MUSIC

On the eve of Drop Nineteens' first live performances in 30 years, we are excited to announce the reissue of the band's 1992 shoegaze masterpiece, Delaware. "Reissue" is slightly misleading as Delaware has never actually been issued on vinyl in the United States. Delaware is the debut studio album by American band Drop Nineteens released on June 19, 1992. Despite the albums release over 30 years ago, and the band remaining inactive from 1993 onwards this album has remained a favorite of shoegaze fans for decades, and was listed as one of the 50 best shoegaze albums of all time by Pitchfork in 2016. This lasting love of the record has cemented the band as one of the most influential bands of the genre from their time. Over the last several years the album has found a new audience that has championed Delaware along side of the band's mostly UK 90's contemporaries. A new legion of Drop Nineteens fans have likely discovered their music through streaming services, rather than on 120 Minutes. Tracks like the towering "Kick The Tragedy" and pop songs "Winona" & "Delaware" sit next to more experimental moments like "Reberrymemberer." And while the album is certainly a wild ride, it all flows together as easily as singers' Greg Ackell and Paula Kelley's vocals.Now for the first time, this record will be available via a USA pressing on yellow colored vinyl. Remastered for vinyl by Carl Saff the album will be available on June 21st.

Gilla Band Ireland’s favourite Avant-punk quartet has re-issued The Early Years EP, a collection of out of print 7” singles and covers originally released on Any Other City Records and The Quarter Inch Collective and then on Rough Trade Records in 2015. The re-issue features new artwork based on the original colour blocks plus The Cha Cha Cha has now been remastered alongside the rest of the tracks and is ready for the dancefloor once again.

Fan fave (and live setlist staple) featured on the collection is an eight-minute cover of post-dubstep mastermind Blawan’s absurdist banger and demented earworm “Why They Hide Their Bodies Under My Garage” that, simply put, is unlike anything you’ve ever heard before or since.

Graham Jonson is drawn to the comforts of melody and noise. How the two conspire in tension, tonally and atonally, stirring up memory and mood. This quality animates the technicolor world of quickly, quickly, the psych-pop project that emanates from Kenton Sound, his basement studio in Portland, Oregon. “Everywhere your eye lands, there’s another curio to marvel over,” noted Pitchfork’s Philip Sherburne when he visited Jonson’s recording space for a Rising feature just after the release of his “strikingly original” 2021 debut LP, The Long and Short of It. Since then, Jonson formed a live band, released his Easy Listening EP in 2023, got into production projects (for Moses Sumney, Kid LAROI, and SahBabii), and navigated the up-and-downs of a young musician, the sustainability of tours and relationships. While shaped by personal bouts and fallouts, his highly-anticipated full-length follow-up finds Jonson making music that’s universal, open-ended, and rewarding, like great songwriters can do. He set out to make a folk album but couldn’t help coloring it in with noise; a confluence of lush instrumentation and unexpected sounds. Ambitious yet intimate, hi-fi yet homespun, the idiosyncratic songs on I Heard That Noise curve around the contours of everyday life with warmth, wit, and dissonance.

When asked to unpack the inputs of I Heard That Noise, Jonson cites the unpredictable vocal melodies and sound design of Phil Elverum (The Microphones, Mount Eerie), the raw emotion of Dijon, and the timeless cadence of Nick Drake. While drums were the focus of Easy Listening, he challenged himself to think outside of the beat with new material: “to see how much I could do with a song, specifically with production, without having a beat to it… there are moments with drums but it was more about the space in between.” Songs utilize visceral delay and distortion; sometimes, they melt out of frame before the peak or take sharp turns with sudden chord changes or sweeping jolts he likens to “jump scares” in film. “Experimenting with the idea of being comfortable, and then some crazy shit flies at you, takes you out of it for a second, and then maybe brings you back in.” What makes these non-linear choices effective is that Jonson remains a natural pop architect, knowing where to push and pull, add and subtract; and essentially, how to draw in and hold one’s attention.

Themes reach from recent experiences — a breakup followed by “periods of either being miserable or, like, living…trying to better myself” — to childhood memories. There’s a recurring low-frequency hum in his neighborhood; he and his friends have come to know it as the “Kenton Sound” (which gives his studio its name), and they’ve narrowed it down to some industrial testing site nearby. Every time it vibrates, he thinks of that time he heard “that noise” while skateboarding outside his mom’s house. Similar, but louder, scarier, a sky siren of sorts. “I remember all the dogs started barking in the neighborhood at the same time...a really weird, bizarre phenomenon.” The thought pattern, scattered with a cathartic headspace, led him to record the title track, where an abrasive intro dissipates into a sweet piano ballad about remembering and surrendering.

Jonson has a knack for interludes and outros, and he’s in full stride here; the opener’s ambient wobbles snap into the stomp of “Enything,” which at one point swelled with so much information he needed to get a new computer. Above bright and jagged guitar lines, harmonized with backing vocals from friend and past tourmate Julia Logue, Jonson playfully rattles through everything he’d do (“for you”). He’s quick to admit he often dreads the process of writing lyrics, yet the loose wordplay of “Enything” is proof his subconscious runs clever.

On “Take It From Me,” subtle sonic flourishes surround acoustic strums and tender keys as Jonson recalls the resignation of a night when a relationship’s end was imminent (“a great storm is coming over the hill.”). He explains, “I've always found peace in knowing that other people, even if I don't know their exact experience, may have the same feeling that I do.” The mantra-like reprise of “Take It from Me” carries that notion, a soft reassurance before the song washes away.

Kenton Sound’s ceiling can attest to the truth of “I Punched Through A Wall.” Jonson says in reality, the act emerged from a silly intrusive thought. The image (“The silhouette of myself”) lent a figurative scene to wrap real angst around. “I feel love like a cannon ball / I like being ripped apart,” he sings over one of the record’s sweetest, most pop-forward arrangements. As the chorus takes its final pass, a gentle piano phrase gets clipped by an outburst of power chords and feedback, repeating the lines twice as loud.

