All Reviews

Alfonso Conspiracy

From the moment you hit play, The Explicit//The Exploited makes it clear you’re stepping into a world that isn’t interested in comfort. The opening atmosphere feels like walking into a dark room where something is already breathing heavy in the corner, cold electronics, low drones, and this sense of unease that tightens around you with each second. It’s not dramatic for the sake of theatrics, it’s the album laying out its emotional geography, tense, unstable, and brutally honest. What becomes clear very quickly is how deeply personal this record is. You can feel every track pulling from a place of actual lived experience, the isolation, the anger, the internal damage that’s shaped the sound. There’s no attempt to mask that with metaphors or polish. The grit is intentional. The sharp edges are left in place. Even when the vocals twist into distortion, you can still feel the raw humanity underneath, like someone trying to shout through a storm they built themselves just to stay afloat. Musically, Alfonso Conspiracy moves between industrial metal’s ferocity and stark electronic minimalism. When the guitars kick in, they don’t just crunch, they crash into you like a physical force. There’s weight behind every hit of percussion, the kind of pounding that echoes in your chest more than your ears. The heavier tracks feel like they’re tearing at old scars, pulling out whatever’s festering underneath. And then, in the quieter or more synthetic moments, the temperature drops. Everything turns colder, more mechanical, like you’re hearing thoughts that were never meant for daylight. That contrast gives the album its tension, the push and pull between fury and numbness. Vocally, the record is relentless. There’s a sense of someone refusing to sanitise the emotions they’re dealing with. The themes of violation, emotional exploitation, and internal conflict come through with brutal clarity. Some tracks feel like direct confrontations. Others feel like whispered confessions that slipped out before the world could be shut out again. It isn’t easy listening, but that’s precisely why it lands with such impact. There’s courage in how unapologetically uncomfortable some moments are. One of the strengths of the album is how alive it feels. Even in its chaos, there’s intention. The shifts between aggression and bleak ambience aren’t always smooth, but there’s meaning in that jaggedness. Trauma isn’t neat. Anger doesn’t arrive on a schedule. Healing doesn’t move in one direction. The music mirrors that emotional unpredictability, often catching you off guard. Some listeners might find those sudden stylistic swings disorienting, but others will appreciate how authentically they recreate the feeling of being pulled between extremes. The production plays a huge role too. Rather than chasing a glossy or perfectly sculpted sound, the album leans into textures, the scrape of distortion, the pulsating thrum of electronics, the heavy saturation that makes everything feel claustrophobic. It creates a kind of sonic suffocation, but purposefully so. It’s the type of record where you feel the walls closing in as much as you hear the songs themselves. That atmosphere carries the storytelling just as much as the lyrics do. By the time the album pushes into its later tracks, you start to understand the emotional arc more completely. The rage is still there, but so is exhaustion. The vulnerability becomes sharper. There are moments where the music almost collapses inward, leaving you in this eerie stillness before the next wave of noise hits. It feels like the project is constantly peering over the edge of something dangerous, yet refusing to step back. That intensity gives the record its identity, it’s not here to entertain, it’s here to purge. Taken as a whole, The Explicit//The Exploited feels like a confrontation with everything someone has tried to bury. It’s jagged, unpredictable, sometimes overwhelming but that rawness makes it compelling. When Alfonso Conspiracy leans into the emotional violence of the music, the album becomes something that doesn’t just demand attention, it holds it by the throat. And when it shifts into quieter, colder spaces, it leaves you suspended in a kind of emotional static that sticks with you long after the album ends. It’s not an easy record. It’s not supposed to be. But it’s powerful, deeply human, and delivered with a level of honesty that cuts deeper the longer you sit with it. This is the sound of someone refusing to stay silent, refusing to water anything down, and refusing to hide the damage. And that refusal is exactly what makes the album so impactful.

Death Assault

We Will Remain comes in with this heavy presence straight away, almost like the track is setting its jaw before anything even kicks in. There’s this atmosphere that feels thick with intention, like the band already knows exactly what they want the listener to feel before the first real hit drops. As it builds, you can tell the track isn’t just going for shock value or loudness, it’s building a mood, a sense of weight, a feeling that something meaningful is about to erupt. That tension really carries the track forward and makes those first proper hits land even harder. The vocals come through with that raw, unfiltered push that works perfectly for this kind of track. It’s got emotion but without being overly polished, it embraces that imperfect edge that gives the song soul. You can hear the strain, you can hear the grit, and it makes the emotion feel real, almost like the singer isn’t performing to you but with you. That connection helps the whole track hit deeper because it feels like someone actually trying to express something rather than fit a formula. There’s pain and power mixed together, and that blend carries the track massively. Instrumentally, the push and pull dynamic works so well. There’s enough heaviness to keep the intensity up, but the band doesn’t just sit there on one level, they let the song move. Those moments where things ease up or shift direction give the heavier sections even more punch. You get this sense of motion instead of static aggression, which keeps you listening rather than zoning out. The guitar work adds a ton of atmosphere, and the rhythm section gives the track that heartbeat that keeps everything grounded, especially when things get bigger and more dramatic. The track’s energy feels like it’s constantly rising, and that emotional intensity is really what defines it. There’s this theme of resilience running through the whole thing, not necessarily spelled out, but felt in the delivery. It’s the sound of someone refusing to fold, refusing to back down, even when things feel like they’re collapsing around them. That’s what makes the track feel powerful. It’s not just heavy for the sake of it, it’s heavy with purpose. There’s defiance in the tone, strength in the pacing, and honesty in the performance. And honestly, that honesty is what makes the song stick. Even if certain moments or patterns feel familiar to the genre, it doesn’t come across as predictable. It feels intentional, like the band knows the roots of their sound and leans into them with confidence instead of trying to reinvent something that doesn’t need reinventing. Sometimes authenticity hits harder than innovation, and this track is one of those cases where you hear the heart way more than the technicality. By the time the ending comes around, the track leaves you with that lingering feeling not just adrenaline, but something emotional too. It’s a song that stays with you because of what it feels like, not just what it sounds like. It makes a statement without needing to shout it, and it carries itself with the kind of weight that leaves an impression long after it fades out.

Greyfox Conspiracy

Preacherman is one of those tracks that doesn’t rush to impress you instead, it lets its atmosphere sink in slowly, the way a storm gathers on the horizon before you notice the clouds changing colour. From the moment it begins, there’s a weight to it, a tension humming underneath that tells you this song is building toward something meaningful. Greyfox Conspiracy clearly aren’t here just to fill space, they’re here to create an experience. What really stands out is how confidently the song moves. Nothing feels thrown together. The intro sets the tone with a steady, almost brooding presence, giving the sense that you’re stepping into a story already in motion. As the layers start unfolding, whether that’s the guitars thickening up, the rhythm section locking in, or the vocals slipping in with that smoky, deliberate delivery, the whole thing grows more immersive. Every part feels like it’s been placed with intent. There’s a real emotional backbone running through the track too. Preacherman balances grit and vulnerability in a way that feels mature, almost cinematic. It doesn’t lean on melodrama or cliches, instead, it uses tone and pacing to do the heavy lifting. You can feel the tension in the quieter moments, and when the track finally pushes itself forward, it lands with impact rather than noise. It’s the kind of dynamic songwriting that rewards patience, you hear the emotion between the lines, not just in the obvious places. The production deserves credit as well. It captures that moody, atmospheric weight without drowning anything out. The mix leaves enough room for each instrument to breathe, especially in those moments where the song pulls back and lets a single line or riff carry the space. There’s a certain richness in the sound, not overly polished but not rough for the sake of it either. It sits comfortably in that sweet spot where character comes through naturally. Structurally, the track flows really well. It doesn’t rush the buildup, and it doesn’t drop everything at once when it reaches its peak. Instead, it unfolds in stages, almost like chapters. The transitions feel organic, and by the time you hit the final stretch of the track, you realise how carefully the energy has been shaped. It’s one of those songs where the ending hits harder because of how patiently the journey was built. What makes Preacherman even more effective is the atmosphere it leaves behind after the last note hits. There’s this lingering sense of reflection like the track carved out its own emotional space and left a piece of it with you. It’s moody, thoughtful, and layered, the kind of song you go back to when you want something that actually feels like something. Greyfox Conspiracy are tapping into a sound that’s bold without being loud, expressive without being overwrought, and it works.

7eventh Sea

Stare At The Sun sees 7eventh Sea leaning fully into a reflective and quietly powerful space, building a track that feels warm, intimate and subtly cinematic all at once. From the very first notes, there’s this sense of calm weight, like stepping into a memory you haven’t visited in a while. The atmosphere glows with a soft melancholy, never dragging, but instead settling into that bittersweet place where comfort and tension meet. The vocals guide everything with a steady, heartfelt sincerity. There’s a vulnerability in the delivery that really elevates the song, allowing it to feel personal without tipping into melodrama. Every line lands with intention, but it’s the tone that mix of fragility and quiet resilience that gives the track its emotional pull. It feels like the singer is letting you in on something private, and that intimacy becomes one of the song’s strongest points. Instrumentally, the band keeps things beautifully understated. The guitars shimmer and widen the track without overwhelming it, adding soft textures that catch your ear on repeat listens. The rhythm section stays tight and unobtrusive, supporting the emotional flow rather than trying to drive it. There’s a subtle layering throughout small details in the background, gentle rises in dynamics that give the track a sense of motion even when it’s at its most restrained. What’s impressive is the band’s commitment to patience. There’s no forced climax, no unnecessary fireworks. Instead, Stare At The Sun leans into clarity and space, allowing the mood to speak louder than any sudden shift could. It captures that feeling of standing still and letting the world blur around you, an introspective pause wrapped in warm tones and thoughtful songwriting. By the time it closes out, the track leaves you with a lingering glow, the kind that stays with you long after the final notes fade. It’s a quietly striking piece from 7eventh Sea, built on emotion, subtle craft, and a genuine sense of connection.

Sabrina Kennedy

Sabrina Kennedy’s Witch of the West starts with that immediate sense of atmosphere she’s become known for this smoky, ritualistic vibe that wraps around you before the first chorus even hits. There’s a confidence in the opening moments that tells you she’s fully stepping into character, not just performing a theme but embodying it. The way her vocal sits slightly above the instrumentation gives her this commanding presence, like every line is part of a spell she’s casting. As the track builds, the production leans into that dark pop meets modern rock blend that fits her so naturally. The drums thump with this slow, intentional power, never rushing, just pushing forward with weight. The guitars and synth layers weave together in a way that feels both cinematic and gritty, adding the tension and texture the theme needs without drowning her out. It’s that perfect balance of polish and attitude, the kind of sound where you can tell every detail was chosen to reinforce the track’s personality. Her vocal delivery is one of the standout elements here. She switches between this sultry, controlled tone in the verses and a full force, defiant presence in the chorus, and that contrast really brings the track to life. You can hear the bite in her voice, the little moments where she leans harder into a word or drags out a phrase to give it a nearly theatrical weight. It never drifts into parody, it feels like her taking ownership of the trope and turning it into something fierce and intentional. The chorus itself hits exactly how it should big, bold, and drenched in attitude. It has that anthemic lift that makes the whole witch persona feel powerful rather than playful. There’s a sense of reclaiming narrative, of flipping the script on how she’s perceived, and the hook captures all of that in a way that sticks immediately. It’s memorable not just because it’s catchy, but because it feels like a statement. The bridge and later sections keep the momentum going by leaning deeper into the atmosphere. You get more layering, more of that mystical energy, more of the dramatic flair that’s become part of her signature sound. The production gives her this spacious, ritual like backdrop to really let the character rise, and she uses it well. There’s something almost cinematic about that section, the kind of moment you can imagine exploding live on stage with smoke, lights, and absolute chaos. By the time the final chorus hits, the track feels fully realised, like everything has escalated to match the energy she’s been building from the start. It’s bold, powerful, unapologetic, and drenched in personality. Sabrina taps into that dark feminine energy in a way that feels authentic and deliberate, and the sonic world around her supports every bit of that vision.

