that follows. It feels like the only way this record could end: unresolved, but somehow complete.

Raspberry Moon feels like the moment Hotline TNT truly becomes a band. You can hear them in a room together, guitars talking to each other, drums pushing and pulling, bass weaving around the edges. It’s less about piling fuzz sky-high and more about choosing where it matters. That lighter touch doesn’t make it tame. It makes it human. Where past records felt like solitary confessions wrapped in distortion, this one opens up. The hooks step forward, the choruses breathe, and the songs carry a quiet confidence that only comes from playing side by side. The feedback still buzzes underneath, but now it lifts the melody rather than burying it.

Raspberry Moon is a record that shows growth without forgetting where it started. One that proves vulnerability can be louder than distortion.

Raspberry Moon is out now via Third Man Records on a number of lovely vinyl variants. You can check it out on the Hotline TNT Bandcamp Page.

You can follow Hotline TNT on social media here……

 Tvål – Tvål

There’s a special kind of thrill when a band rips up its own blueprint. Tvål didn’t just leave Thee Telepaths behind. They torched the fuzz pedals, rewired the vision and turned a spontaneous gear purchase into a whole new vocabulary.

Back when they were Thee Telepaths, Dean Cumming and Thomas J. Wright dealt in the language of volume. Fuzz pedals, psych jams that sprawled and spiralled until they felt ready to topple. The band made three EPs and an LP that buzzed with brute force and hypnotic repetition. It was loud, raw and made to overwhelm.

Then came the split, the pub in Northampton and that impulse decision to buy an old Roland drum machine. No big manifesto. Just curiosity and a couple of pints behind them. That one decision shifted everything. Out went the fuzzed-up guitars, in came vintage synths, samplers and drum machines linked up by midi cables. They swapped brute force for pulse and texture, drawing on kosmische’s shimmering patience and the mechanical elegance of early electronic pioneers. This wasn’t nostalgia for its own sake. The new sound feels handmade, slightly rough at the edges, alive. You can still trace the spirit of Thee Telepaths in the repetition and the drive, but Tvål push it somewhere cooler, stranger and far more spacious. Two years in a self-built studio in Kettering turned that first experiment into Tvål. A record that pays tribute to Harmonia and Moroder while sneaking in breaks that nod to Mo’Wax and samples that feel lifted from dusty library archives. Let’s drop the needle and see where it takes us.

 The opener ‘Vanishing Point’ is all poise. Slowly building on a low throb and fluttering synths, it feels like cruising through some deserted B-road version of the Autobahn at night. The textures crackle. The rhythms lock into place and we are away. It’s a cinematic start, and it tells you early on: this is not about hooks, it’s about momentum.

Up next ‘Circles’ is a more tightly wound proposition. The track’s motorik kick and interlocking layers call back to Harmonia’s leaner moments, but there’s something sneakier underneath. A warped sample maybe, or a buried drum fill that sounds like it was lifted from a forgotten library tape. There’s an undercurrent of tension, like the song might fall apart if you blink. It never does but the tension keeps you on point.

‘Barefoot In The Dark’ where things start to loosen up. It feels like a jam session between a Mo’Wax-era beatmaker and a Berlin school dropout. Dusty drum machine patterns walk side by side with synth lines that feel improvised and intuitive. The rhythm of the lead synth line brings to mind a morse code signal. Like they’re letting the machines talk among themselves. I love how they have bedded the vocals deep in the mix, as if they were an afterthought of the technology.

The next track is titled ‘Jazz’ but its anything but. A lurching bass motif loops over jittery percussion and cascading synth lines. There is tons of space in the mix. It isn’t chasing melody or drama. Instead, it feels like two musicians gently coaxing textures out of old machines and seeing what sticks. The result is completely captivating. You lean in, waiting to see what tiny detail they’ll introduce next. A new note. A faint echo. A cosmic flutter.