“Raven” crosses fable-like fiction with the sad story of a friend who lost his way; and just when the track’s innocent country twang settles in, he pulls the rug out with near-metal levels of heavy. The juxtaposition gets to the heart of I Heard That Noise. By excavating the extremes of his sound, Jonson not only brings the best out of himself but introduces myriad ways to engage with his music, which grows ever more inviting and boundless. 
<p><iframe seamless="" src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=824606394/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=333333/artwork=none/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 472px;">I Heard That Noise quickly, quickly</iframe></p>

Taba, the new album from Japanese musician, songwriter and traveller Satomimagae, unfolds as a series of vignettes that document both the personal and the universal, seen and unseen. Observing and absorbing the fleeting scenes and sounds of life flowing outside of her home studio, Satomi sings beyond herself, in an orbit of souls and systems both in the present and in the strange flux of memory, leaving linear songwriting to rest for circuitous stories expanded and expansive in tone and texture.

Mac DeMarco, the cult-favourite singer-songwriter known for sampling on Sekito Shigeo's ‘The Word II’ and collaborating with Haruomi Hosono, released his third studio masterpiece in three years in 2017 on indie giant Captured Tracks. The demo of his third studio album This Old Dog, released in 2017 on indie giant Captured Tracks, is now available on cassette. It's an accessible lo-fi indie-pop album with psychedelia.

Jagjaguwar is proud to release the long lost Julie Doiron album 'Broken Girl', expanded to include her first two 7"s. It was originally released in 1996 by Doiron after her band--the psychedelic folk group Eric's Trip--had crumbled around her, under the temporary moniker "Broken Girl". The name did nothing to hide her feelings regarding the breakup of her band and the relationships that she shared with its members; neither did the songs on the record. The twelve songs from the original album come across like an epitaph for a departed lover. 'Broken Girl' was indeed a new beginning for Doiron, both as a solo artist as well as a record label executive. The first two Broken Girl 7"s (both included on this reissue), as well as the self-titled full-length were released on her own label Sappy Records, a label which went on to release her Juno Award-winning 'Julie Doiron & the Wooden Stars' full-length as well as releases by Moonsocket, Orange Glass, Snailhouse, and Elevator to Hell.

'Broken Girl' was a watershed for Doiron, showing her to be the sort of songwriter and performer that Eric's Trip only hinted at. Achingly beautiful and showcasing her vocal style and personality as a songwriter, the reviews immediately put her in the same class as Leonard Cohen in terms of importance as a Canadian solo artist. The album was self-recorded in the same home-y manner as the classic Eric's Trip albums which helped--along with albums by peers Sebadoh, East River Pipe and Smog--define the bedroom aesthetic of the early '90s. While some rock scribes would call it lo-fi, the fidelity of the recordings that Doiron and her Eric's Trip mates employed in the first half of the '90s was clearly the most appropriate medium. The close-mic'ing of everything from the vocals to the swirling guitars and peaking drums created a sense of real intimacy (while avoiding a lot of the awkward pitfalls that so many confessional songwriters run into) and suburban claustrophobia. It is very easy to see the four-piece as a Nick Drake-like entity who had been raised on the far East Coast of Canada in Moncton, New Brunswick on the SST catalog (Eric's Trip took their name from the Sonic Youth song from Daydream Nation) and whose nucleus was a four-fold of independently-minded co-dependents with no need for a producer or other intermediary to the recording process which might break the spell for even a moment.

Initially released in a scant edition of 1,000, 'Broken Girl' went immediately out of print and has become a highly sought-after collector's piece.

"Fellow Canadian songwriter Leonard Cohen once titled an album Songs From A Room. Montreal-based Julie Doiron apparently took up residence there and removed whatever furniture was left behind."--Rob O'Connor, Rolling Stone 

Moin follow their EOY-topping 'You Never End' with a pithy jazz-pilled appendix, bringing back poet Sophia Al-Maria and adding Ben Vince's circuitous horns to offset Valentina Magaletti's gummiest live rhythms. Next level biz, obvs - crucial listening whether you're into Slint, Tara Clerkin Trio, Mica Levi/Spresso, Bark Psychosis or Still House Plants.

Not exactly a continuation, 'Belly Up' is a fresh bite cooked from similar ingredients. Moin bent out the tabs last year on their third album, emulsifying the post-punk and hardcore oils that smeared their early plates with modish funk and disintegrated, industrial-strength noize. Joe Andrews, Tom Halstead and Valentina Magaletti cogitate over the same themes here, but train their senses on jazz, assembling brittle and mutable modernist shapes around impeccably springy live syncopations.

Raw, direct opener 'See' is a case in point; Qatari-American artist, writer and filmmaker Al-Maria's droll non sequiturs helped cement the aesthetic of 'You Never End' and make a welcome return, now inserted between Magaletti's sluggish marching band extemporisations and prolific collaborator Ben Vince's transcendent sax loops. Andrews and Halstead keep it restrained, tagging on deadened hardcore tangs and a nasal keyboard vamps that maps the London topography between 4Hero and Tirzah. Vince appears again on 'I'm Really Flagging (or I Trusted U)'; what sounds like a clip from the same ad-libbed workout surges next to flimsy synths and cheeky samples. It plays like a sequel, still rallying around Magaletti's exaggerated, tom-heavy patter, suggesting alternate routes to the finale.

The boxy, no-wave curdled funk that characterized 'You Never End' is reheated on 'X.U.Y.' and evaporated into a quiescent mantra, but Moin's most ambrosian moments appear when they reduce the heat. 'You Leave Me Breathless' sounds as if it's a loose, unplanned rehearsal, with AutoTuned crows melting over a long, limber patchwork of paradiddles from Magaletti. And the trio don't completely ignore the rave backroom, banging together grungy Akai-coruscated samples and 808 State synths on the greyscale 'I Don't Know Where To Look'. As always, they don't exactly boot us back to the '90s - Moin make us wonder what it might have sounded like if there was access to a different array of technology.