Volumes

Volumes return with Bad Habit, a single that feels like the most natural evolution of their sound in years, not a reinvention, not a nostalgia piece, but a confident step into a space they’ve been circling for a long time. There’s an almost effortless clarity to it, the kind that comes from a band who’ve lived through their own chaos, reshaped their identity more than once, and come out the other side understanding exactly what they want to say and how they want to say it. What immediately stands out is how mature the whole track feels. Volumes have always been known for that unmistakable bounce and low end power, but Bad Habit doesn’t lean on those traits as a crutch. Instead, the heaviness is woven into the emotion, supporting the mood rather than stealing the spotlight. The guitars still hit with that thick, chest compressing weight, but they sit in a darker, more atmospheric haze, creating space for the song’s emotional core. There’s a tension running underneath everything, a sense of spiralling introspection that mirrors the song’s themes perfectly. Vocally, this is one of the most human performances the band have delivered. The cleans feel weary in a way that doesn’t try to force sadness, it’s more like someone speaking honestly, voice cracking just slightly under the weight of their own realisation. There’s no polish for the sake of gloss; the tone is emotional without drifting into melodrama. When the harsher vocals break through, they feel like the internal voice that’s been buried under restraint, finally boiling over. The interplay between the two isn’t a gimmick, it’s the heart of the song, each side representing a different shade of self-confrontation. Thematically, Bad Habit digs into the frustrating cycles we create for ourselves. It’s that painfully familiar feeling of knowing exactly where you keep going wrong and still stumbling into the same patterns anyway. The song doesn’t glamorise it or dramatise it, it just sits in that uncomfortable truth and lets the tension build. That’s where Volumes have grown the most, they allow the emotion to breathe instead of trying to push the song into constant peaks. The restraint makes the heavy moments land twice as hard, not because they’re louder, but because they’re earned. Production wise, the track carries this warm, cinematic darkness. Everything feels big but not bloated, polished but not plastic. The drums are precise but still hold a human feel, and the ambience that lingers behind the main riffs gives the whole track a slightly fog covered atmosphere, like a late night drive with unresolved thoughts pressing on your chest. There’s a sense of gravity in the mix, a weight that keeps pulling you back into the centre of the song’s emotional loop. What makes Bad Habit so compelling is how naturally it seems to capture where Volumes are right now. There’s no desperation to be heavier, no chase for trends, no attempt to outdo their past. Instead, it feels like a band who know their strengths, groove, emotion, atmosphere and are finally blending them with a level of honesty that hits deeper than any low tuned riff ever could. It’s reflective, bruised, and quietly powerful, the kind of song that lingers after it ends because it feels like a conversation you’ve had with yourself more than once. If this track is a sign of where the band’s next chapter is heading, then Volumes might be stepping into their most compelling era yet. Bad Habit doesn’t shout to get your attention, it draws you in with its emotional weight, its controlled heaviness, and its sense of lived-in authenticity. It’s a reminder that growth doesn’t always come with fanfare, sometimes it arrives in songs like this, where a band simply sounds comfortable being themselves and, because of that, hits harder than ever.

Spanish Love Songs

Spanish Love Songs have always excelled at capturing the tension between despair and hope, and with A Brief Intermission in the Flattening of Time, they manage to condense that emotional intensity into a remarkably focused four-track offering. At just over thirteen minutes, this EP is brief but far from insubstantial, it’s a concentrated burst of the band’s trademark blend of raw lyricism, melodic urgency, and emotional intimacy. Every second feels deliberate, making the EP feel less like a stopgap and more like a distilled statement of purpose. The collaborations here are subtle but powerful, with contributions from The Wonder Years, Kevin Devine, illuminati hotties, and Tigers Jaw. These guest appearances never feel gimmicky or forced; instead, they amplify the emotional resonance of the songs, threading additional textures into Spanish Love Songs already rich sonic landscape. Each voice feels like a companion in the conversation the band is having with the listener, adding layers of meaning without overshadowing the core identity of the band. Musically, the EP balances urgency with quiet sophistication. Guitar lines are punchy yet melodic, rhythms are taut and propulsive, and there’s a sense of momentum that keeps the listener engaged from start to finish. But what makes this record linger is the lyrical vulnerability. The band has a way of making the personal feel universal, these songs read like confessions and reflections, grappling with temporal dislocation, existential fatigue, and the subtle heartbreaks of everyday life. It’s an intimacy that invites the listener in, making the brief runtime feel more like a shared breath than a fleeting visit. Even in its brevity, the EP doesn’t hold back emotionally. It’s concise, yes, but each moment carries weight. Spanish Love Songs have distilled their strengths, their emotional honesty, narrative dexterity, and melodic precision into an efficient, powerful package. There’s a sense of urgency in the music that mirrors the themes of the record: life moving quickly, moments slipping by, and yet finding connection, meaning, and catharsis in the small spaces we can carve out. A Brief Intermission in the Flattening of Time is exactly what it promises, a pause, a reflective moment in a world that often feels relentless and flattened. And yet, in its concentrated form, it leaves a lasting impression, reaffirming Spanish Love Songs place as one of the most thoughtful and emotionally resonant voices in modern punk. Short, sharp, and deeply affecting, this EP is both a testament to the band’s growth and a reminder of why their music continues to resonate so strongly with listeners.

Deficit

With Deathstyle, Deficit finally step into the version of themselves they’ve been hinting at for years, heavier, sharper, more self assured, and far more dangerous. This EP isn’t a stylistic experiment or a pivot, it’s a declaration. A sharpening of teeth. The moment where a band stops sampling influences and instead knits them into something that feels unmistakably their own. What stands out from the opening moments is the attitude. Not the put on, try hard aggression you hear in a lot of modern heavy bands, but a genuine, chest out confidence that comes from years of grinding in Australia’s metal/hardcore ecosystem. Deficit have always straddled the lines between metalcore, hardcore, nu-metal and death metal, but here they stop worrying about fitting any mold at all. Deathstyle is simply the sound of the band doing whatever hits the hardest, groove when it grooves, stomp when it stomps, swing when it swings and trusting their instincts more than the algorithm. There’s a rawness to the production that works massively in their favour. Nothing feels over polished or sanded down. The guitars bite instead of shimmer, the drums land like blunt trauma, and the vocals cut through with an emotional weight that feels lived in rather than digitally sweetened. It gives the whole project this sweaty, brick walled energy like the EP was built from the ground up for small rooms packed too tight, not studio perfection. The greatest strength of Deathstyle is how rhythmic it is. Deficit lean heavily into groove and bounce in ways that feel more inspired by late 90s heavy music than anything in the current metalcore circuit. There’s swagger threaded through the whole project, that looseness, that sense of deliberate attitude that you only get from a band fully locked into its identity. Instead of drowning listeners in breakdowns for the sake of brutality, Deficit make every heavy moment feel earned, using tension, dynamics, and pacing to let the big punches land like body shots. Vocally, the performance is the most versatile and expressive the band has ever sounded. There’s grit, there’s sneer, there’s a bit of theatrical menace in the delivery but it all sits inside the same emotional palette. Nothing feels forced or performed, it sounds like someone who’s walked through the worst parts of themselves and come back swinging. Lyrically, the EP carries themes of resilience, frustration, pushback, and self definition, but it never gets lost in metaphor or melodrama. Everything hits with the clarity of someone speaking from real experience. If there’s one thing that makes Deathstyle feel like a turning point for the band, it’s that it finally captures the live threat Deficit are known for. The energy is punchy and confrontational, but also surprisingly catchy. It’s heavy music that wants to move with you, not just crush you into the floor. The riffs have personality. The rhythms have purpose. The choruses, when they appear, feel like rallying cries rather than hooks written to be hooks. More than anything, this EP feels like identity. The creation of a lane, a sound, and a banner they can plant going forward. They’re not trying to reinvent heavy music, they’re just building a version of it that feels authentic to them, built on grit, groove, and a refusal to stay in one box. And in a genre full of repetition and safety, that honesty is what hits the hardest. Deathstyle isn’t just Deficit’s best work yet, it’s the release that finally makes them feel like a band with their own orbit. A band with something to say, and the weight to make you listen.

Actus Reus

Actus Reus return with Tension, a single that feels like the band tightening every bolt in their sound and finally showing just how precise and intentional they can be. It’s a track built around pressure, emotional, sonic, and internal and they channel that pressure into something that feels both suffocating and strangely energising. From the first second, the band lock into a riff that doesn’t just open the song, it sets the tone, sharp, restless, and constantly driving forward as if it’s trying to outrun the weight on its back. What makes Tension stand out is the way the heaviness isn’t just loud or aggressive, it’s expressive. The guitars move between tight, palm muted grooves and more open, atmospheric passages that give the song its sense of space. There’s a cold clarity to the tone that makes every note feel intentional, like the band are carving out room for the emotion behind it rather than simply filling the mix. The drums hold everything together with a really clean sense of momentum they don’t overplay, but they always add just enough extra detail to keep the track feeling alive and unpredictable. Vocally, this might be one of Actus Reus most balanced performances to date. The harsh delivery hits with real conviction not just heavy for the sake of being heavy, but heavy in a way that feels like someone finally snapping after holding everything in for too long. The phrasing is sharp, controlled, and lands perfectly against the instrumentation. Then the melodic moments step in, not as a break from the intensity, but as a different way of expressing it. They’re honest, a bit wounded, and they widen the emotional scope in a way that makes the track feel more human. That contrast is where the track really thrives. Lyrically, Tension feels like a reflection on internal conflict, the kind that builds slowly, quietly, and then suddenly erupts when you run out of room to hold it anymore. The words hit that relatable point between anger and exhaustion, capturing that moment when you’re pushed so far that the only thing left is release. What’s impressive is that the band don’t rely on cliches they keep it open ended enough that anyone listening can apply their own meaning to it, whether that’s personal struggles, mental strain, or emotional burnout. When the breakdown finally lands, it doesn’t feel tacked on or obligatory. It feels earned, the natural release after three minutes of rising pressure. Instead of a standard big heavy moment, they craft something that feels like the emotional centre of the song. It hits hard, but more importantly, it hits purposefully. Production adds another layer of strength. Everything is balanced and spacious but still weighty. There’s clarity without losing grit, and the mix allows all those small details, the pauses, the resonance, the layering to breathe. It’s the kind of production that enhances the storytelling behind the heaviness rather than smoothing it out. In the bigger picture, Tension feels like a statement piece for Actus Reus. It shows refinement, maturity, and an understanding of their own strengths. They’re leaning into atmosphere without letting go of intensity, grounding the emotion without losing the chaos, and creating something that sits comfortably between catharsis and craftsmanship. If this is where the band are heading, they’re clearly stepping into a new era with confidence and clarity.

As I Lay Dying

If I Fall kicks in with that immediate hit of energy that As I Lay Dying have always been great at, the kind of opening that grabs you before you even settle into the track. The guitars rush forward with this sharp, slicing momentum that feels both familiar and newly fired up, like a band stepping back into the light with something to prove. There’s this tight rhythmic pulse running through the whole thing, the drums punching in with precision and giving the track that heavy backbone that keeps you locked in from the first second. It doesn’t feel recycled or stuck in old habits either, there’s a freshness in the way everything snaps together, like they’ve shaken the dust off and come back hungry. The vocal dynamics hit really well here. The harsh vocals come through with this rawness that carries a lot of emotional grit, and you can tell there’s real weight behind the delivery. When the clean chorus drops in, it doesn’t soften the impact instead it opens the song up, letting a bit of vulnerability cut through the heaviness without losing any intensity. It’s one of those choruses that sticks because it feels like it’s genuinely lifting the track rather than trying to chase some radio friendly moment. That rise and fall between aggression and melody gives the whole track this push and pull tension that keeps it engaging the entire way through. Lyrically, If I Fall leans into themes of slipping, rebuilding, confronting your own flaws, and figuring out who you still want to be when everything feels unstable. There’s a sense of reflection without desperation, more like someone trying to claw their way through a personal collapse and still come out the other side with intention and self awareness. You can hear that in the tone of the vocals, in the way the instrumentation swells at the right moments, and in the overall pacing of the track. It’s emotional, but it never loses its edge. The writing feels like it’s coming from a place of lived experience, which gives the whole track a deeper resonance. What stands out throughout is how tight and unified the band sounds. The new lineup brings a spark that’s really noticeable, the performances have a clarity and drive that makes the whole track feel like it’s constantly pushing forward. The riffs aren’t just heavy, they’re purposeful, the drums don’t just hit hard, they’re dialed in with this focus that keeps the momentum flowing. You can hear that everyone is locked into the same vision, creating something that doesn’t feel like a reheated version of past work but rather a new chapter that actually has something behind it. The chemistry is there, and it shows in how naturally the parts fit together. The whole track carries this sense of urgency and determination, like a band stepping out with a clear sense of direction. There’s no moment where it drags or loses intention, every section leads smoothly into the next, building on the emotional tone without letting up on the heaviness. If I Fall doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel, but it doesn’t have to, it sharpens what the band has always done well while adding a renewed sense of clarity and emotional grit. It comes across like a statement of where they are right now, grounded, intense, and ready to move forward with real momentum.