Moving into ‘The Garden’ the bpm’s drop considerably creating a contemplative feel. Built around slow, deliberate synth lines and a gently ticking beat, ‘The Garden’ leaves room for the mood to settle in. The vocoder vocals drift across the mix, sounding both distant and deeply human. There’s a solemn edge here too. A hint of gothic melancholy beneath the surface that keeps it from becoming too serene. Everything feels measured. Nothing rushes. It’s the sound of reflection rather than reaction.

That slow, unhurried beat circles beneath drifting synth fragments, holding the next track together without ever pushing it forward too quickly. The pace stays settled, almost stubbornly so, giving each texture time to breathe. Hints of vintage breaks float by, more suggested than fully stated. The mood stays restrained, never boiling over into full groove. It feels like an ode built from patience. Space and silence carry as much weight as the sounds themselves. By the end, ‘Klaus Weiss’ leaves an impression of quiet respect rather than loud tribute. Well done lads, a thoughtful nod to the spirit of those old library records that lets atmosphere do the talking.

With ‘Black Notes’ the pulse kicks back in. Driven by a crisp hi hat rhythm, this feels more urgent than what came before. The synth piano riff keeps things anchored while squelchy stabs flicker across the mix, adding flashes of tension. A ghostly vocal floats just behind it all, half-buried but still there, giving the track an unsettled, spectral feel. The contrast between the smooth piano line and the jagged synth hits keeps it interesting, a push and pull that never fully resolves but keeps you locked in until the end.

The album closes out with the expansive ‘Broken Frames’. Mid-tempo and steady, it drifts between lighter, almost fragile vocal lines and the weightier rumble of deeper synth tones. That contrast gives it a gentle tension, as if the track can’t decide between warmth and gloom. What surprised me the most was that it conjures the mood of a lost Cure track. Y’know kinda understated, slightly melancholy but quietly hopeful around the edges. The beat keeps things moving along without hurrying. Nothing feels rushed. The song lets its textures shimmer and fade. By the close, it leaves you somewhere between comfort and unease which for me is a fitting end to a record built on contrasts and quiet surprises.

Tvål are doing things their own way. No computers. No presets. No plan beyond letting the gear guide the song. What’s so thrilling though is how complete it feels while still being totally loose. The edges are frayed, the sounds are imperfect, and that’s exactly what gives it its shape. Whilst the influences are there if you go looking (Moroder, Cluster, early Depeche Mode) trust me, this is no pastiche. This is music made in the moment, by two people who clearly enjoy the process as much as the result. And it sounds brilliant. Do yourself a favour. Let the machines hum in your ears for a while because Tvål are onto something.

Tvål Out now via Cracked Plastic and you can check em out now over on their Bandcamp Page. A second pressing of the album is due to drop very soon, with gigs in Northampton, Norwich and London to follow. The follow up LP is under construction now for release early in 2026, hopefully preceded by an EP of extended mixes of 2-3 tracks from the new LP.

You can follow Tvål on social media here…

Photo Credit

Jo Selby-Green

The Miracle Seeds – I Am The Sherpa

The Miracle Seeds are a band who have created their own bubble in time and space. Rooted in Dundee, but sounding like they’ve been tuning in from another dimension altogether. Since the release of their debut album Inca Missiles in 2021, they’ve built something unusually magnetic. That record came wrapped in fuzz and folklore, threading Andean textures through modern psych guitar work. There was something ritualistic to it, like discovering an old tape buried in volcanic ash.

Since then, things have shifted. The line-up’s grown. The project’s moved through bedrooms and rehearsal spaces into fully realised stages. London, Glasgow, supports for heavy hitters like Elephant Stone and Tess Parks. The momentum has slowly built. They’ve taken their time. They’ve listened. And now they’re getting louder.

A new album is imminent, and if their new single ‘I Am the Sherpa’ is anything to go by, they’ve been busy plotting their most fully formed statement yet.