In dark and difficult times, the music of Barney Lister and Kojo Degraft-Johnson lifts us up. As MRCY, across the eight tracks of VOLUME 2, they deliver on their premise of emotive music that surprises as much as it comforts, referencing timeless sounds as much as a sense of the cutting edge. If their debut release, 2024’s VOLUME 1, which blended Kojo’s ecstatic vocals and Barney’s masterful analogue production, showcased MRCY’s lightning-in-a-bottle chemistry, VOLUME 2 builds from there to a collection that is more sophisticated, thematic, and definitely more modern, exploring love, self-discovery, and healing. “We’re trying to extinguish fear with optimism and worry with love,” Barney says, on confronting the many crises of modern life in their new release. “VOLUME 2 breaks the mould to present a bigger picture of who we are – something with angst, surprises and more guts.” Opening numbers “Angels” and “Wanna Know (Ontario)” draw on a classic MRCY feel with their infectious grooves, soaring group harmonies and warm uplifting horns, harnessing Kojo’s flawless falsetto in an emotive introspection that yearns for a better future or for the affection of another. Yet, as the record progresses, MRCY launches into unexpected sounds and new themes. On “Man”, Kojo sings about the challenges of modern masculinity and questions the ways that men can change for the better over an energetic afrobeat polyrhythms and a jazz-inflected flute solo. “Being a man in this world is complicated and it can feel like a battle to stay open and kind," Kojo explains. “That’s why the track has that driving battle groove and the lines ‘Move out the dark and lead with light/Fight for the love a thousand times’ because we need to come together to make ourselves change for the better." Standout number “Flicker” sees Kojo sing about the temptation to give yourself emotionally to people who don’t deserve it over a Ghanaian highlife riff and a dancefloor-filling bassline. First meeting in 2021 after Barney discovered a clip of Kojo singing on Instagram and was taken by his soaring, Stevie Wonder-referencing vocals, the pair linked up at Barney’s Brixton studio and discovered an immediate connection. “It’s the most natural music I’ve ever made,” Kojo says. “Being with Barney in the studio, the ideas just come pouring out and we always lead with our initial feelings, since that produces the most authentic and heartfelt music.” The duo’s innate confidence in each other stems from their impressive musical pedigree. Barney grew up in Huddersfield and was introduced to the Yorkshire town’s soundsystem culture from an early age before going on to produce and collaborate with everyone from vocalist Obongjayar to popstar Rina Sawayama, Mercury Prize-nominees Joy Crookes, Olivia Dean and Celeste and Glaswegian soul singer Joesef. Kojo, meanwhile, draws on his South London Church-going background to deliver a mighty vocal power that references gospel emotion, choral harmony and the catalogue of soul greats like Sam Cooke and Aretha Franklin. Earning his stripes on London’s jam circuit, he has since provided vocals for Cleo Sol, Little Simz, Jungle and Liam Gallagher. Following the release of VOLUME 1 on tastemaking label Dead Oceans, MRCY earned a nomination for Rising Star at the Rolling Stone Awards and were named one of DIY’s Class of 2025 and Rolling Stone’s Ones to Watch. The duo also embarked on a UK and EU tour with US soul group Black Pumas and sold out their headline show at London’s Jazz Café, honing an assertive stage presence that channels tight-knit classic soul ensembles in the process. “The whole of 2024 felt like a dream, from getting signed to touring and playing our first shows to thousands of people,” says Barney. “It was a process that brought the two of us closer together, since we’ve been through so much now. Seeing the music take on a life of its own has also driven us to make even more of a statement with VOLUME 2.” The duo have certainly made huge strides since their debut release last year, and with live dates planned for later in 2025, as well as writing set to commence on their debut album, it seems there is no slowing down MRCY – a group making vital music that speaks to the complexities of being alive today. “The main feeling of the project is that the world is fucked but let’s dance through it,” Barney says. “We can’t wait for people to hear it and to feel energised by the message.” It’s a sound and a signal that has never felt more necessary.

</p><iframe style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 373px;" src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1786378255/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=333333/artwork=none/transparent=true/" seamless><a href="https://armlock.bandcamp.com/album/trust">Trust by Armlock</a></iframe><iframe style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 373px;" src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1786378255/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=333333/artwork=none/transparent=true/" seamless><a href="https://armlock.bandcamp.com/album/trust">Trust by Armlock</a></iframe>

In October 1987, four months after the release of their critically acclaimed Sister LP, Sonic Youth showcased their latest work in a blistering set at Cabaret Metro, Chicago. The concert was introduced by Big Black's Steve Albini (who at the time was banned from the venue) and subsequently released as a semi-official bootleg under the title Hold That Tiger on writer/provocateur Byron Coley's impishly Geffen-baiting label Goofin' (years later the band would use this nom de guerre for their own imprint). Hold That Tiger's sterling reputation among the Sonic Youth faithful is well deserved. In fact, it isn't a stretch to suggest that the album is to the first handful of SY releases what It's Alive is to the first three Ramones LPs – a feral and liberatory public snapshot of a band's blossoming imperial phase. Indeed, HTT is the sound of a group at the peak of their powers, presenting new songs alongside a handful of older ones with the kind of wild, cathartic enthusiasm common to rock 'n' roll's most revered live albums. Taking nothing away from Sister – inarguably one of indie rock's first true masterpieces – it is reasonable that many fans prefer the live versions heard on Hold That Tiger to their studio counterparts. On HTT, Sonic Youth is a spiky, pummeling and confident force, alternately mammoth and meditative. Sister and its predecessor EVOL notably added an airy, dreamlike reverie to the band's turbulent doom-lurch, a stylistic evolution that seems to crystallize on HTT. Throughout, Kim Gordon's sinewy, sumptuous bass and Steve Shelley's propulsive, tom-heavy percussion provide the bedrock groove for Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo's ferocious barrages of noise-guitar crunch. By 1987, the band was confidently articulating their dual lexicon of punk-noir dissonance and supernal, psychedelic sonic calligraphy – bending their jagged, streetwise gnarl into balloon animals of dazzling and beautiful songs. This collision of splendor and chaos would become a hallmark of the group's singular alchemy as well as provide a blueprint for the post-SST American underground they would help invent and ultimately nurture. Hold That Tiger's encore – four songs by the band's beloved Ramones, which Thurston would later astutely compare to "the perfect pudding after a hearty meal" – serves as a reminder that, like any true punks, Sonic Youth never could resist a good, rousing anthem to send the kids home with their ears ringing, their hearts hot-wired. This first-time reissue comes with gatefold jacket. Mastered by Bob Weston from the orginal tapes. Recorded by Aadam Jacobs. Audio repair/editing by Aaron Mullan.

