MUSIC

The follow-up to 'High Art Lite', 'Ruins' is an album shaped by grief, reflection, and transformation; a record that captures both the weight of loss and the strange beauty that comes with it. Written after a self-imposed break from songwriting, it represents a shift in focus and perspective for Joseph Oxley. “I wanted to step away from what I thought I was supposed to make,” he explains. “The worst advice anyone can give you is, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ It’s always broken. It always needs fixing.” At its core, 'Ruins' explores loss not as emptiness but as presence, something that reshapes the world around you. The album finds Oxley wrestling with the dualities of human experience: the tension between what’s said and unsaid, between humanism and nihilism, public and private, despair and acceptance. “Hope and despair don’t cancel each other out,” he says. “They can co-exist — that’s what makes it feel real.” Somewhere within a lifetime of repeats, reruns, and reboots, TVAM lives, crafting work that touches on our memories while toying with our fears, creating a world in which broadcast becomes performance. Since his debut album 'Psychic Data' burst from a small bedroom studio in Wigan, TVAM has defined the sound and spectacle of nostalgia’s grip on modern life, from the sloganeering of 'Porsche Majeure' to the electioneering of 'Semantics', his music has gained daytime playlisting on BBC 6 Music and has been featured on TV including groundbreaking series Succession. Musically, 'Ruins' is expansive and immersive. Dark but magical, it is filled with reverb-drenched synths, fractured textures and hammer-blow snares. Guitars weave through the mix with a newfound restraint, creating space for atmosphere and emotion to take centre stage. "Broken reality” textures collide with driving rhythms, recalling the cinematic pulse of Floodland-era The Sisters of Mercy, and the melodic melancholy of Disintegration-era The Cure. The result is a record that finds beauty in dissonance and light in the wreckage.

Goth and synth-pop legend Annie Hogan yields a gorgeously unexpected new album of smouldering chamber dirges suffused with a damaged, downbeat energy that’s quite distinct from anything else in her five years of work with Regis’ Downwards label - RIYL Rowland S. Howard, Jonnine, Leonard Cohen, John Duncan, Leslie Winer, Mark Lanegan, The The. On ‘Tongues in My Head’ Hogan naturally slips into a style of eerie reverie that effortlessly steers her celebrated piano & keyboard chops into deeply woozy, swaying styles of downbeat songcraft. Recorded in mostly single-takes with Annie playing an array of instruments and just her recording engineer for company, the poised and bittersweet songs here betray a near half-century of close work alongside some of contemporary music’s greatest troubadours with a timeless grasp of haunting melody and elegant slow-burn arrangements. It clearly marks a switch from the atmospheric sorcery of much of her recent work, turning to intimate presentations of voice and wheezing electronics wreathed into a beautifully wilting bouquet. At a near deathly heart rate, Annie attends to her most gothic, romantic urges with a dose of heavy blooz that slowly colour proceedings. Stark drum machine backbones slowly measure the pace of a detuned, prepared piano iced with her steady but shivering vocal presence. It’s one to get wrapped right up inside, opening with wistfully cinematic keys, strings and a soulful shuffle reminiscent of Barry Adamson in ‘Alles int Veloren’, and keening ever so gently from the screwed chamber folk of ‘Deadly Night Shades’ to dwell on common obsessions in ‘Death Rituals’ with a northern gothic appeal shades away from Dickon Hinchcliffe’s Red Riding OST. It’s not hard to hear the pall of Nick Cave loom in the sustained low end keys of ‘Safe Hands’ (co-written with Karl O’Connor, who provides the lyrics), obscured by Annie’s coarse patina of bittersweet distortion, while closer ‘The Conjurer’ most subtly weaves her atmospheric alchemy into a sort of dusty modal dirge, where all her colours bleed into a blue-brown as deep as the Mersey, just beyond her studio. A quiet triumph.