Second Harbour

Second Harbour’s Mourning Dove is one of those tracks that doesn’t rush to impress you, it lets its weight settle slowly, like a memory resurfacing. From the opening moments, it’s clear the band is leaning into a more reflective, atmospheric space, building a sound that feels intimate without ever becoming fragile. There’s a real emotional presence here, something honest and unforced, and that’s what makes the track stand out. The instrumental palette is gentle but intentional. Soft, layered guitars and warm ambience form the spine of the song, giving it a kind of twilight glow, that hour where the world quiets down and everything feels a little heavier than usual. The production is clean, yet not so polished that it loses its humanity. There’s still texture and breath in the mix, something that allows the listener to lean in rather than be pushed back by shiny edges. It puts the vocals front and centre, which is exactly where they need to be. Vocally, the track carries a sense of longing that never spills into melodrama. The delivery is calm, almost resigned, but you can feel the ache underneath. The lyrics seem to sit in that space between mourning and acceptance, the kind of emotional territory where you’re not breaking, you’re just acknowledging what’s already cracked. The mourning dove metaphor is used with a light touch, more of an emotional thread than a literal symbol, and it ties the whole mood together. Where the song shines is in its pacing. Second Harbour aren’t afraid to give the track space. Moments of restraint, quieter passages, and the slight holding back before emotional peaks all work in the song’s favour. It’s a track that breathes. That controlled pacing also makes the bigger sections feel earned, when the chorus opens up, it doesn’t explode, but it expands with a calm certainty that hits just as hard as a punchier approach. There’s an undeniable warmth beneath the sadness of the song, and that’s what gives Mourning Dove staying power. It’s reflective but not depressing, emotional but not overwrought. It feels like closure, the moment after the storm where everything is still a bit damp and broken, but the air is lighter. Second Harbour manage to capture that feeling with real clarity, and they do it without relying on clichés or overproduction. Overall, Mourning Dove is a beautifully restrained, emotionally grounded track that shows Second Harbour working with a level of maturity and intention that really suits them. It’s the kind of song that finds its audience quietly, late night listeners, headphones on train rides, people looking for something soft but affecting. A subtle standout from a band clearly finding their voice, and doing it with a genuine sense of purpose.

Blackbird

It’s Only Temporary lands with the kind of presence that doesn’t shout for attention but earns it naturally, almost immediately. There’s a maturity to this album not in the sense of being polished to death, but in how assured the band sound in their choices. Every decision feels intentional, the pacing, the atmosphere, even the way the heavier moments hit. It’s the kind of record where you can tell the band weren’t trying to impress anyone but themselves, and that honesty ends up being the thing that stands out. The first thing you really notice is how well Blackbird blend emotional weight with musical punch. The guitars have this rugged, almost weathered tone that gives the whole album a backbone, but instead of just leaning on heaviness, the band use that grit to frame something more introspective. There’s a real sense of push and pull moments where the sound feels huge and driven, then others where everything scales back, letting melodies and textures step forward. It creates a living, breathing flow that holds your attention without ever feeling forced. What’s particularly strong here is the band’s sense of space. They leave room for songs to expand naturally, allowing tension to build and settle in a way that feels very human. The drum work quietly shapes a lot of that dynamic shifting from tight, focused rhythms into looser, more atmospheric passages when the mood calls for it. And the vocals carry that same balance. They’re delivered with a kind of grounded emotion, never tipping into melodrama, but always giving you enough to latch onto. You can hear the thought behind the delivery, the way certain lines are pushed harder or eased back to let the meaning sit. Sonically, the band manage to keep the album cohesive while still exploring different shades of their sound. There are parts that lean into darker, heavier territory, and others that reach toward something almost cinematic, but nothing feels out of place. Instead, each change in tone feels like another facet of the same story. The production plays a big role in that, it keeps everything warm and slightly raw around the edges, resisting the urge to sterilise or over perfect anything. That texture makes the emotional themes hit harder. Speaking of themes, the album’s title really does capture its core. It’s Only Temporary circles around ideas of impermanence, change, the moments that slip through your fingers whether you want them to or not. But instead of feeling bleak, it lands more like acceptance, a kind of reflection on the way everything keeps moving. The band explore it with a subtlety that works in their favour, the emotion is there, strong and unmissable, but never spelled out in neon lights. As a full piece, the album has a genuine arc to it. You feel it gradually gathering weight, then loosening its grip, then tightening again almost like someone working through something in real time. By the time it ends, it leaves you with that familiar, lingering heaviness that only comes from records built on real experiences rather than posturing. In the end, It’s Only Temporary is one of those albums that grows the more you sit with it. Blackbird have crafted something that feels personal without being inward looking, heavy without being blunt, atmospheric without drifting. It’s a deeply honest record, the kind that sticks around because you can feel the life in it, the questions, the tension, the release, the acceptance. A genuinely compelling listen, and easily one of their most resonant works yet.

Netherwalker

From the opening notes of Odyssey of Respair, Netherwalker immediately establishes a sound that is both punishing and cinematic. This is deathcore at its heaviest, but with a scope and ambition that pushes it beyond the genre’s usual boundaries. Across fourteen tracks, the band constructs a sprawling narrative: three knights embark on a perilous quest through monstrous landscapes, battling enemies both physical and metaphysical, striving to save their kingdom from encroaching darkness. The album feels like a journey in itself, and the music mirrors that narrative progression with shifting moods, textures, and intensity. The guitar work is relentless and intricate, alternating between crushing, low end riffs and faster, more technical passages that demand attention. There are moments of melodic sophistication woven into the chaos, with harmonized leads and symphonic flourishes that give certain sections an almost orchestral weight. These elements don’t feel tacked on, they’re integrated into the songwriting, amplifying the sense of epic storytelling. Songs like Sea of Sirens and For Princess Elizabeth, We Fly! are prime examples of this approach, combining heavy riffs with soaring melodic lines that elevate the dramatic tension. Alex Calver’s vocal performance is a standout, providing both ferocity and nuance. He moves seamlessly between guttural growls and high intensity screams, and the way he modulates his delivery enhances the album’s narrative flow. There’s a clear sense that the vocals are meant to convey not just aggression, but the emotional stakes of the story being told, whether in battle, reflection, or moments of tension. The drums and rhythm section underpin everything with precision, delivering punishing breakdowns while also maintaining the dynamic shifts that give the album its cinematic breadth. Tracks like Frost Troll and Tavern showcase the band’s ability to balance technical skill with memorable hooks. The former hits with sheer intensity and energy, blending heavy grooves with intricate lead work, while the latter reimagines earlier material in a way that feels fresh yet rooted in the band’s established sound. The album’s pacing keeps listeners engaged from start to finish, alternating between moments of unrelenting aggression and passages that allow for reflection or heightened tension, effectively mirroring the narrative arc of the knights journey. Lyrically, Odyssey of Respair embraces high concept fantasy storytelling without ever feeling distant or inaccessible. Themes of heroism, sacrifice, and perseverance run throughout, and the imagery is vivid, painting battles and landscapes that feel tangible through sound alone. The symphonic elements underscore this narrative rather than overwhelming it, adding layers of atmosphere and tension. There are moments where the production leans toward density, and some layers could benefit from a bit more clarity, but this is a minor critique in an otherwise ambitious and cohesive work. The album demonstrates Netherwalker’s commitment to blending brutality with grandeur. While there are familiar deathcore tropes crushing breakdowns, rapid-fire blast beats, and aggressive riffing, these elements are reframed within a larger, more expansive vision. The interplay between heavy and melodic, aggressive and dramatic, creates an experience that feels immersive, like stepping into the story itself rather than just listening to individual tracks. Overall, Odyssey of Respair is a bold and ambitious debut. Netherwalker establish themselves as a band unafraid to push the limits of deathcore, blending narrative depth, technical skill, and epic atmosphere into a compelling musical journey. It’s an album that rewards multiple listens, revealing new details in its intricate guitar work, dynamic vocals, and layered production. For fans of story driven, cinematic deathcore, this is an album that sets a high bar and promises even greater things to come.

Primaluce

Primaluce’s latest release, Dark Mirrors, is an immersive journey into the heart of modern progressive metal, and it feels like a statement of purpose for the band. From the very first track, Fractured Reflection, the listener is drawn into a world where technical precision meets emotive storytelling. The opening track sets the tone with intricate guitar riffs layered over dynamic drumming, immediately establishing that this is an album that rewards attention and repeated listens. There’s a cinematic quality to the arrangements that makes each track feel like a scene in a larger narrative, and the production is polished without ever losing the organic energy of the performances. Beneath the Tide showcases Primaluce’s ability to balance heaviness with melody. The tension between shadow and light, a recurring motif throughout the album is especially evident here, with moody atmospheric passages giving way to soaring guitar leads that feel both triumphant and introspective. The title track, Dark Mirrors, stands out as a purely instrumental centerpiece. It’s a masterclass in layering and pacing, weaving together hypnotic rhythms, subtle synth textures, and emotive guitar work in a way that feels almost cinematic. Listening to it, you can’t help but feel that the band is exploring not just musical boundaries, but emotional ones as well. Tracks like Falling Through the Rain and Aillusions continue to demonstrate the band’s knack for melding technical skill with accessible hooks. The rhythmic shifts are executed flawlessly, but they never feel mechanical, each change serves the song’s emotional arc. Meanwhile, Glass Horizon and the closing The Garden of Glass bring the album to a reflective, almost meditative close, leaving the listener with a sense of completion and emotional resonance. Overall, Dark Mirrors is a striking release that underscores Primaluce’s growth as musicians and storytellers. It’s an album that invites repeated listening, revealing new layers and subtle nuances with every playthrough. The band has managed to craft a work that is both intricate and approachable, emotive and technically impressive, a rare combination that makes this one of the standout progressive metal releases of the year.

1986

From the first second of Static Burn, 1986 hit you square in the chest with a riff that’s equal parts vicious and hypnotic. It’s the kind of opening that immediately says, we mean business, but there’s more to it than just noise, the guitars crunch and grind with a warmth that somehow makes all that heaviness feel alive. The drums punch in with a tight, almost impatient energy, and the bass locks everything together, giving the track a solid, grounded weight while letting the chaos swirl on top. What really hooks you is the way the song moves. At first, it feels straightforward, riff driven, almost meditative in its repetition, but then the tension slowly builds. The band knows how to play with space, pull back the guitars, let the drums breathe, then slam everything back full force. Every breakdown lands like a sucker punch, and you can feel the thought behind each shift, it’s heavy music that’s alive, not just wall of sound aggression. Vocally, the delivery is fierce without ever tipping into over the top screaming. There’s grit, there’s edge, and a sense that the singer’s pouring some real life frustration into every line. You can almost hear the sweat in the room if you imagine them playing live. The lyrics themselves tap into that same feeling of friction and restlessness, moments of tension, moments of release, all wrapped in the raw energy the band radiates. By the time the track hits its climax, all the elements are firing in perfect sync, shredding riffs, punchy drums, thick bass, and vocals that push and pull with the rhythm. It’s intense without feeling cluttered, aggressive but never careless. Even the quieter passages serve a purpose, letting the heavier hits land that much harder, and giving you room to catch your breath before the next wave of sonic assault. In the end, Static Burn feels like a live snapshot of 1986 at their best, raw, unfiltered, and full of character. You get the sense that they’re not just playing music, they’re telling a story, one riff and drum hit at a time. It’s a track that grabs you, shakes you, and leaves you wanting more, a perfect example of how a modern heavy band can still feel grounded, passionate, and utterly alive. For anyone into heavy, riff driven music with a pulse and personality, this is a track that’s impossible to ignore.