Funded by Capitol, tracked in 14 studios, issued by Tiger Style, and lost in the Y2K shuffle, Ida’s fourth album captures a band caught between Brooklyn and Woodstock, temping and adulting, burying a parent and birthing a child. A tireless compendium and ode to sleep, sex, all-night talking, and other bed-ridden activities, Will You Find Me‘s 14-songs are pillowed with 34 outtakes, alternate mixes, 4-track demos, and covers from the band’s extensive vault, unfolding thematically across four LPs. The accompanying 24-page booklet documents Ida’s major label album that never was in both stunning photographs and Douglas Wolk’s blow-by-blow essay. Who were you then?

In the discourse around new albums from singular, world-building artists, the phrase “a big step forward” can often be a blinking red warning sign. You know you’re about to be pulled somewhere new against your will. Inertia is a hell of a thing. It’s nice here.

Surely, the party’s not over yet? JJULIUS’ Vol. 3 album is a big step forward, or a step up, out of the murky basement of the preceding two volumes. There’s no time to acclimate. A spindly violin grabs you by the hand and pulls you into the pastoral bounce of “Brinna ut,” which, in spite of its meaning (“Burn out”), creates the kind of blind positivity and warm stomach feeling less cynical people might find in self-help seminars. For us, we have records like this. And, inertia be damned, Vol. 3 has charm like a balm.

JJULIUS records have always arrived like meteors from another planet, an impression hammered home by the fact that they’re titled like compendiums of artifacts. And while Vols. 1 and 2 carried that notable tinge of darkness, Vol. 3 has (almost!) cast that shadow, adding elements of disco (“Dödsdisco”) and
dream-pop (“Etopisk hallucination”) to his forever favorites Arthur Russell, African Head Charge, and The Fall.

Some of that new car smell could be attributed to a change in process. Each song was written over beats played by Tor Sjödén of the wild-eyed Stockholm group Viagra Boys, beats that were themselves inspired by tracks from the likes of Patrick Cowley, CAN, Count Ossie, Black Devil Disco Club and others that Julius would send to him as inspiration.

Unless you’re Mark E. Smith, fervor fades. Eventually we all crave a lie down in some nice grass, a few minutes to gaze at the sky and wonder if everything is actually all that bad. Vol. 3 gives you 35 of those respiting minutes. “No looking back, no misery, no talking trash, no enemies.”
<iframe style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 208px;" src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1295288989/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=333333/artwork=none/transparent=true/" seamless><a href="https://mammasmysteriskajukebox.bandcamp.com/album/jjulius-vol-3">JJULIUS-VOL.3 by JJULIUS</a></iframe>

Limited edition gatefold double LP. Includes 12 page booklet of liner notes, photos, band ephemera and other visual miscellanea. Bulbous Monocle focuses its lens further into the legacy and archives of the Thinking Fellers Union Local 282. These Things Remain Unassigned — a phrase coined by Brian Hageman, one of the band’s musical snake appendages emanating from its Medusa crown — is presented by Bulbous Monocle as a double LP (gatefold jacket with a twelve page libretto). BM-03 gathers together the band’s singles, compilation tracks, outtakes and never before released gems encompassing the arc of TFUL’s musical corpus. Every track has been surgically remastered by Mark Gergis (Porest/Sublime Frequencies/Mono Pause) with his signature craftsman approach. This collection is an auditory and visual feast. The extensive booklet included features band ephemera, concert flyers, photographs, and commentary about each track from Mark Davies. Beyond the rare singles and unreleased tracks from the TFUL archives, are cover versions from such disparate artists and composers as: Ennio Morricone, Krzysztof Komeda, The Residents, The Shaggs, Caroliner Rainbow and Pérez Prado. “…In addition to these compilation one-offs, there were also a few studio recordings that were never quite completed or released. Throw in an alternate mix or two and the handful of singles that came out on various labels over the years, and you end up with what I feel works well as its own body of work, a bunch of adopted oddballs that somehow fit together as a family. I hope youʼll agree with me that these things are now no longer unassigned, but part of a somewhat cohesive whole, stitched together into something mysterious and glistening —Mark Davies (2023)”

release date June 7th. Formed in 2018 by Takujuro Iwade, film director and drummer Kaya Koike and Mayumi Sakurai with the theme of " Lovers Rock from the other side," Love Wonderland performs reggae with a unique interpretation influenced by psychedelia and synth-pop.

The Best Twilights LP compiles tracks from three demos released between 2019 and 2024 and reflects their full spectrum from electronic dub to pop tinted reinterpretation of their peers.
Considered as the best kept secret of the Japanese dub scene, they continue to grow at each live performance with faith and passion.

Love Wonderland's main aspiration is to keep their motto alive.

Mastered by Krikor Kouchain and limited to 400 copies.