This is the heaviest they’ve sounded. The groove kicks in almost instantly. The opening riff is thick and raw. All overdriven guitar and low-end rumble. There’s something very Black Angels in the way it lurches forward, but they let it breathe. The bassline moves in slow spirals. It keeps circling back like it’s chasing something just out of reach. Behind it all, the drums are loose but focused. You can hear the space between the hits. The production leaves just enough room for the atmosphere to settle. The vocals feel distant, almost buried. Not in a washed-out way. It feels deliberate. Like it’s echoing across mountaintops. It sets the tone for me. Kinda detached, a little haunted, but oddly reassuring. You’re not quite sure if you’re being warned or guided.

There’s something ceremonial in that second section. The band lets the noise build slowly, like they’re summoning something. You can feel the influence of Kikagaku Moyo here. That ability to tap into something trance-like without overcomplicating the structure. By the time it fades, you’re not sure how long you’ve been inside it. It bends time just enough to disorient you.

‘I Am the Sherpa’ doesn’t play for hooks. It doesn’t chase trends. It’s not interested in immediate payoff. What it does is build trust. It says: follow us. We’ve walked this road before. If Inca Missiles was the spark, their new album Nuclear Watermelon looks to be the fire. The band feels more self-assured. You can hear the chemistry in the way this song unfolds. This is the sound of a group levelling up. And, that’s what makes this so exciting. Not the polish. Not the volume (although the sheer riffage on show is spectacular). But the commitment to building something that takes its time, trusts its instincts and respects the listener enough to leave space for mystery. There’s a trail to follow here. You coming? Let’s see where it leads.

‘I Am the Sherpa’ is out via Fuzzed Up & Astromoon Records now. Make sure and head over to The Miracle Seeds Bandcamp page and give them a follow.

You can follow The Miracle Seeds on social media here….

Photo Credit

Aneta Maeso

Thought Bubble – Mostly True

There’s something magnetic about Thought Bubble’s corner of the UK. Hidden away in the Shropshire hills, they’ve quietly built a catalogue of curious sound world. Some sparse, others overwhelming, but always bold. With Mostly True, they’ve carved out their most confident statement yet. The trio of Chris Cordwell (synths), Nick Raybould (percussion), and Peter Gelf (vocals) return less than 18 months after Universe Zero, but the leap between the two albums feels seismic.

Where Universe Zero was about arrival, being Gelf’s first full run with the band and the beginning of their vocal era, Mostly True is the aftershock. It pushes deeper into narrative and noise. The textures are sharper. The compositions are stranger. And the whole thing feels alive in a way few electronic records manage.

Let’s dive in.

The record opens with menace. ‘It’s Best Not To Look At The Sun’ drops us into a dense fog of prog synths and a theatrical vocal performance that leans into that Peter Gabriel influence we first heard on the last album. As an opener it feels like being shoved into a lucid dream you didn’t ask to be part of. The percussion tugs against the synths, giving the song a kind of anxious propulsion. Lyrically, it veers into surreal territory, brushing up against themes of delusion and paranoia. Gelf leans fully into the character. There’s a sense that something has fractured and no one’s quite sure who’s responsible. A daring way to start, and it sets the tone beautifully.

‘Rattlepool’ is all about the rhythm. The electronics pull back ever so slightly and expose Raybould’s virtuoso percussion front and centre. Everything is off-kilter in the best way. Patterns loop and then collapse. New beats appear from nowhere. You can hear the joy in the performance. It’s chaotic but never messy, like watching dominoes fall in unexpected directions. The vocal appears like a ghost only. One of their most hypnotic tracks yet. It’s restless, alive, and unpredictable.

‘I’d Give Up All This’ offers a stark change of pace. This track feels heartbreakingly human. The vocals are raw, almost naked. There’s an understated melody running through it that sounds like it could unravel at any second. Unlike earlier Thought Bubble records, where vocals were used sparingly and often submerged in effects, here Gelf is pushed forward. His delivery has weight. You believe every word. This is the emotional centre of the album and maybe its most accessible track too. It carries a weight, not because of its volume, but because of how direct it feels.