Ben Quad

Wisher feels like the moment a band stops second guessing who they are and just leans into everything that makes their sound hit the way it does. From the very first few seconds you can tell they’ve pushed themselves further than before, not in a flashy “listen to how different we are now” way, but in that more subtle, mature sense where the songwriting has more intention, more patience, and more emotional weight without losing the scrappy, heart on sleeve energy that’s always been part of their DNA. There’s this warm haze running through the whole record, like nostalgia mixed with clarity, the kind of clarity that only shows up after you’ve been knocked down a few times and finally understand what parts of yourself are still worth fighting for. The guitars still carry that familiar sharpness, but they’re layered in a way that feels richer, almost comforting at times, before flipping into these bright, punchy runs that let the choruses lift. The band clearly had fun experimenting little synth touches, glitchy moments, shifts in texture that don’t feel forced. It’s still emo at the core, but with a wider emotional palette, and that’s what makes the album so engaging. You get that trademark Ben Quad urgency, but it’s wrapped in something more reflective like they’re admitting they’re older, that the stakes are a bit different now, but they’re still stubborn enough to push through the heaviness with big melodies and bigger feelings. What stands out most is how openly the album wrestles with wanting things to get better, wanting yourself to grow, wanting distance to make sense, wanting the past to stop holding so much power. A lot of emo bands try to sound hopeful, Ben Quad actually means it here. Even when the lyrics lean into frustration or self doubt, there’s a thread of optimism running through everything, that quiet voice that says, “Yeah, things hurt but you’re still here. Keep wanting more.” It’s relatable in a way that doesn’t feel preachy or melodramatic, it’s just honest. They write about grief, longing, friendships that fracture and heal, all with this very human sense that none of us have it figured out, but we’re still trying. The features add some welcome texture, especially the moments where the guest vocals blend into the band’s already emotive style. Those tracks feel less like features and more like the album opening its arms a little wider. And the closing moments of the record tie everything together beautifully, messy emotions, catchy hooks, and that last burst of energy that leaves you feeling like you’ve gone through something with them rather than just listened to a playlist. Wisher is one of those albums that doesn’t need to shout to get its point across. It sits with you, tells you its stories, lets you breathe in all the things you’ve been putting off thinking about, and then quietly reminds you that wishing for something better isn’t naive, it’s necessary. It’s Ben Quad growing up without losing the spark that made people connect with them in the first place, and it’s easily their most confident, complete work to date. If you’ve ever needed a record that holds the messy parts of life in one hand and the hopeful parts in the other, this one hits exactly where it needs to.

Asira

With As Ink in Water, Asira emerge not just as a progressive metal band, but as a band willing to confront the rawest edges of human experience and translate them into music that’s both expansive and deeply personal. There’s an emotional honesty here that feels rare in modern heavy music, grief, doubt, trauma, faith, and the slow grind of healing thread through the record in ways that are tangible, relatable, and quietly cathartic. It’s a record that doesn’t ask you to admire its technical skill though it has plenty of that, it asks you to feel it. Musically, the album thrives on contrast. The band moves seamlessly between blackened intensity, soaring melodic lines, and atmospheric shoegaze textures, all layered with subtle progressive flourishes that keep the sound rich without ever feeling overblown. Vocals both harsh and clean cut with emotional precision, while choral and soprano contributions float through at moments of reflection, giving certain passages a haunting, almost spiritual quality. The production is warm and spacious, letting each element resonate, the heaviness hits hard, but the quieter moments are given as much room to breathe, making the album feel like a living, breathing narrative rather than a collection of songs. What sets As Ink in Water apart is how human it feels. Even in its heaviest passages, there’s a sense of vulnerability, even in its quietest, a quiet defiance. It’s an album that wrestles with mortality, belief, and emotional fragility, yet it never sinks into despair. Instead, there’s a gentle strength underlying it, a sense that pain can be witnessed, expressed, and ultimately, transformed. By the end, the album lingers. It’s the kind of music that leaves a trace long after it’s finished emotionally, atmospherically, and musically. Asira have crafted a record that’s at once heavy, melodic, and deeply affecting, a cohesive, thoughtful, and profoundly human statement that cements their place as one of the more emotionally ambitious bands in modern progressive and blackened metal.

Annalynn

When it comes to the heavier side of metalcore, few bands from Asia carry the same sense of conviction and urgency as Thailand’s Annalynn. Their new single “BIOS” feels like a clean reboot not just a song, but a statement of intent. From the opening moments, you can tell they’ve sharpened their sound, fusing all that pent up energy with a focus and clarity that makes every note hit that little bit harder. The track opens in chaos, tight, biting riffs that twist around each other before crashing into a wall of drums that feel both precise and unrestrained. There’s an immediacy to the sound; it’s raw but controlled, heavy but still layered. Annalynn have always been known for balancing brutality with melody, and BIOS takes that balance and runs with it. Beneath all the aggression sits this pulsing sense of emotion, it’s not just anger for the sake of it, but something that feels personal, cathartic, and genuine. Vocally, the delivery is feral yet honest. Every scream carries weight, like it’s been pulled from somewhere real rather than performed for effect. The clean moments break through like air between waves, they don’t soften the track, but they give it space to feel human. Lyrically, BIOS explores the idea of transformation and rediscovery. the sense of breaking down to build back stronger, almost like wiping the slate clean and rewriting your own code. It’s a concept that fits Annalynn perfectly at this point in their journey. Production wise, it’s razor-sharp without losing that organic edge. The guitars cut through cleanly, the bass hums with depth, and the percussion drives everything forward with intent. You can hear the chemistry within the band that lived in tightness that only comes from years of playing together and pushing their sound across boundaries. What’s always made Annalynn stand out is their authenticity. There’s no pretending here, no need to chase trends or soften their edges to appeal to wider audiences. They simply sound like themselves, and BIOS is proof of how powerful that can be. It’s a track that feels massive but personal, heavy but alive, and it captures that perfect intersection between chaos and clarity. BIOS isn’t just another release, it’s Annalynn stepping forward, more confident than ever in who they are and what they represent. For fans of the genre, it’s everything you’d hope for, crushing breakdowns, layered emotion, and that feeling that you’ve just been through something meaningful by the time it ends. This is Annalynn back at full force, refined, resilient, and ready to take the next step.

Cabin Boy Jumped Ship

Chemicals finds Cabin Boy Jumped Ship stepping fully into the version of themselves they’ve been building toward for years, that seamless fusion of crushing metalcore weight, electronic adrenaline and a moodiness that feels almost cinematic. What makes this single stand out isn’t just the blend of styles, but how confidently they move within that blend. Nothing here feels bolted on or thrown in for effect instead, everything locks together with a clarity that shows a band deep into their own creative identity. From the opening moments, there’s a palpable tension, the kind that sits low in the chest. The electronics give off this cold, neon glow, not overwhelming the mix but colouring it with a sense of unease. When the guitars step in, they hit with a dense, mechanical heaviness, almost percussive in the way they punch through the beat. It’s that familiar Cabin Boy backbone, but tightened and sharpened, like they’ve sanded down the excess and left only what serves the emotional hit. Vocally, the band land in that sweet spot between aggression and vulnerability. The harshes feel raw and immediate, carrying this undercurrent of desperation, while the cleans are delivered with a controlled intensity that never drifts into over-polished territory. There’s a lived-in edge to the performance, not glossy, not theatrical, just honest. The chorus, especially, has that kind of sticky melancholy that Cabin Boy do so well: catchy enough to loop in your head, but heavy with something unspoken underneath. Thematically, Chemicals taps into that internal war between destructive habits and the pull toward something better. It’s not melodramatic, it’s more like a quiet admission of how messy self treatment and coping mechanisms can become. The lyrics lean into that grey area where blame, guilt, and relief all blur. Even if the listener doesn’t catch every word, the emotional weight is right there in the delivery. Production wise, this is one of their most balanced tracks. The electronic elements aren’t just there for drops or transitions, they act like a second nervous system running parallel to the metalcore framework. You feel it in the low end pulses, in the glitchy stabs between vocal lines, in the way the ambience thickens right before a breakdown. When the heavier sections finally hit, they land with precision rather than brute force heavy enough to satisfy the core fans, but shaped in a way that serves the song’s emotional arc instead of derailing it. By the time Chemicals reaches its final stretch, there’s this sense of release, as if the tension built throughout has finally snapped. It doesn’t explode in a predictable breakdown for the sake of it moment instead, it feels earned, tied directly to the track’s narrative and atmosphere. Overall, Chemicals shows Cabin Boy Jumped Ship levelling up. It’s the sound of a band fully aware of what makes them unique and leaning into it with maturity and purpose. Heavy, melodic, and emotionally resonant, this track feels like a statement not a reinvention, but a refinement of everything that’s always made them compelling. It lands with impact, lingers after it ends, and invites you straight back in for another listen.

Autumn Fires

Autumn Fires new single “Fall For You” is a really strong, emotional, and energetic track. The song comes straight from the heart, lyrically expressing the relatable emotions of finding ‘the one’ The lyrics are sincere and show real vulnerability, telling a story through simple, poetic metaphors that are catchy without ever feeling cheesy. At the same time, it still carries that classic pop punk energy we’ve come to expect from Autumn Fires’ previous work. The production, with the help of Romesh Dodangoda (who’s worked with bands like Bring Me the Horizon, Funeral for a Friend, and Holding Absence), gives the track a polished, big sounding feel while still capturing a youthful, nostalgic energy. The hook is infectious and likely to stick in your head after just one or two listens, the kind of song you’ll find yourself replaying for months. It also serves as a strong introduction to the band’s upcoming album, Bloom, recorded through Marshall Records and set for release in February 2026. The single also highlights the band maturing and exploring new themes without losing the spark that makes them so relatable. If you’re a fan of Tonight Alive, Story of the Year, or Knuckle Puck, this song is a must listen. And if you’re looking for a great entry point into pop punk, “Fall For You” is perfect. As for Bloom, this single has me excited to hear what else Autumn Fires have been cooking up in the studio, I expect an album full of infectious riffs, heartfelt lyrics, and moments that’ll stick in your head long after the first listen.

The TV Casualties

The TV Casualties come out swinging with Teach Them Boys To Kill, a track that wastes absolutely no time making its presence known. From the first hit, it feels like you’ve been dropped straight into the middle of a grimy basement show, sweaty walls, blown-out speakers, and that raw, unfiltered energy that only a band living off adrenaline can deliver. What really stands out here is how the band walks the tightrope between chaos and control. The riffs are jagged and restless, like they’re trying to tear their way out of the mix, but there’s a tight, intentional groove underneath it all that keeps everything locked in. The drums hit with that frantic punk urgency, but they never lose the pocket. It’s aggressive, yes, but it’s not just noise, it’s focused, sharpened, and purposeful. Vocally, this track hits that perfect point between frustration and confrontation. There’s a sneer in the delivery, the kind that feels less like performance and more like someone pacing in a dim room, saying the quiet parts out loud because they’re tired of holding them in. The title sets the tone, but the execution takes it further, it feels like a critique, a warning, and a release all rolled into one. Production wise, the band keeps things rough around the edges, and it suits them. Nothing feels too polished or overly processed, and that grit adds character. It’s got that live wire feel, the kind where you can practically hear the amps buzz and imagine this song going off in a packed venue. Teach Them Boys To Kill ultimately lands as a punchy, urgent snapshot of who The TV Casualties are right now, loud, unapologetic, and not afraid to push into darker, more confrontational themes. It’s short, sharp, and hits exactly the way a track like this should. If this is the direction they’re leaning into, it feels like The TV Casualties are gearing up for something even bigger.

Luna Marble

Luna Marble’s self titled record feels like the kind of album that doesn’t try to grab you by the throat, it just pulls you in slowly, like a room filling with warmth. There’s a lived in, analogue spirit that runs through the whole thing, the sort of dusty, golden hour glow that only bands with a real sense of identity seem to capture. Right from the first moments, you’re hit with this haze of fuzzy guitars, thick low end, and vocals that float somewhere between soulful and smoky. It’s psych-rock with a pulse, alt rock with a bit of magic dust thrown over the top. What really defines Luna Marble, though, is how comfortable the band sound in their own world. There’s no sense of forcing anything. The songs unfold naturally, as if each riff, melody, and groove grows from the last. The guitars feel tactile, you can almost hear fingers dragging across strings, amps humming in the background. The bass and drums lock into these satisfyingly earthy grooves that make everything feel grounded, no matter how spaced out things get on top. And the vocals? They carry this warmth and confidence that ties it all together, never overpowering but always guiding the mood. The band lean into a 70s inspired palette, but they don’t treat it like a costume. Instead, they pull the textures they love, the swirling psych tones, the smoky blues rock edges, the unhurried pacing and bring them into a modern headspace. You get moments that feel like early Sabbath melting into Fleetwood Mac dreaminess, or flashes of All Them Witches desert mystique, but Luna Marble always land on something that feels distinctly theirs. It’s less about referencing the past and more about understanding what made that music timeless in the first place. One of the strengths of the album is how patient it is. Instead of stacking ideas just to keep things moving, Luna Marble let their songs breathe. They build atmosphere before impact, letting riffs stretch out and rhythms simmer under the surface. You get these slow-burning passages where it feels like the band are just losing themselves in the sound but they always know when to pull everything back into a hook or a melodic moment that sticks. It’s that push and pull, that dance between wandering and tightening the reins, that makes the record feel genuinely immersive. There’s also a really organic emotional thread running through the album. It’s not melodramatic, not over explained, it’s more like a feeling that lingers underneath everything. A kind of wistfulness, a dusty calm, a sense of trying to capture small, fleeting moments of clarity. Even when the guitars swell or the band drift into heavier territory, that subtle heartbeat remains. It makes the whole album feel cohesive, like all the songs are different parts of the same journey rather than separate chapters. By the time the final track fades out, you’re left with the impression that Luna Marble aren’t just carving out a sound, they’re carving out a space. A space where vintage tones, modern emotion, and effortless chemistry all coexist. It’s the sort of self titled album that doesn’t feel like an introduction at all. It feels like a declaration, this is who we are, this is what we sound like, and we’re only just getting started. Warm, hypnotic, unhurried, and full of character, Luna Marble is the kind of record you sit with, and then immediately want to revisit to sink a little deeper into its glow.