Half asleep you hear a guitar echo through the early morning haze, you're so zonked you cant tell if its a dream or if the droney reverb is coming from real life, you sit up, now starting to understand what is afoot. Thats right, its the errant kings of slowcore Duster returning with yet another surprise release - In Dreams. Disintegrated, half remembered melodies permeate this record like a slow tide of static soaking into a discarded slice of sponge cake, proving somehow inventive and nostalgic at the same time, in other words Duster on top form.

Phoebe Bridgers wrote her first song at age 11, spent her adolescence at open mic nights, and busked through her teenage years at farmers markets in her native Los Angeles. By age 20, she'd caught the ear of Ryan Adams, who listened to her perform her song "Killer" in his L.A. studio, inviting her to come back and record it there the next day. The session blossomed into the three-song ‘Killer’ EP, released to much acclaim on Adams’s Pax-Am label in 2015. In the two short years since, Bridgers has toured or played with Conor Oberst, Julien Baker, City and Colour, Violent Femmes, Mitski, Television and Blake Babies among others. On September 22nd, Phoebe Bridgers will release her debut full-length, Stranger In The Alps. From the weeping strings and Twin Peaks twangs of opening track Smoke Signals, to the simple heartbreak of Funeral and melancholic crescendo of Scott Street, Stranger in the Alps is a swooningly beautiful record with a gothic heart.

Originally released in 1996 as a limited fan-club pressing for Rockathon, Guided By Voices' Tonics And Twisted Chasers has always existed as an anomaly in Robert Pollard's vast discography. In many ways, the album serves as the tail of a creative comet that in just two years included the "classic line-up" trilogy of Bee Thousand, Alien Lanes, Under the Bushes, Under the Stars and countless singles that crammed endless hooks in their grooves. In the intervening space, Tonics And Twisted Chasers has taken on a mythic status. It's arguably Pollard's strangest, gnarliest, most enlightened record and also the fans first chance to see the stitches that bind his galaxy of songs. It's like peering at the caliber inside a watch, responsible for making the whole enterprise tick. This nineteen-song collaboration with guitarist Tobin Sprout could be interpreted as spontaneous sketches, late-night improvisations, ideas that blossomed later in the timeline ("Knock 'Em Flying" and "Key Losers"), but as with anything in Pollard's orbit, its intention is clear when heard as a cohesive whole. The Pollard tenet that "less is more" is on full display here. The songs rarely creep past ninety seconds and coalesce much like Pollard's collage-styled visual art. Arena anthems in miniature ("158 Years of Beautiful Sex") bash up against eerie piano laments ("Universal Nurse Finger") without any time to breathe, acoustic lullabies that sound like a Midwestern summer's twilight ("Look It's Baseball") segue into monochromatic post-rock ("Maxwell Jump"). The euphoric joy and obtuse melancholy in Pollard's voice is so palpable on the album's standout, "Dayton, Ohio - 19 Something & 5" (which has since become a live staple), that it's impossible to find a more autobiographical yarn in his catalog. The album's closest analog is 1993's Vampire On Titus, as it contains that album's prickly, dark and shimmering obfuscation that only reveals its beauty after repeated listens. Tonics And Twisted Chasers maintains the lore because the melodies are so strong. Using a primitive drum machine, Radio Shack effects, minimal instrumentation and the DIY spirit that guided them in the first place, Pollard and Sprout construct a masterpiece of pop that could only come from a basement in north Dayton, Ohio. Anyone in that hallowed era who happened upon it, kept it as a secret.

The duo’s third album of instrumental guitar recordings pushes their sinuous compositions into labyrinthine new shapes, interlocking and interlocutory, supported by a cast of stellar collaborators. Interwoven among the dazzling original pieces is a fascinating array of covers, ranging from traditional Breton dance tunes to a deconstruction of Neneh Cherry’s “Buffalo Stance.

As Warped Tour pop-punk and American Apparel indie rock dominated the strange post-Y2K guitar-band milieu, Boston’s Karate delivered an engrossing shot of rock that constantly shifted between several shades of subterranean sounds. The quiet moments on Karate’s millennium busting fourth album carry much of that old, unbridled intensity, braided into subdued jazz melodies and slowcore restraint. This 25th anniversary edition of Unsolved replicates the original 2000 pressing’s side D, and includes the Death Kit 7” and split with Crown Hate Ruin. God forgive us.

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Whatever sense of unity bound a hodgepodge of underground American punk sounds in the 1990s like a Duct-tape wallet began to come unglued by the end of the decade. A couple years into the new millennium and the emo scene that once had enough space for a band as brazen in their fusion of slowcore, jazz, and post-hardcore as Boston’s Karate would barely be reflected in a cookie-cutter style commercialized by major labels and mid-level indies that acted like the majors. The part of punk that overlapped with indie rock would begin a slow ascent from its comfortable home on college radio charts to the soundtrack of American Apparel shops and eventually the Billboard charts. In this strange, stratifying milieu, Karate, a band that seemed to thrive by cleaving to a nether-zone between several sounds that otherwise never touched, delivered an engrossing constantly shifting shot of rock that covered three sides of 12-inch vinyl: Unsolved arrived in 2000.

Karate spent much of the ’ 90s wrestling punk aggression and volume into svelte shapes and often condensed what felt like a generation of scuffed-up intensity into whispers. The quiet moments carried much of that unbridled intensity throughout Unsolved —the fuzzy guitar squawk and snatchet of machine-gun drumming on “Sever” aside, things hit a little more sharply the moment the trio pivoted into their subdued jazz melodic interplay on that song. Karate’s transition into indie-rock maturity had become so complete by the time they dropped Unsolved that you could play the coffeehouse soul of “Halo of the Strange” and sultry jazz of “Lived-But-Yet-Named” to an unsuspecting punk and spend an entire evening trying to convince them that, yes, this band had made their bones playing the same DIY circuit made of bands that sounded like they wanted to harm their audience. But few bands other than Karate played like they understood the musical lingua franca of scene godheads such as Fugazi and Unwound, and knew how to make that language evolve, and nearly every song on Unsolved made that clear. If you didn’t get the memo by the end of the elegiac 11-minute closer “This Day Next Year,” which gained an irrepressible power from a plaintive guitar melody cycling through the song’s back half like a yearnsome cry for the divine, you might’ve been better off buying a ticket for Warped Tour and waiting a decade or two to figure it out. 