At first, ‘Three Apples’ feels gentle. You think you’re in for a reflective moment, but the song quickly shifts into darker territory. Inspired by the reality of drone warfare, the subject matter is stark. It circles the idea of destruction from a distance. It doesn’t show violence merely hints at its aftermath. The tension builds through minor key synth drones and subtle dissonance. It’s unsettling without tipping into melodrama. What hits hardest is how little resolution there is. The track ends abruptly, mirroring the idea that these acts of violence occur far away and vanish just as quickly from public consciousness.

Next up it’s ‘Clicks, Rumbles And Wordless Shouts’ and the title says everything. The band lean into the physicality of sound, every pop, snap, and crackle feels intentional. Gelf delivers fragmented vocal lines that teeter on spoken word. The result is closer to sound collage than traditional songwriting. The experience feels like moving through a crumbling structure, the floorboards giving slightly underfoot. Nothing repeats. Every sound feels like it might vanish the moment you notice it. Thought Bubble are masters at this, using texture to convey meaning. It’s unlike anything else on the record.

‘Cut Out Within’ next opens like a slow exhale. You feel suspended, floating through a thick mist of synth tones. It’s more restrained, but there’s tension hiding underneath. The sounds stretch and ripple. Everything feels slowed down, like it’s being viewed underwater. You’re not led anywhere, just left to drift. There’s a calmness sure, but it’s not comforting. More like the eye of a storm. The arrangement grows slowly, pads swell, beats emerge, layers unfold gradually. What makes it work is the restraint. Thought Bubble avoid the temptation to build to a predictable peak. Instead, they let the groove simmer, threatening to boil over but never quite doing so. Gelf’s voice is used more as an instrument here, processed and layered until it sounds like it’s floating in from another room.

Closing the album is ‘Anna’, a track that feels like it’s always existed. It’s deceptively simple. A drifting synth progression, a steady rhythm, a repeated vocal motif but it leaves a heavy impression. There’s melancholy here, but not sadness. More like reflection. The kind you get after something ends and you don’t yet know what to do next. It’s beautifully ambiguous. The beauty of this song is in its subtlety. Nothing forces your attention, but by the end you realise you’ve been completely pulled in. It feels like the part of the film where the credits roll quietly and you’re not ready to leave the cinema. No big finale. No explosion of noise. Just the gentle sound of Thought Bubble walking out the room.

Thought Bubble aren’t interested in trends. They don’t care about fitting into a scene. With Mostly True, they’ve proven again that they’re making music on their own terms, with total conviction. The addition of Gelf last year was a full pivot. They’ve embraced storytelling, confrontation, abstraction, and vulnerability in equal measure. This is a deep plunge into a very particular kind of sound world. Not dream pop. Not ambient. Not post-rock. Something else entirely. Something hard to name. This album will challenge you as a listener. It’s weird, uncompromising and patient. For those who do tune in, there’s so much to explore. Every track invites you back in, daring you to notice something you missed the first time. My final thought, do what I did, let go and fall into the world they’ve built.

Mostly True is available on vinyl, CD, cassette or digital via Moolakii Club Audio Interface. Make sure and give Thought Bubble a follow over on Bandcamp.

You can follow Thought Bubble on social media here…

SILK – but then, yes

I’ve said it before; they must be adding essence of shoegaze to the water in Ireland. The new sounds bursting from the Irish shoegaze scene right now is testament. You can feel it. And right in the middle of that growing storm is Silk, the solo project from Michael Smyth, guitarist and songwriter for Belfast favourites Virgins.