Set It Off

Some albums don’t just play, they hit. Set It Off is one of those records that comes at you fast, no apologies, no time to breathe. It’s loud, raw, and restless, the kind of energy that doesn’t ask permission to exist. Set It Off aren’t here to reinvent themselves; they’re here to reclaim something, the edge, the chaos, the honesty that maybe got lost somewhere along the way. Image kicks it all off like a slap to the senses. It’s confident but cracked, full of that battle between who you are and what the world expects you to be. The band sound like they’ve been waiting to explode, and this is the moment the pressure finally breaks. Everything’s tight, the guitars bite, the drums feel urgent but underneath it, there’s this lingering self-awareness that makes it more than just noise. Then comes Punching Bag and Rotten two songs soaked in defiance. They hit that place between frustration and clarity that point where anger turns into focus. There’s no filter, no smoothing out the rough edges. You can feel the exhaustion in every line, but you can also feel the strength it took to turn that exhaustion into something loud enough to shake the room. Switch and Fake Ass Friends push that energy even further. They’re sharp, fast, and dripping with attitude. Switch feels like finally flipping a breaker that’s been sparking for too long, while Fake Ass Friends just says what everyone else’s too polite to and that honesty is exactly what makes it hit. It’s not about being polished, it’s about being real. Whats In It For Me? slows things down emotionally not sonically, but in spirit. There’s a sense of questioning, of looking inward after all the noise. It’s one of those songs that doesn’t scream for attention but lingers after it ends. Then Evil People takes that introspection and spits it back out in flames, turning self-doubt into confrontation. There’s venom here, but it’s earned. When Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing [REBORN] hits, the whole record shifts. The word reborn says it all its transformation, not just repetition. It’s the sound of starting over, but with scars as proof. It’s defiant in a new way — not I’m angry, but Ive survived. Vicious Cycle and Creating Monsters carry that energy like twin reflections of the same theme, the endless loops we trap ourselves in, the versions of us we build to survive. They feel heavy, but not hopeless. There’s motion in the darkness, like running through fog but still moving forward. And then Parasite and Worst Case Scenarios close it out. Parasite is sharp, almost uncomfortable, a song that claws at the walls. Worst Case Scenarios feels like the emotional cooldown not calm, exactly, but clarity. The fight is still there, but the panic is gone. It ends not with fireworks, but with understanding. Set It Off is loud, messy, and honest but that’s the point. It’s about digging through anger to find identity, about realizing that maybe breaking down is the first real step toward building yourself back up. It’s not a perfect record, it doesn’t need to be. It’s human. It’s a reflection of all those late nights where everything feels like too much, but you keep going anyway. This isn’t an album trying to please anyone. It’s one that speaks directly to the people who feel too much, think too hard, and still show up every day. It’s not polished, it’s alive. And that’s exactly what makes it matter.

Soulfracture

Soulfracture’s return with The Leader of the Exploited feels like the kind of comeback that doesn’t rely on nostalgia or past reputation. Instead, it hits with this real, pent up energy like a band who’ve had years of life, frustration, and ideas sitting under their skin, and now everything’s being channelled straight into the music. There’s no warm up, no easing back into things. They come out swinging. One of the first things you notice is how self assured the whole EP feels. There’s no identity crisis, no searching for a new direction, just a heavier, more seasoned version of who they were before. The music has that old-school death/thrash backbone they built their name on, but there’s a modern punch to it too, like they’ve taken everything they used to do and hardened the edges even further. The riffs have more bite, the drums feel more locked in, and the vocals carry this almost snarling conviction that really pushes the atmosphere into darker territory. What really elevates the EP is the attitude behind it. Soulfracture have always had a socially conscious streak, but here it feels sharper, more frustrated, more deliberate. There’s this sense of looking around at the state of things and refusing to just sit with it quietly. The themes of exploitation, control, and people being worn down by the systems around them hit with more weight because the delivery is so intense. It doesn’t feel like they’re preaching, it feels like they’re venting and that honesty gives the music even more power. Musically, the EP has a really satisfying flow. Even without going track by track, you can feel how each song adds something to the overall picture. The pacing is tight, heavy sections land with force, the grooves hit in all the right places, and the melodic touches never take away from the aggression — they just give the songs more depth. You can also tell how locked in the band sound with each other. There’s a lot of chemistry here for a group returning after so long, and it shows in the way the songs punch forward without losing control. The production is raw, but in a way that gives the EP character. Nothing feels over polished or artificially boosted, it has that recorded by a real band in a real room energy, which actually suits Soulfracture perfectly. The slight rough edges add grit rather than taking anything away. If anything, they help the EP feel more honest, more human, more true to the band’s roots. By the time it ends, The Leader of the Exploited leaves a strong impression. It’s heavy, urgent, and full of purpose, the kind of comeback that makes you forget it’s been years since they last released music. Soulfracture sound hungry, inspired, and ready to make up for lost time. If this is the opening statement of their new chapter, then there’s a lot to look forward to.

Unwell

There are albums that entertain, albums that impress, and then there are albums like Allegoria, the ones that unravel you. UNWELL’s latest release isn’t concerned with perfection or polish, it’s an exploration of the cracks where the light gets in. Across ten tracks, the band crafts something that feels both cinematic and claustrophobic, brutal yet heartbreakingly intimate. It’s the sound of falling apart and learning to live in the aftermath. From the opening moments of Miracle it’s clear this record exists in the tension between beauty and decay. The song starts softly, all shimmering guitars and ghostlike harmonies, but there’s a fragility to it, a trembling undercurrent that suggests peace is only temporary. It’s a deliberate entry point, an almost deceptive calm before the emotional collapse that follows. Miracle doesn’t explode, it erodes, slowly peeling back its own serenity until all that’s left is a quiet ache. Then Airless takes over, and suddenly the world feels smalle, tighter. The production grows dense, almost suffocating. Every snare hit feels like a pulse skipping under stress. The vocals strain just enough to make you feel the weight behind them. It’s a track that captures the feeling of anxiety so precisely that it borders on uncomfortable and that’s exactly why it works. It’s not just about the sound, it’s about the experience of being trapped inside it. Plague and Trip The Wire keep that restless energy alive, but they do it differently. Plague feels ritualistic, hypnotic rhythms, gritty textures, and lyrics that sound like they were written in the aftermath of something catastrophic. Trip The Wire on the other hand, is chaos disguised as control. The verses coil tightly around their melodies before the choruses detonate in flashes of cathartic release. It’s the kind of song that sounds like it was built to fall apart and that’s its genius. By the midpoint, Allegoria begins to shift its emotional gravity. Conquered introduces this defiant pulse, a sense of forward motion through exhaustion. It’s not a victory march, it’s survival music. The band layers urgency with vulnerability, creating a soundscape that feels like stumbling toward light after being underground for too long. Then comes Throne Of Velvet Rose one of the record’s most tender and devastating moments. The title itself is an allegory, beauty blooming out of suffering. The arrangement is sparse, letting the vocals breathe and break naturally. It’s not a love song in the traditional sense, it’s about finding gentleness in the midst of ruin. You can almost hear the exhaustion in the silence between lines, the weight of someone still trying to believe in softness after being burned too many times. As the record moves into Craven and Magna Carta it begins to explore legacy, faith, and the burden of self-awareness. Craven feels like a confession, sharp, introspective, raw. The guitars glimmer and then grind, mimicking the cycle of self-doubt and defiance. Magna Cartanleans more into the mythic side of UNWELL’s writing, grand imagery, cryptic lyricism, and production that feels almost regal in its decay. It’s the sound of a band building their own mythology, brick by broken brick. Torture is the emotional breaking point. It’s stripped bare, minimal in arrangement, but heavy with truth. There’s no hiding behind metaphors here. Every lyric lands with the gravity of lived experience. It’s quiet, but not gentle, a moment of emotional nakedness that feels less like a song and more like a final confession. You can sense the band’s exhaustion here, their surrender to honesty over performance. And then comes Armor the closer. It’s everything the title promises and more, protective, steady, but cracked in places where the light still gets through. The pacing is patient, almost meditative. It doesn’t resolve the chaos of Allegoria instead, it embraces it. There’s a sense of acceptance in every line, as if the band has finally learned that healing doesn’t mean returning to who you were, but moving forward as who you’ve become. When the last notes fade, you don’t feel closure, you feel reflection. Allegoria doesn’t end with triumph, it ends with truth. What makes this album remarkable is how human it feels. The imperfections are intentional. The production isn’t about showing off technical mastery, it’s about translating emotion into sound. Every distortion, every breath, every slight vocal crack adds to the realism of the record. It’s not pristine, it’s alive. And that’s what makes it powerful. UNWELL have always danced in the grey between vulnerability and volatility, but Allegoria feels like their most cohesive statement yet. It’s an album that understands how pain and beauty are never opposites, they coexist. It’s about the moments when destruction becomes creation, when breaking becomes becoming. In the end, Allegoria isn’t just something you listen to, it’s something you live through. It lingers long after it’s over, echoing in the quiet spaces between thoughts. It’s haunting, it’s human, and it’s heartbreakingly honest, a portrait of collapse painted with compassion.

Nightdive

Hailing from the heart of Australia’s alternative scene, Nightdive return with Occulent a track that feels like it exists somewhere between dream and disarray. From the opening seconds, there’s this undeniable sense of atmosphere, hazy guitars and moody tones drift in like smoke, wrapping the listener in a slow burn intensity that feels both intimate and vast. It’s the kind of song that doesn’t demand attention it earns it, quietly, layer by layer. Vocally, there’s a restrained emotional weight here. The delivery isn’t desperate or over performed it’s natural, almost weary in tone, yet completely captivating. The lyrics blur the line between introspection and escape, painting vague yet powerful imagery that leaves space for interpretation. You can feel the emotional friction between acceptance and resistance a kind of calm within chaos. That tension gives Occulent its pulse. Production wise, Nightdive strike a rare balance. The guitars shimmer without losing grit, the bass is full and grounding, and the percussion stays tight but never sterile. There’s this cinematic feel to how the song moves dynamic, but not predictable. Every element seems intentional, like they’re guiding you through a fog of emotion rather than forcing you to feel something specific. The reverb-soaked mix creates distance, but it’s the kind of distance that invites you in rather than pushes you away. As Occulent unfolds, its layers start to reveal themselves the way the chorus expands, the subtle instrumental flourishes, the way everything slowly swells toward a conclusion that feels less like an ending and more like an emotional exhale. It’s not about catharsis or climax; it’s about release. That’s something Nightdive do incredibly well making music that breathes, that allows silence and texture to share equal weight with melody and rhythm. If there’s one thing that stands out most about Occulent, it’s patient. In a world obsessed with immediacy and instant payoff, Nightdive let their song simmer and in doing so, it hits deeper. It’s dark, yes, but not without warmth. It’s heavy, but never in a way that suffocates. Ultimately, Occulent feels like a confident statement from a band that knows exactly who they are atmospheric, introspective, and unafraid to sit in the shadows. It’s haunting, heartfelt, and quietly unforgettable.