Half asleep you hear a guitar echo through the early morning haze, you're so zonked you cant tell if its a dream or if the droney reverb is coming from real life, you sit up, now starting to understand what is afoot. Thats right, its the errant kings of slowcore Duster returning with yet another surprise release - In Dreams. Disintegrated, half remembered melodies permeate this record like a slow tide of static soaking into a discarded slice of sponge cake, proving somehow inventive and nostalgic at the same time, in other words Duster on top form.

Bon Iver’s three-song collection SABLE, was an act of vulnerability and unburdening. Written and recorded at a breaking point, they were songs of reflection, fear, depression, solitude, and atonement. The word “sable” implies darkness, and in that triptych, Justin Vernon sought to unpack some long-compounded pain. Then, at the tail end of its final track “AWARDS SEASON,” there’s the barest thread of a lighter melody—a drone, a glimmer, an ember, hope for something more. SABLE, was the prologue, a controlled burn clearing the way for new possibilities. fABLE is the book. Stories of introduction and celebration. The fresh growth that blankets the charred ground. Where SABLE, was a work of solitude, fABLE is an outstretched hand.

Compared to the sparse minimalism of its three-song table setter, fABLE is all lush vibrance. Radiant, ornate pop music gleams around Vernon’s voice as he focuses on a new and beautiful era. On every song, his eyes are locked with one specific person. It’s love, which means there’s an intense clarity, focus, and honesty within fABLE. It’s a portrait of a man flooded and overwhelmed by that first meeting (“Everything Is Peaceful Love”). There’s a tableau defined by sex and irrepressible desire (“Walk Home”). This is someone filled with light and purpose seeing an entire future right in front of him: a partner, new memories, maybe a family.

While not as minimal as its companion EP, fABLE’s sound appears to walk back the dense layers of sound Vernon hid behind on records like i,i and 22, a million. There’s nothing evasive or boundary-busting about this music. It’s a canvas for truth laid bare. Much of the album was recorded at Vernon’s April Base in Wisconsin after years of the studio laying dormant during a renovation. The album’s conceptual genesis happened on 2.22.22 when Jim-E Stack, Vernon’s close collaborator and guide throughout the creative process, arrived at the base with Danielle Haim. Snowed in for multiple days, their voices intertwined for the ballad “If Only I Could Wait.” Suddenly, Haim gave voice to this crucial perspective—the one Vernon seems to hold in sacred regard across fABLE. Accompanied by Rob Moose’s strings, it’s a track about weariness—about not having the strength to be the best version of yourself outside the glow of new love.

There’s something undeniably healing about infatuation. Cleaving to someone else can feel like light pouring in from a door that’s suddenly swung wide. But there’s a reason SABLE, is of a piece with fABLE; even after you put in the work, the shadow still rears its head from time to time. On “There’s A Rhythmn,” Vernon finds himself back in an old feeling, this time seeking an alternative instead of erasure: “Can I feel another way?” There’s an understanding that even when you’ve reached a new chapter, you’ll always find yourself back in your own foundational muck. A fable isn’t a fairy tale. Yes, there’s the good shit: unbridled joy, trips to Spain, the color salmon as far as the eye can see. But fables aren’t interested in happy endings or even endings at all; they’re here to instill a lesson.

As the album winds to a close, he acknowledges the need for patience and a commitment to put in the work. There’s a selfless rhythm required when you’re enmeshing yourself with another person. The song—and by extension the entire album—is a pledge. He’s ready to find that pace. 

The world has finally caught up with Slowdive. A band whose reach goes far beyond just influencing music is back, with their first new album in 22 years.The album is called Slowdive-- self-titled in an echo of their debut EP from 1990-- and is remarkably direct."We were always ambitious," says frontman Neil Halstead. "Not in terms of trying to sell records, but in terms of making interesting records. Maybe, if you try and make interesting records, they're still interesting in a few years’ time."Now, in 2017, the record is ready and first single from which, "Star Roving," shot to the top of the Billboard Trending 140 Chart."There’s a different energy about it," says drummer Simon Scott. "It took ages to get back together and write songs and for it to click in the studio, but this album doesn't feel like a bolt-on -- it's got an energy that's as vibrant as Souvlaki and Just for a Day. It feels very relevant to now."