Where Virgins lean into shimmering textures and sharp hooks, Silk pulls the sound in a different direction. Heavier. Moodier. More expansive. After announcing the project with the outstanding debut single ‘Faze’, which I covered here earlier in the year, Smyth returns now with ‘but then, yes’. A track that feels darker and more patient, but no less urgent.

It opens in a daze. The guitars don’t just chime, they loom. Dense waves of tone drift in slowly, then stretch out like they’re filling every corner of the mix. There’s a sense that something’s coming, but the track doesn’t rush. It hangs in that moment, letting the air thicken. The vocal pairing here is key. Smyth brings in AJ Das from Dublin’s Picture Postcard, whose presence shifts the whole balance. There’s an intimacy to Das’ voice that cuts through the haze. Their combined delivery adds a sort of call and response tension, but never in a neat or obvious way. Everything is submerged. You catch glimpses, not statements.

Lyrically, Smyth has said the song is about the slow transition of relationships—how things edge from platonic into something messier, deeper, more emotionally entangled. The music mirrors that shift. It doesn’t arrive with a bang. It creeps in. The emotions underneath it are uneasy but real.

Production-wise, it’s handled with care. Smyth recorded and performed everything himself before passing it over to trusted collaborators. The mix comes from Jonny Woods (Wynona Bleach, 1980 Something Studios), and it hits with full weight.

This release also arrives ahead of the first Silk live shows. Members of Broncos, Ferals, and Wynona Bleach will be joining Smyth on stage, forming a full band ready to bring this sound into the physical world. Expect sheer volume and emotional intensity in equal measure.

With ‘but then, yes’, Silk takes the sound fashioned for ‘Faze’ and turns it up just a little more. There’s more space, more ambition, more depth. It confirms what I suspected: this isn’t a side project, this is something fully-formed, alive, and growing.

Shoegaze needs bands that take risks with noise and feeling. Silk is doing both. This track cements them as one of the most essential new acts in the scene.

‘but then, yes’ is out now and you can download it from the Silk Bandcamp Page.

You can follow Silk on social media here…..

Coming Up Roses – How Did We Fall So Far?

Coming Up Roses arrived on the underground radar with the youthful shimmer of Waters in 2019, matured through the bittersweet reflections of Everything Is in 2021, and sharpened their melodic bite on the self‑titled EP that followed last year. Each release hinted at bigger statements to come, yet none predicted quite how emotionally wide this debut would swing.

This is a band that have taken their time. This album has been quietly building in the background, tucked between festival sets, the aforementioned EP drops and a slow but steady word-of-mouth groundswell. With roots split between Singapore and the UK, they’ve never felt locked into one scene or sound. Instead, they’ve carved out something personal, guitar music that isn’t afraid to be tender, loud, and completely transparent.

There’s a definite shift here. How Did We Fall So Far? feels more exposed than anything they’ve done before. The songs go deeper, linger longer, and aren’t looking for easy exits. I asked the band to tell us more about this change in tone.

“We drew a lot on our personal emotional journey of our move from Singapore to the UK. This record touches on emotions that people would not necessarily want to show the world, but we wanted people to be able to relate to them and through that, let them know that it’s okay to feel these things.”

‘Hello Miss Anxiety’ is our opener and  it drifts in on a hush of cymbal wash before Emily pleads, “Hello Miss Anxiety, will you go quietly?”. Guitars flicker like faulty neon, building a pulse that mirrors a racing heartbeat. When the chorus blooms the band let distortion spread in every direction, turning a personal panic attack into an anthem that still feels strangely communal.

Up next ‘I’m In Bed’ is a track that folds in on itself. The band lean into restraint here. The pacing while up there is also heavy, like dragging a duvet across your entire body just to block out the day. What’s powerful is how little they do with so much impact. No tricks. Just a sense of stillness, disorientation, and the vague idea that nothing really helps even when it should. It’s honest in a way that feels brave. The last note finishing on an almost unresolved crescendo just seals the deal.