Immortal Disfigurement

Hell Is right In front of us is a crushing, cinematic journey that really cements the band’s evolution and shows just how far they’ve pushed their sound. From the very first note, it’s obvious that this isn’t just another brutal deathcore release, it’s a carefully constructed assault that blends technical proficiency, orchestral drama, and raw emotional intensity in a way that feels both terrifying and exhilarating. The production is massive but incredibly clear, giving room for every element to shine while keeping the overall impact bone crushing. The guitars hit with a sinister weight, moving seamlessly between technical riffs that twist and coil like steel wires, punishing breakdowns that feel like the floor collapsing beneath you, and melodic flourishes that give the chaos a sense of purpose. The orchestral elements are no longer just background texture; they’re woven into the very fabric of the music, adding tension and grandeur that elevate each track into something almost cinematic, like a horror epic scored by a band that refuses to compromise on heaviness. Vocally, the EP is relentless but controlled. The guttural lows are punishing, cavernous and visceral, while the piercing highs cut through the dense instrumentation like knives, creating a dynamic contrast that keeps you on edge. Every growl, scream, and shriek feels intentional, as if the vocals themselves are part of the orchestral narrative, adding layers of menace and intensity. The rhythm section locks in tightly, with drums that are both precise and unpredictable, capable of guiding the listener through frantic technical passages, punishing grooves, and sudden tempo shifts without ever feeling disjointed. Bass lines rumble beneath it all, adding depth and heft that reinforces the sense of impending doom. One of the EP’s greatest strengths is its pacing and dynamic range. It never stays in one lane, one moment, you’re buried under a storm of crushing riffs and blast beats, the next, the music pulls back into a tense, eerie atmosphere where the orchestral elements breathe and create a sense of dread that’s almost suffocating. This push and pull gives the EP a feeling of movement, like it’s alive and breathing, and makes the heavy moments hit even harder. Tracks feel like mini journeys, some assault the senses relentlessly, others linger with melancholy or subtle melodic passages, and the transitions between them feel seamless, like a story unfolding rather than just a series of brutal songs. Lyrically and thematically, the EP dives deep into despair, corruption, power, and decay, creating a sense of existential horror that matches the intensity of the music. There’s a real emotional resonance behind the aggression, the brutality isn’t empty or gratuitous, it’s part of the narrative. The atmosphere the band builds is oppressive yet captivating, pulling the listener in and holding them there with a combination of technical skill, thematic weight, and sheer ferocity. By the end, it’s clear that this EP is more than just a statement of technical ability, it’s a manifesto of intent, showing that Immortal Disfigurement aren’t content to follow trends but are carving their own path through extreme music. This release solidifies their identity as a band that can marry chaos with precision, brutality with beauty, and technicality with emotion. Every element feels purposeful, every note and growl calculated to make an impact, and yet it still feels alive and raw in a way that keeps it from feeling clinical. It’s punishing, dramatic, and absolutely immersive, leaving the listener both exhausted and exhilarated, craving more even after the final track ends. Immortal Disfigurement have taken everything that made them stand out before and amplified it, delivering an EP that not only satisfies but demands repeated listens, each one revealing new layers of complexity, menace, and artistry. By the time it finishes, there’s no doubt that this band is operating at the top of its game, and that whatever comes next will be impossible to ignore.

Hideclose

Hideclose’s Nocte Mutamur (By Night We Are Changed) isn’t just an EP, it feels like stepping into a dark, flickering hallway lit only by candlelight, where every track pulls you further into its shadowy story. From the first few seconds of Haunted View, Lenn Vane sets a tone that’s both cinematic and deeply personal. You immediately sense that this is a project built on mood and storytelling just as much as musicianship. What really stands out is how the EP manages to sound heavy without being overbearing. The guitars have this thick, brooding presence, but they never bully their way to the front. Instead, they work alongside the synths and atmospheric layers to build a world, one that feels foggy, gothic, and slightly unnerving in the best way. You can tell everything has been placed with intent, every chord, every line, every moment of silence. The narrative itself is surprisingly rich for a short release. Professor Dario Valperga’s descent into visions, doubt, ritual, and ultimately transformation feels like a gothic short story told through music. Each track works like a chapter: • Haunted View introduces the creeping unease. • Sacred Play leans into something ritualistic and secretive. • The Darkness Draws Near brings that inner turmoil to the surface. • A Fatal Meeting is the turning point heavy, dramatic, and unsettling. • Nocte Mutamur ties everything together in this tense blend of danger, release, and inevitable change. It’s rare to hear metal with this level of narrative subtlety. The lyrics never feel forced, and the vocals carry this weary, troubled energy that makes the character’s descent feel believable. It’s not theatrical for the sake of being theatrical, it’s emotional, and there’s a real sense of place. Production wise, it strikes a nice balance between clarity and grit. You can hear the layers, but nothing feels polished to the point of sterility. There’s still that rawness that’s essential in darker metal, the thing that makes it human, imperfect, and real. If I had to nitpick, I’d say the pacing is deliberately slow in places, which might throw listeners who prefer immediate hooks or big explosions of energy. But honestly, that’s part of the charm. This EP wants you to sit with it, to absorb the tension and the atmosphere rather than rush through it. Overall, Nocte Mutamur is a genuinely impressive and atmospheric piece of work. It shows a clear artistic vision one that leans into mood, storytelling, and emotional weight rather than just trying to be loud or flashy. It’s a release that sticks with you after the final note fades, and it’s one of those projects where you almost find yourself wanting to go back to the start just to live in that world for a bit longer.

Human Vivisection

Relentless Redemption doesn’t so much begin as it erupts. Omnipotence wastes zero time in setting a truly ferocious tone, hitting with this blunt force intensity that feels like the band grabbing you by the collar and dragging you straight into their world. The guitars slice through with precision, the drums feel like they’re constantly on the verge of combusting, and the vocals immediately establish that deep, guttural edge the band thrives on. It’s an introduction that refuses to hold back, the kind of opener that tells you exactly what kind of record you’re about to face. As the album settles into its stride, that feeling of suffocating heaviness becomes its heartbeat. Human Vivisection approach the darker themes with an almost cinematic bleakness, tracks like A Symphony of Decay and Oblivion’s Embrace wrap themselves in this dense, brooding atmosphere that feels both crushing and oddly hypnotic. The guitars rarely sit still, switching between relentless chugging and wider, more dissonant passages that add tension to every moment. There’s a sense of emotional exhaustion behind the songwriting, almost like each track is a purge of something that’s been festering beneath the surface. Abyssal Reflections stands out not just for its collaborative energy, but for the way it shifts the mood without breaking the flow. The pacing feels slightly more deliberate, almost as if the band are pulling the listener into deeper emotional waters. Desolate Lament, bolstered by Larry Wang’s feature, brings another dimension to the record, something that feels mournful, pained, but oddly beautiful in its brutality. These features never overshadow the core identity of the band instead, they stretch the emotional range of the album in ways that keep it sharp and engaging. There’s a real sense of pacing across the 12 tracks that keeps the album from falling into monotony. Even the more relentless moments have this dynamic push and pull, but the tracks where the band momentarily ease off the gas, The Hollow Echoes Of Inevitability for example are crucial. They give the listener these brief glimmers of space, allowing the impact of the more chaotic sections to land with even more force. These moments aren’t soft by any means, but they introduce atmosphere, tension, and a haunting stillness that lingers long after the track ends. What becomes increasingly clear as the album unfolds is how unwavering the band are in their vision. Relentless Redemption is built to hit hard not just sonically, but emotionally. There’s a rawness to the vocal delivery that feels almost confrontational, while the instrumentation forms this relentless, shifting wall of sound around it. It’s not an album that offers comfort or easy moments instead, it thrives on catharsis, on pushing the listener into the deepest parts of its themes and forcing them to sit with the weight of it. By the time the record approaches its final stretch, the intensity hasn’t faded but there’s a clarity to the chaos. You can feel the band pouring everything into each final riff, each breakdown, each guttural roar. It’s the kind of album that demands your attention from start to finish, and one that leaves you carrying its atmosphere long after the final note dies out. For listeners who want an album that’s not afraid to go all in on darkness, emotion, and sheer power, Relentless Redemption delivers exactly that with unwavering force.

The Hot One Two

Virtues feels like The Hot One Two stepping into a new chapter with full confidence, the kind of album where you can tell the band isn’t second guessing anything anymore. From the moment it kicks in, there’s this push of adrenaline but also a sense of purpose, almost like they’re lifting the curtain on something bigger than just a follow up record. Where Superbia dug into the grit and chaos of the seven sins, Virtues flips the lens and brings a brighter, more defiant energy, but without losing the bite that makes their sound hit the way it does. It’s still loud, still punchy, still full of those grin inducing riffs, but there’s a clarity to it, a kind of clean fire that shows they’re evolving rather than just repeating what worked last time. What stands out most is the balance. The guitars are huge and swaggering as ever, but nothing feels over polished, there’s still that rough edge that makes you imagine the sweat and stage lights of their live shows. The lead work keeps finding that sweet spot between melodic and reckless, sliding into solos that feel like they were meant to be played in front of a crowd that’s already half lost its voice. Meanwhile the rhythm section just refuses to ease up, the drums have that chest thumping, live room power, and the bass sits underneath everything like a heartbeat that doesn’t want to settle down. It’s tight, but not too tidy. Loud, but not messy. That’s the charm of this band and the album leans into it perfectly. Simon West’s vocals feel more grounded this time too, still gritty, still carrying that classic rock edge, but with more control and more emotional range. You feel it in tracks like The Reaper where he’s going toe to toe with the riffs, and then again in the gentler moments like Distance Love Affair where he lets the song breathe a little. There’s a sincerity in the delivery that fits the album’s theme well, it’s less about doom and shadows and more about resilience, redemption, standing up straighter after getting knocked around. It’s refreshing without ever slipping into something cheesy or overly clean. The real magic of Virtues is how it moves. Some tracks fly straight for the throat, others slow things down just enough to let everything sink in. Saint Restraint is one of those moments where the band pulls back the curtain a touch and shows a softer side, and it lands beautifully because it’s surrounded by these big, explosive doses of energy. Then you’ve got songs like Blow Your Mind that feel tailor made for festival crowds, the kind of hook that sticks whether you want it to or not. And by the time you reach For You, the whole album feels like it’s doing a victory lap not arrogant, just celebratory, almost like the band is turning to the listener and asking, “Did we take you somewhere? Did you get it?” If Superbia was them planting their flag, Virtues is them building the foundations around it. It feels bigger, more intentional, more emotionally plugged in, and it honestly sounds like a band hitting the stride they’ve been working toward from the start. It doesn’t try to reinvent rock music, it doesn’t need to but it does capture everything that makes this style exciting when it’s done by a band who actually cares about the craft. Strong hooks, strong heart, strong identity. It’s a proper second album, the kind that shows growth without losing the spark that made you listen in the first place. Overall, Virtues lands with confidence and clarity. A real step up, a real statement, and a record that proves The Hot One Two aren’t just writing songs, they’re carving out their space.

As I Lay Dying

As I Lay Dying’s new single, Echoes, marks a striking new chapter for the band. Tim Lambesis remains the only original member, with the rest of the lineup completely refreshed. Given everything Tim has been through in recent years.. his highly publicized legal and personal challenges, this release carries an added layer of intensity and significance. It’s a testament to resilience, both for him personally and for the band as a whole. Musically, Echoes blends heavy, precise riffs with soaring melodic sections, showcasing the style fans have long associated with As I Lay Dying. The guitars cut sharp and full bodied, while the rhythm section drives the track with energy and precision. The drums hit hard without overwhelming the mix, and the bass underlines the song’s dynamics subtly but effectively. Even with the lineup changes, the production remains tight and polished, highlighting the band’s attention to detail. Tim’s vocals remain the band’s emotional anchor, moving seamlessly between guttural screams and melodic passages. Lyrically, the song reflects tension, struggle, and perseverance resonating strongly in the context of Tim’s personal journey. There’s a raw authenticity to the performance, suggesting that the band isn’t just aiming for technical perfection but also for a meaningful emotional impact. Echoes is more than just a single, it’s a statement. It proves that As I Lay Dying can continue to evolve despite past controversies and significant lineup changes, without losing the intensity and identity that defined them. Longtime fans will appreciate the continuity and renewed vigor, while new listeners can step in and feel the full force of a band rebuilding itself with focus and conviction.