Following the release of Everything Harmony, which garnered acclaim from Questlove, Iggy Pop, Anthony Fantano, The Guardian, and countless others, The Lemon Twigs—the New York City rock band fronted by brothers Brian and Michael D’Addario—have once again captured the attention of the music listening public. They are in their premature “comeback” stage, and coming back this early has its benefits; the brothers have the energy of 24- and 26- year-olds, plus the experience and songwriting chops of seasoned musicians, having recorded their first album, Do Hollywood, nearly a decade ago at ages 15 and 17. Set for release less than a year after their last album, A Dream Is All We Know is a joyous affair. As the title suggests, it’s less of a sober look at the darker side of life, and more a hopeful sojourn into the realm of dreams. The tone has shifted away from dreary melancholic ballads and moody power pop. Brian and Michael are revisiting their “1968” sound. This album feels closely related to Do Hollywood, but their songwriting and recording techniques have vastly improved over the course of five albums. The brothers combine elements of the Merseybeat sound, the California Beach Boy harmony sound, and Bubblegum to create a unique collection of pop nuggets. (They say it’s part of a new “Merseybeach” movement, sure to catch on, though that fact remains to be seen.) The sense of urgency imbued in lead single “My Golden Years” comes in part from the jangly 12-string guitars and driving drums, but also from the anxiety of a narrator who can feel their “golden years” slipping away from them. Michael’s line, “In time I hope that I can show all the world the love in my mind,” can serve as a statement of intent for the whole collection of songs, as the brothers race against time to create as much quality pop material as possible. “They Don’t Know How To Fall In Place” propels the album forward into bubblegum paradise with its euphoric harmonies and biting clavinet, while the Roy Wood inspired “Church Bells” takes you on a journey in its two-minute and nine-second run time. At every turn you’re introduced to a new instrument, and as Michael sings “ring goes the bell,” the drummer switches to the bell of the ride cymbal and the song reveals itself as a pop tone poem, complete with cellos, mandolin and trumpets, all played by Brian. Not to mention the fun Mersey pun, using famous drummer Ringo’s name in a song that conflates images of the west side of Manhattan with the atmosphere of northern England. Next comes the titular “A Dream Is All I Know,” an existential space age epic, followed by the baroque pocket-prog of “Sweet Vibration.” Equipped with the songwriting chops of a lost era (somewhere between The Brill Building and 10452 Bellagio Road) the new record was carefully arranged and produced entirely analog in the brothers’ Brooklyn recording studio. Most of the tracks were constructed with the two brothers swapping instruments and layering all the parts themselves. One of the exceptions to that rule was “In The Eyes Of The Girl,” co-produced by Sean Ono Lennon in his upstate New York studio, which had the brothers tracking drums and piano while Lennon handled bass duties. On top of that, the brothers add multilayered harmonies that bring to mind The Beach Boys, The Four Freshman, and The Free Design. Side two’s opener “If You And I Are Not Wise,” has the brothers channeling the Everlys’ close harmonies while seeking spiritual illumination with the line, “I wish that someone could tell me what my soul knows that I don’t know.” Brother Brian says, “There’s definitely an escapist bend to this album. Joyous music can take you out of the world when things get too heavy, which everyone needs sometimes. ” “How Can I Love Her More?” is a whirlwind of musical flights of fancy. Blaring horns and strings set the stage before the song settles into a rollicking shuffle, complete with two drum sets, an adventurous bass part, theremin, flutes and harpsichord. It’s a kitchen sink approach, full of left turns, but never bordering on cacophony. It segues directly into the peaceful, sparser “Ember Days,” propelled by a meditative nylon string pattern that’s part bossa nova, part Nick Drake. The peace doesn’t last long though, as “Peppermint Roses” erupts with a menacing Farfisa into a two-part nightmare comedy that doesn’t let up. The album unwinds with the dreamy “I Should’ve Known Right From The Start.” It’s like a forgotten piece of French Pop that just happens to be sung in English, complete with arpeggiated acoustic guitar, melodic bass and catchy drum hooks. While the album is chock full of progressive pop ideas, it closes with an ode to early rock and roll on “Rock On (Over and Over).” “Rock On” contextualizes the band as part of a lineage of rock and roll that’s never really stopped. In every decade there have been bands that have put their own spin on the music and “push(ed) it on down to the line.” But none have done it with the attention to detail and raw talent of these brothers. For The Lemon Twigs, it took almost a decade for critics and audiences alike to present them with the major accolades they’ve earned this past year. While their initial records were appreciated for the musical proficiency they displayed, the brothers’ past few records have communicated their ideas with more clarity and emotional resonance. In other words, “It took too long to say ‘rock on.’”

Alabaster DePlume often asks a simple question: what do people need? In his work, at his shows, in his collaborations, the Mancunian singer-saxophonist and poet-philosopher poses this to the people around him. What are people looking for? In recent years, the same reply kept coming up: healing, healing, people need healing. But why, and what does it mean to heal, especially in a world where the very idea is often commodified and sold as a luxury? If people were coming to his music for something so mysterious, he ought to figure it out. Maybe he ought to try some healing himself.

“For a long time, I've always tried to give responsibility for my value to someone else,” DePlume told me on a recent phone call. It seemed he’d become so caught up in the work of forging connections, and thinking about the effects of his work on others, that he’d lost a sense of himself. “I was working on that,” he explained.

This experiment in healing included slowing down, reading, reflecting, and even taking up the practice of jiu-jitsu. DePlume wrote poetry, too, including the book 'Looking for my value: prologue to a blade', seventy pages of verse rooted in its title’s great search, in finding strength of self within a community, alongside meditations on the paradox of the blade. “The blade, that divides, is whole,” he writes in the introduction. “Healing is the forming of a whole, and a whole is singular, more itself, as in more one, as in more alone.” A blade could be used to attack, to shave, to sever, but it could also be used to cut oneself loose—in the process of getting free.

“What's the opposite of sleep? It’s trying to sleep,” he told me. “And so what's the opposite of looking for my value? It is knowing my value. It simply is there. My dignity is there. I don't need anyone else to know my dignity, or me, to know it. I know it first. I can't seek it from another. I stand for it.”

Selections from the poetry book ultimately became the lyrics across half of the tracks on 'A Blade Because A Blade Is Whole', DePlume’s latest full-length work for the reliably great International Anthem label: eleven songs of agency and survival and presence; of confronting life’s pains rather than trying to avoid them; of banishing escapism. In sum, it documents his learning of the fact that dignity and self-determination are prerequisites for becoming whole, which is to say, for healing. If a blade were broken it would not serve its purpose; it must be unbroken, it must be whole, to be of use.

In the Alabaster DePlume songbook, the celestial ease of his instrumental tracks can sometimes feel like a trojan horse for a voice that is disarmingly honest about the heaviness of existence. Opener “Oh My Actual Days” is true to form in that sense, with DePlume’s tenor sax and Macie Stewart’s ghostly strings playing together like a slow march towards an inner reckoning, one that’s beautiful because it is true. The punchy and contemplative “Thank You My Pain” makes a rhythmic refrain from his titular lyric, inspired by the Vietnamese monk and peace activist Thích Nhất Hạnh, who urged the importance of listening to one’s own pain. “Hello my little pain, I know you are here,” Nhất Hạnh would say. “I am home to take care of you. I do not want to cover you up with consumption anymore.” While writing A Blade, DePlume “watched loads of him on YouTube.”