We stride in to power ballad territory with ‘Over Your Head’.  There’s a weight hanging over this one. The drums whilst measured move forward with purpose, guitars flicker like light on the water. It plays with expectations, on yourself, on others and the way those can grow until you can’t move without feeling crushed by the pressure. It never shouts. It just keeps pushing forward, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched. That sense of trying to hold it all together is felt in every measured beat.

With ‘Little Guy’ the tone changes. It’s sharper, more direct. A protest song wrapped in frustration and half-swallowed rage. The band tighten their grip, with the rhythm section punching through the mix and the guitars suddenly carrying more bite. There’s real tension in the delivery. You can hear the fatigue of being overlooked, but it never folds into self-pity. The softest guitar tone on the album becomes the backdrop for its angriest vocal. Emily spits “Ah, hate to be the little guy” while Charlie Wilson’s bass rumbles like distant thunder. This is a confrontation, not a confession.

Glistening chorus‑laden guitars nod to an early Cranberries influence on ‘Billie and Allie’. The subject matter here is mortality. Lines such as “Billie, won’t you tell me your secret to escaping?” hang in the air like candle smoke. A dreamlike swirl of questions that never quite find answers. The band strip back the noise and let Emilys powerful vocal shine through. Despite the sombre subject matter the song sounds joyous.

‘Tired’ is possibly the most physically felt song on the album. The repetition in the structure mimics that brain-fog burnout perfectly. The band keep things circular, almost hypnotic, as if trying to replicate the loops of overthinking and emotional fatigue. There’s a resignation in the delivery that hits hard but not because it’s sad, but because it’s so familiar.

The band single out ‘Gotta Lose It All’ as the focus cut for good reason. This is pure catharsis. The melody is euphoric and all consuming. The guitars drive the song along with intent but also with reall care and sympathy to the nature of the lyrics. Just check out when Emily sings “Don’t know how it happened” looping over and over while the band stack layer on layer until the song becomes a tidal wave. For this isn’t just the best song in the album, it’s the best song they’ve written to date.

Piano takes centre stage for ‘I Miss You’, offering fragile footing for a portrait of grief. There’s a stillness to this one that feels sacred. No posturing, no need to impress. Just grief, laid bare. The arrangement gives the song room to breathe, to pause, to cry if it needs to. One of the album’s most disarming moments that’s so relatable as we have all felt that loss. The mix allows empty space to ring around each chord. It’s so powerful.

‘Awake’ is a slow descent into the kind of insomnia that blurs lines between nightmare and waking. The arrangement swells and recedes like shallow breathing, mirroring the liminal state between nightmare and dawn. The guitars loop and shimmer like flickering light from a hallway bulb that never quite stays on. Never settling, the song shifts shape as it goes. Every corner feels just slightly off. A sonic portrait of unrest that lands somewhere between surreal and terrifying.

The title track steps back from interior monologue to ask the world at large, “How Did We Fall So Far?’ This, the final track feels less like a conclusion and more like the start of another hard question. The band strip back again here, making space for doubt, discomfort and reflection. It’s less about finding meaning and more about admitting you don’t have any left in the tank. It doesn’t fade out, it just steps away quietly, as if unsure if anything else needs to be said.

Coming Up Roses have stretched every lesson from their EP years into something deeper and braver. The record traces anxiety, loss, and exhaustion yet somehow lands on possibility. It’s full of worn-out thoughts, grief that still stings, and those heavy quiet days when you’re not sure who you are anymore. The band doesn’t rush to fix anything. They just sit with it. And that, somehow, is exactly what makes this record stick. If any of these songs mirror your own late‑night inner voice, press play again and let them keep you company. Then tell a friend. Music like this deserves to travel.

How Did We Fall So Far? Is out now on vinyl, CD and digital streaming and will also be available at local record stores around the world including Rough Trade (UK), White Wabbit (Taiwan) and Disk Union (Japan).

You can follow Coming Up Roses on social media here …