Fight From Within

Talk Is Cheap marks a real turning point for Fight From Within, that moment where a band stops trying to fit into whatever people expect of them and instead locks fully into the identity they’ve been building in the background. There’s a maturity throughout this record that feels earned, not manufactured. You can hear the growth in the songwriting, the sharper edge in their performances, and the clarity in what they’re trying to say. Right away, the album establishes this vicious sort of momentum. Not messy or rushed, but that kind of forward drive you get when a band has been holding onto things for a long time and finally lets everything spill out. The guitars feel more commanding this time around, there’s a grit to them that really pushes the intensity without drowning out the detail. The drum work is tight, punchy, and full of small touches that keep the energy moving instead of just blasting everything to pieces. And the bass which can often get lost in heavier records actually feels present, helping glue everything together while adding a darker weight underneath. Vocally, there’s a massive step up. There’s conviction in every line, whether it’s delivered with a clenched-teeth frustration or a more melodic clarity. What really stands out is the emotional consistency, it never feels like the vocals are just layered on top of the music, they actually belong with the instrumentation, like they’re part of the same breathing organism. You can tell the lyrics come from real experiences, real frustrations, and those moments where you reach the end of your patience and decide you’re done playing along. The delivery mirrors that honesty perfectly. Lyrically, Talk Is Cheap tackles themes that hit pretty close to home for anyone who’s had to fight through self-doubt, broken trust, or feeling overlooked. There’s a recurring idea of calling out the people who speak the loudest but mean the least, the ones who pretend to care, pretend to support, pretend to know you. Fight From Within channel that resentment into something constructive instead of just bitter. You get the sense that this album was a release valve for all the pressure they’ve been building over the years. One of the strengths of this record is how balanced it feels. Even at its heaviest, the band never hides behind noise or chaos. They let the riffs land with impact, they give the rhythms room to breathe, and they let the emotional weight take centre stage without over explaining anything. Everything feels considered. Every transition makes sense. This isn’t a band throwing everything at the wall, it’s a band who finally understands their own formula and trusts it enough to refine instead of overwork it. The production plays a big role in that. It’s clean but not too clean, polished but not glossy. The tones sound intentional, the vocals sit in the mix with confidence, the dynamics shift naturally rather than feeling forced. You get the rawness that defines heavy music, but with clarity that shows the band has put genuine thought into every layer. That balance keeps the album engaging from start to finish. What really makes Talk Is Cheap stand out, though, is the sense of identity running through it. Fight From Within sound like a band with something to prove not to the outside world, but to themselves. It’s the sound of a group who’ve outgrown old versions of who they used to be and don’t mind burning a few bridges on their way into their next chapter. There’s frustration, but there’s also resilience. There’s heaviness, but it’s backed by meaning. Nothing feels hollow. By the time the album closes, there’s this lingering feeling that you’ve just heard the band arrive at a new level of their own craft. It’s heavier, more direct, more emotionally transparent but also more controlled and purposeful. Talk Is Cheap doesn’t just show Fight From Within’s potential, it shows what happens when that potential finally clicks into place. This is, without question, the most fully realised version of Fight From Within so far. Honest, sharp, and fiercely driven, a statement record from a band who clearly aren’t interested in staying quiet anymore.

Death And Exhale

With Stones & Diamonds, Death & Exhale step into that territory where a band stops sounding like “one to watch” and starts sounding like a fully realised force. This album feels like the culmination of their identity, the heaviness, the ambition, the technical edge, all brought together with a focus that makes the whole thing feel genuinely purposeful. You can hear the hunger, but you can also hear confidence. It’s the sound of a band who finally know exactly what they’re trying to say. One of the first things that hits you is just how tight this record is. The guitars come in like sharpened steel, percussive, mechanical, and packed with those progressive/djent flourishes that twist riffs into something more interesting than simple chugs. The drums sit that perfect line between machine precision and raw human energy, with fills and patterns that give the songs their pulse instead of just keeping time. And the low end ties it all together, a thick wall of sound that rumbles underneath everything without drowning the details. Vocally, the performance is a standout moment in itself. The range is massive, crushing lows, strained mids, higher screams that cut straight through the mix but what stands out most is the emotional weight behind it. Deathcore can sometimes fall into the trap of being all bark, no feeling, but here the delivery actually matters. There’s anger, frustration, self reflection and a sense of control even at the album’s most chaotic moments. It feels like someone working through something real, using the heaviest music possible to do it. The songwriting shows a level of maturity that you don’t always get from a band still relatively early in their career. Rather than leaning on constant breakdowns or endless blasts, they use dynamics to make the heavy moments hit harder. Tracks often open with atmosphere or tension, letting a riff simmer before everything comes crashing down. They’re not afraid to slow things down, let a melody creep in, or drop into cleaner textures that add clarity to the chaos. When the breakdowns do arrive, they land with much more impact because the band earns those moments, instead of relying on them. There’s also a clear sense of progression throughout the album not in a concept album way, but in how the mood and intensity shift. Early songs tend to punch hard and set the tone, while the middle stretch brings in more groove, more experimentation, and more emotional edges. By the time you get to the later parts of the record, the band feel like they’re pushing deeper into their sound, exploring weight, melody, and texture with more confidence. It all flows together, almost like one long piece that evolves naturally as it goes. Production wise, Stones & Diamonds strikes a really nice balance. It has that modern clarity and punch, the kind of mix that lets every layer breathe without losing the brutality. The guitars sit nicely in the pocket, present and sharp while the bass adds real backbone rather than just boosting the low end. Drums are crisp, impactful, and mixed with enough space that the fast sections don’t get blurred together. The whole album has this polished heaviness that feels professional without losing grit. What really elevates the record, though, is how intentional it feels. Nothing here sounds like filler. The band isn’t just writing “heavy songs” they’re building an atmosphere, a mood, a headspace. The themes reflect that too, inner conflict, personal damage, the push and pull between rising above and collapsing inwards. It mirrors the title perfectly, the idea of pressure, transformation, breaking down and hardening up again. It gives the aggression a bit more meaning, and you can feel that thread running through the entire record. In the end, Stones & Diamonds is the type of album that marks a turning point. It’s the sound of a band levelling up not just playing heavier, but playing smarter, deeper, and with a clearer identity. Death & Exhale mix deathcore, progressive metal, and djent in a way that doesn’t feel like a mashup of influences, but a natural extension of who they are. It’s heavy music with real shape, real intention, and a real sense of forward momentum. If this is where they’re at now, it’s hard not to imagine them becoming a genuine name in the next wave of modern heavy bands. Stones & Diamonds feels like the start of something big.

Defences

Lithium Kiss hits hard from the start, but it’s not just about volume or aggression, there’s a real depth to it. Defences have a knack for blending intensity with emotion, and this track is a prime example. The guitars are punchy and layered, the drums driving without ever feeling overbearing, and the vocals carry a raw honesty that pulls you in from the first line. Lyrically, it’s heavy without being overbearing. There’s a theme of self reflection and growth running through it the idea that facing your own struggles doesn’t make you weaker, it makes you more real. That balance of vulnerability and strength is threaded throughout the track, giving it a resonance that sticks with you long after it ends. The chorus hits with a kind of cathartic energy. It’s anthemic without feeling forced, and the interplay between harsh and clean vocals gives it an extra layer of emotion. Meanwhile, subtle synth textures in the background add an unexpected atmosphere, giving the song a sense of space and texture beyond the usual heavy sound. What stands out most is the way Defences manage dynamics. They know when to push hard and when to pull back, letting the quieter moments breathe and giving the heavier sections even more impact. It’s that push and pull that keeps the track from feeling one dimensional, making it feel alive and organic. Lithium Kiss is more than a song, it’s an experience. It’s intense, reflective, and cathartic all at once, showing Defences at a point where their sound feels fully realized but still hungry, still reaching for something more. For anyone who likes their heavy music with depth, emotion, and a sense of real humanity, this is a track that hits on every level.

The Maiden Voyage

Timeless is one of those tracks that quietly slips under your skin before you even realise what it’s doing. Right from the opening moments, there’s this warm, cinematic glow that sets the mood without forcing anything. The band lean into atmosphere rather than aggression, letting the music breathe and unfold in its own time. It immediately feels like stepping into a memory, not a specific one, just that strange, comforting space where nostalgia and clarity meet for a moment. The production is clean but not glossy, textured enough to feel real, and that’s part of what gives the song its pull. The vocals come in with this gentle but confident presence, the kind of delivery that doesn’t need theatrics to be convincing. There’s a natural sincerity to the performance, and you can hear a sense of lived experience in the way the melodies rise and fall. It never feels like the singer is pushing for a big moment instead, the emotional weight is carried through tone and phrasing. It’s a refreshing kind of honesty, expressive without being melodramatic, open without feeling like it’s trying too hard. Instrumentally, Timeless thrives on subtlety. The guitars shimmer around the edges, almost like they’re painting light around the vocals, while the rhythm section keeps everything grounded with a steady, heartbeat like pulse. Nothing is overplayed or thrown in for the sake of filling space, every element feels considered. When the chorus hits, it doesn’t explode instead, it blooms. The hook has this familiar warmth to it, not in a derivative way, but in the sense that it taps into those universal emotions we all recognise even if we can’t always articulate them. It’s reflective, gentle, and quietly powerful. As the track progresses, the layers gradually build without ever breaking the song’s calm centre. The band add depth rather than volume, letting the energy rise in a way that feels natural and earned. By the time it reaches the final stretch, Timeless has wrapped you in this soft, nostalgic haze, like you’ve just revisited a version of yourself you’d forgotten about. That’s what makes the song live up to its name. It doesn’t chase trends or lean into overly dramatic shifts; it simply captures a feeling and holds it with care. Overall, Timeless is a beautifully measured piece from The Maiden Voyage, showcasing their ability to craft something emotionally resonant without relying on excess. It’s sincere, atmospheric, and quietly impactful, the kind of track that lingers long after it fades out, not because it’s flashy, but because it speaks to something familiar and deeply human. If this is the direction they’re leaning into, it’s a strong sign of a band who truly understand how to make a moment stick.

Two Sides Of Me

Released back in August, Clinging To The Edge Of Life marks a real moment of growth for Two Sides Of Me , a record that feels both intensely personal and sonically massive. Across seven tracks, the band take you through a journey that blends aggression, melody, and emotion in a way that feels instinctive rather than calculated. There’s a clear sense of evolution here; everything feels sharper, tighter, and more purposeful than anything they’ve done before. The album opens with that familiar rush of chaos that’s quickly grounded by melody, a push and pull that defines much of the record. The guitars cut through with this driving intensity, balancing technical precision with just the right amount of grit. The drums are relentless, always giving the songs a pulse that feels alive, while the vocals switch effortlessly between harsh screams and clean, vulnerable tones. It’s not just dynamic for the sake of it, each transition feels emotionally charged, like a genuine reflection of what the lyrics are saying. Lyrically, Clinging To The Edge Of Life lives up to its name. It’s a record about holding on to hope, to sanity, to whatever keeps you grounded when life feels like it’s falling apart. The writing dives deep into feelings of self doubt, disconnection, and the constant fight to stay afloat, but it’s done with sincerity. There’s no forced darkness or posturing here; it’s raw, relatable emotion from a band that clearly uses their music as a way of processing the world around them. Tracks flow seamlessly, each carrying its own emotional punch. Some moments hit with unfiltered aggression, while others pull back to let the atmosphere breathe, but there’s never a dip in energy. The pacing feels deliberate, with every song adding a new layer to the story they’re telling. By the time you reach the latter half, it’s clear this isn’t just a collection of songs, it’s an experience built around tension and release. Production wise, everything feels balanced and immersive. The mix is clean enough to let the melodic moments shine, but still heavy enough to make the breakdowns land with real impact. You can tell a lot of care went into making it sound powerful without stripping away the human edge. It’s that balance between polish and authenticity that really makes this album stand out. Clinging To The Edge Of Life isn’t just a strong release , it’s the sound of a band defining who they are. Two Sides Of Me have crafted something that feels emotionally honest and musically confident, showing they’re not afraid to push themselves creatively. It’s heavy, heartfelt, and completely unafraid to be vulnerable. If this is the direction they’re heading in, they’re absolutely on the right path. Clinging To The Edge Of Life is the kind of record that sticks with you long after it ends, not just because of how it sounds, but because of how it makes you feel.