Then there’s the gorgeous swell of “Invincibility,” an ode to self-respect that feels a bit like a choir of angels led by a trickster, a group contemplating: how do we live with the forces that seek to destroy us? The whole song feels like a heavy exhale, or like the feeling of reaching the surface after a long while underwater. “If I meet with my feelings, they cannot destroy me,” he told me. “When I allow myself to embody them, physically, then I live through that feeling and I meet with it and I make peace with it and I find that my feeling is me, and I welcome it. It is a sense that I cannot be destroyed by my feeling. I am invincible.”

“Form a V” is the closest DePlume comes to a monologue, and also his song most indebted to his jiu-jitsu practice. “I’ve only been doing it for the past two or three years,” he told me. “But now I don’t know how you get by without it.” The song takes inspiration from a tradition where a whole dojo will stand in the shape of a V, facing just one lone individual, who is then attacked quickly and repeatedly by each of the others. “The title is a challenge to the world,” DePlume explained. “Go on, form a v—I am ready.”

Across the first half of the record, when the sax comes in short phrases, it feels like a highlighter over lines in DePlume’s poetry book. Other times, it plays out like an extension of his voice. “Playing the saxophone feels like singing,” he said. A transfixing run of instrumentals on the second half of the record includes “Prayer for My Sovereign Dignity,” an anthem for self-possession. “Believing in yourself feels ridiculous,” he says. “It's ridiculous, but that's what it takes. That's what's required. To stand for yourself is absurd. Let us do the absurd that is standing for ourselves. There is this prayer going on in the background—you can't quite tell what the words are, but it's basically, I'm praying for my sovereign dignity but I don't need to pray for it. It's not going to be given to me. I already have it.”

Where DePlume’s previous material was drawn from collective sessions, improvisation, and editing, A Blade was tightly composed, arranged and produced by DePlume himself. From there, he brought his compositions to a cast of players and co-arrangers, including Macie Stewart (strings), Donna Thompson (backing vocals), and Momoko Gill (strings and backing vocals), for sessions at the collective arts space Total Refreshment Centre, where he has long been involved.

Born Gus Fairbairn, DePlume is a man of many past lives. He played “rock band type music” as a teenager, and started playing improvised music around 2008. He is compelled by how improvising allows him to “put faith in others.” He taught himself the saxophone around the time that he became employed as a support worker assisting men with mental disabilities; he once called playing music with them “one of the best breakthroughs for me as an artist.” His debut as Alabaster DePlume came in May 2012, while he was still living in Manchester. He moved to London in 2015 and took up residency at Total Refreshment Centre, where he was encouraged to put on a monthly concert, leading to the series Peach, releasing a namesake album that year, too. His music, from the start, has been imbued with his politics and values; he was maybe arrested once during a protest with the environmental group Extinction Rebellion. His proper international breakthrough came in 2020 with 'To Cy & Lee: Instrumentals Vol. 1', after nearly a decade of steadily releasing records.

On a phone call in the fall of 2024, we barely speak about any of this though. For at least an hour, we mostly just speak about his recent trip to Palestine, and how could we not? DePlume had traveled to Bethlehem in the spring for a conference hosted by a local Lutheran pastor, before meeting up with musicians from a community arts space, the Wonder Cabinet, and the independent radio station, Radio Alhara. “Palestine is a place where people make records,” he says. “I want to normalize the dignity of that. It's not like, oh, I'm going to make a thing about Palestine. I am just there, and I'm making a thing.”

At the end of 2024, DePlume prefaced A Blade with a collection of recent works: the poetry book and a three-track EP partially recorded in Bethlehem, and in collaboration with Palestinian musicians. There’s “Honeycomb” and “Cremisan,” both recorded during his “Sounds of Places” residency at Wonder Cabinet; “Cremisan” documents the conclusion of a daylong performance presented by Wonder Cabinet and Radio alHara, June 1, 2024, described as “a cry from the Cremisan Valley (Bethlehem, Palestine) to Rafah (Gaza).” The EP’s final recording, “Gifts of Olive,” references the soul-wrenching poem “If I Must Die” by Refaat Alareer, professor of English literature at the Islamic University in Gaza, who was killed by an Israeli airstrike in 2023.

To suggest that dignity is a human right we are all entitled to is to say: by nature of being alive, every human life has worth. Contemplating the very concept of human dignity also raises the daily indignities that are so normalized in a world of suffering. The lack of access to clean water, air, housing, healthcare. Without the basic necessities of life, we cannot know dignity. And how can people know dignity if they are living under a constant state of military attack, if they are living as the target of a genocide?

“The album was written before the genocide started, but I had Palestine on my mind all the time,” DePlume explains. “This question of dignity, sovereignty, and the work of healing. It has a relevance in what's being perpetrated there by the Israeli state, and taking responsibility for my place in that. I pay my taxes here in the United Kingdom—I am contributing to, as a white Englishman, the country that brought the Balfour Declaration, that brought the Sykes-Picot Agreement, that supports and enables the colonization and the settler-colonial project in Palestine. It is my issue, and I have a position where I can speak about it.”

“Dignity” has roots in the Latin dignitatem: worthiness. And instilling the plain truth of every human life’s worth has been a recurring commitment in DePlume’s work. “They can’t use us on one another if we don’t forget we’re precious,” he sang in 2022, summing the emotional core of his 2022 album 'GOLD', concerns of shared humanity that play out into the new works as well.

“We make stories in our lives,” DePlume says. “Oh, I need my story. Oh, something bad happened, and I need to heal upon that. Then I will be healed and all will be good, happily ever after. But no, it is work that needs doing all the time. We all are wounded in our many different ways. And there are degrees of healed, or wounded. Basically, we are either doing one thing or we're doing the other. How do I know I am not destroying myself? I only know that when I am working on healing.”