Levels

There’s a panic behind the eyes of this track a cold, metallic dread that breathes down your neck from the first second. Covert One doesn’t ask for your attention, it hacks its way in like a backdoor virus, leaving you locked in a strobe-lit room with nothing but fragments of trust and the sound of your own heart clawing at your ribs. Arkansas quartet LEVELS have never really played by the book, but this time? They’ve ripped it apart, set it on fire, and scattered the ashes across a glitch-ridden battlefield. Covert One is the sound of being seduced by something that promises safety, only to trap you inside it. It’s abusive love dressed in chrome industrial, electronic, weaponised. The guitars are barely human anymore processed, distorted, twitching like a static signal from a lost satellite. The drums hit like surveillance footage: looped, relentless, like you’re being watched but can’t look back. Every section of this track feels like a new chamber of trauma. The clean vocals don’t offer relief they drip with desperation, with that too late realisation that the love you thought would save you was actually rewiring your entire sense of self. And when the breakdown lands? It’s less of a mosh call and more of a psychological exorcism. Lyrically, it’s poetic in the most poisoned way possible. Not dramatic for drama’s sake but intentionally suffocating. You’re dropped into a spiral of manipulation and self erasure. There’s no clear antagonist. It’s internal, external, intimate, and overwhelming. There’s a line between romance and warfare, and LEVELS don’t just walk it they weaponise it. What’s most impressive is how this thing moves. It’s dynamic, but never chaotic. There’s control in the chaos a calculated pacing that lets tension simmer before ripping the floor out beneath you. And the layering? Unreal. It sounds like you’re hearing it through a cracked security feed everything slightly corrupted, slightly too close, too personal. It’s Nine Inch Nails meets Loathe via a fever dream you can’t wake up from. This isn’t a track for casual listeners. It demands you sit in the discomfort, feel the dread in every line, every glitch, every choked breath. It’s vulnerable in a way that makes you feel like you’re reading someone’s secret journal after the apocalypse. And still it bangs. There’s rhythm, structure, hooks even but all wrapped in barbed wire. LEVELS aren’t just making music anymore. They’re making statements. Covert One is cinematic, visceral, and unapologetically confrontational. It’s a song that stares you down, drags you into its trauma loop, and dares you to come out the other side changed. And truthfully? You will be.

Caskets

Caskets latest album, The Only Heaven You’ll Know, is a bold, unflinching journey through chaos, emotion, and sheer sonic intensity. From the very first track, the band grabs you by the collar and doesn’t let go, blending blistering aggression with surprisingly tender melodic moments. It’s a record that feels both immediate and deeply considered, showing just how far the band has come. The album opens with Lost In The Violence, a perfect storm of furious riffs and relentless drums that instantly sets the tone. There’s a controlled chaos here that makes the track feel alive, urgent, and purposeful. The momentum carries into Our Remedy where a collaboration with Make Them Suffer adds dramatic flair and cinematic depth without losing any of the raw energy. The title track The Only Heaven You’ll Know stands out as the emotional core of the record. It weaves haunting melodies with powerful instrumentation, striking a balance between aggression and vulnerability. Closure follows, offering moments of melodic respite that make the heavier sections hit even harder. Tracks like Sacrifice and What Have I Become? dig deeper, pairing intense instrumentation with introspective lyrics, proving that Caskets can hit as hard emotionally as they do musically. Make Me A Martyr is a relentless highlight, a track that sears itself into your memory with every drum hit and guitar line. Mid album moments such as Save Us and Escape provide brief, melodic interludes, giving the listener room to breathe while keeping the album’s momentum alive. The closing track Broken Path leaves a lasting impression, bringing a sense of resolution while reinforcing the album’s themes of struggle, defiance, and reflection. The Only Heaven You’ll Know is more than just a heavy album, it’s a statement. Caskets deliver a record that is as emotionally raw as it is sonically powerful, balancing brutality and beauty with an ease that feels effortless. For long time fans, it reaffirms the band’s place in the modern heavy scene. For newcomers, it’s an immersive introduction to a band unafraid to challenge themselves and their listeners. It’s intense, honest, and utterly compelling, an album that lingers long after the final note.

Unsettled

Trigger comes out swinging with the kind of ferocity that feels both deliberate and deeply emotional, like the band have been holding something inside for far too long and this track is the moment everything finally snaps. From the opening seconds there’s this looming tension in the guitar tone, thick, abrasive, and soaked in that crunchy distortion that feels more like a warning than an introduction. The riffing doesn’t just fill space, it drives the whole track like a fuse that’s already been lit, and the drums sit right behind it with a tight, unrelenting pulse that keeps everything locked into place. What hits you quickest is how controlled the aggression feels. Unsettled don’t throw chaos at you, they shape it, mould it, and turn it into something powerful. Every breakdown feels calculated, every hit lands with the kind of precision that makes the song feel heavier without relying on noise for impact. As the vocals kick in, the whole tone of the song sharpens. There’s this rawness in the delivery that feels less like performance and more like catharsis, like the vocalist is using the track as an outlet rather than just reciting lines. You can hear the emotion in every word, the grit in the throat, the strain that comes when someone is genuinely pushing through whatever’s weighing on them. The lyrics themselves lean hard into destructive imagery, burning it down, lighting the match, pulling the trigger, watching the world crumble. But underneath all the flames and fury there’s this very human sense of exhaustion and resilience. Lines like “I’m not gonna give up my life” and “constant anger just to survive” hit differently because they’re not just angry slogans, they sound like someone clawing their way forward through frustration and disappointment. It’s heavy, but in a way that feels personal rather than theatrical. What really elevates Trigger is the way the band handle the ebb and flow of intensity. The verses simmer with this tense, almost suffocating energy, where the guitars and drums build pressure without fully releasing it. Then the chorus, especially that repeated “pull the trigger” erupts like the moment everything spills over. It’s catchy in its own harsh, confrontational way, the kind of hook you don’t necessarily sing along to but definitely feel in your chest. And every time it comes back around, it hits just as hard, like being shoved back into the same emotional headspace you thought you’d recovered from. When the breakdown finally arrives, the whole track caves in on itself in the best possible way. The low end rumbles, the guitars get darker and denser, and the vocals take on that extra edge that makes the moment feel like a release rather than just another section. Production wise, the band clearly knew what they wanted this track to be. Everything sits exactly where it needs to be in the mix. The guitars dominate without overwhelming, the drums stay punchy and articulate, and the vocals cut through the chaos with just the right amount of grit. There’s a clarity in the heaviness that a lot of rising heavy bands struggle to capture, and it helps the song feel impactful rather than crowded. Even in the most intense moments, you can pick out the layers, the subtle shifts in tone, the small pauses that give the next hit more weight, the slightly different textures in each vocal line. What lingers long after the song ends is the atmosphere. It’s dark and volatile, but not hopeless. There’s anger in yes but it feels like it’s coming from a place of trying to claw through something rather than giving in to it. Unsettled manage to capture that feeling of standing in the middle of chaos with your fists still clenched, battered, furious, exhausted, but still fighting. Trigger plays like an emotional purge as much as a metal track, the kind of song that resonates with anyone who’s ever felt themselves pushed to their limit and needed to scream back at the world. For a band still establishing their identity, this feels like a real marker in the ground. It’s bold, loud, honest, and delivered with a confidence that suggests Unsettled know exactly who they are and what they want to say. If they keep channelling this level of intensity and emotional truth into their music, they’re going to carve out a place for themselves fast. Trigger doesn’t just showcase potential, it actively proves it.

Bad Neighbour

Bad Neighbour hailing from Brisbane, Australia drop their latest single I Can't Look for You and you're immediately greeted by a kind of melancholic sincerity that gives the track its emotional centre. The opening minutes feel quiet, almost hesitant Minimal instrumentation, just enough to set the mood, letting the vocals do the heavy lifting. Right away, you sense the band's intention they're not interested in bombast, they're interested in connection. Lead singer Cooper Riley delivers his lines with a tone of introspection there's an edge of regret, or perhaps longing, that lingers in his voice. The lyrics hit the familiar territory of lost time or missed opportunities, but Bad Neighbour avoid cliché by keeping things simple. They don't pile on metaphor after metaphor instead they lean on lines that feel honest, even vulnerable. The space between the vocal lines is just as telling as the words themselves. On the production side, the track benefits from clarity and restraint. The instrumentation is layered carefully subtle guitar chords, a gentle rhythm underneath, then gradually some additional textures start to emerge. It's in that gradual build where the song finds its momentum. It never rushes into big dramatics, yet by the second chorus you're feeling the swell an emotional lift born out of steady growth rather than sudden change. One of the most compelling things here is how Bad Neighbour resist the temptation to write a hook in the typical sense. The catch isn't a sing along line it's the mood, the way the music and words make you feel. It's the kind of song you recognise not because you can belt out the chorus, but because you remember the way it sat with you afterwards. That's a strength, especially coming from a band rooted in Brisbane's alternative/emo scene, where mood and authenticity matter deeply. If there's a small minor quibble, it's that the track's gentle approach might leave listeners craving a bigger payoff if you're more accustomed to grand builds or ear-worm choruses, this might feel a little under-the-radar. But I'd argue that's exactly the point: Bad Neighbour trust the quiet moments to carry weight, and that gives I Can't Look for You a lasting impact beyond the initial listen. In short, this is a strong single from a band that knows how to craft genuine, emotionally grounded music. Backed by thoughtful songwriting, intimate vocals and measured production, it's a track that sits with you long after it ends and that stay with you quality is exactly why Bad Neighbour are worth keeping on your radar.

Jamie James

Jamie James doesn’t just write music he lives in it. And with Straight Up, you get the sense that you’re not just hearing songs; you’re eavesdropping on stories, moments, moods, and memories that have brewed over decades. This is the kind of record that doesn’t rush to impress instead, it leans back, pours a whiskey, and lets the groove do the talking. There’s a worn-in feel to this album that instantly puts you at ease. It’s not trying to chase trends or fit into a neatly packaged genre. It feels more like a conversation with an old friend sometimes playful, sometimes brutally honest, always real. Jamie James navigates blues, rock, and rootsy Americana with the kind of ease that only comes from someone who’s done the miles. You can hear the dust on the boots and the late night sessions in every note. What’s immediately striking is how lived in the whole thing feels. From the first few seconds, there’s a warmth and looseness that draws you in. You can almost picture the studio vintage amps humming, cigarette smoke curling, maybe someone pouring another drink in the corner. It’s raw in the best way: not undercooked, just honest. The production never gets in the way of the personality. You hear creaks in the floorboards, imperfections in the takes, and all of it adds to the charm. Lyrically, James straddles that line between sly wit and soul-baring honesty. There’s humour tucked into his phrasing, but it’s never gimmicky. It comes from a place of perspective, like someone who’s been through the ringer but still finds reasons to laugh. At the same time, he doesn’t shy away from vulnerability whether he’s confronting time’s passage, personal struggle, or the absurdity of the music industry, it all comes across with sincerity and a wink. Stylistically, Straight Up lives somewhere between classic blues-rock and late-night dive bar storytelling. Think somewhere between J.J. Cale, early Tom Waits, and a looser Clapton but all filtered through Jamie’s own voice and experience. There’s swagger, sure, but there’s also reflection. He never leans too hard in either direction. The record breathes. What’s really refreshing is that it’s not overproduced or polished within an inch of its life. There’s no sense of “trying too hard” here. The guitar tones are warm and gritty, the rhythm section grooves with subtle confidence, and James’ vocals carry the whole thing with a smoky kind of authority. You get the feeling these songs weren’t laboured over for months they were probably captured in a handful of takes, with instinct leading the way. And that instinct is right on the money. There’s also a kind of emotional through-line that holds the whole album together. Even when the tempo picks up or the lyrics get tongue-in-cheek, there’s a weight underneath a sense that Jamie isn’t just playing the blues; he’s carried them. And that gives the lighter moments more impact. The album doesn’t wallow, but it doesn’t ignore the shadows either. It acknowledges them, tips its hat, and keeps moving. One of the more surprising strengths of Straight Up is how diverse it manages to be without ever losing its identity. You get hints of swing, classic rock, back-porch blues, even touches of gospel and soul but it never feels disjointed. Jamie’s voice both vocally and as a writer is the anchor. It’s not about fireworks or technical flexing. It’s about vibe, tone, and heart. And on that front, he delivers in spades. You can tell this is music made for the love of it. There’s no pretension here. No desperation to chase a chart position or please an algorithm. It’s music you’d expect to hear played live in a dimly lit venue, where the audience is close enough to see the sweat on the fretboard and the stories behind the eyes. That closeness, that intimacy, is something most records today don’t even try to capture but Jamie James bottles it. It’s also worth noting how well-paced the record is. Even at ten tracks, it never drags. Each song feels like it earns its place, and there’s a natural arc to the listening experience. By the end, you don’t feel exhausted or overwhelmed you just feel like you’ve spent time with someone who had something to say, and said it in exactly the way they needed to. No filter, no fluff. If there’s a takeaway from Straight Up, it’s this: there’s still something powerful about music that doesn’t try to be everything to everyone. This record knows exactly what it is bluesy, heartfelt, sometimes cheeky, always grounded and it leans into that with conviction. Jamie James might not be aiming to reinvent the wheel, but he’s making damn sure it rolls smooth.