ANDREW PERER wrote this book on Kevin Shields and MY BLOODY VALENTINE, and I'll be bloody damned — it's actually pretty good. And you're already asking yourself: "Why in the name of all that is holy would I want to read about some Irish dude getting a guitar so he can sound like a Boeing 747 sobbing into a pillow?" Ah, but calm your pint, buddy, because it appears that this isn't some hack Wikipedia cribbage scribbled between benders.

​Perer's been digging on this ground for decades, searching out everyone from one-time band members to sound guys still cringing at the word "reverb." He's found the lunatics who heard Shields warping his guitar into sounds that kept grown men in their shoes for hours, so "shoegaze," but I still envision it sounding like a lads' support group for dudes with wonky ankles.

Some of them are being told here for the first time, and you get the sense that it's because no sane human being had the endurance to follow half of Shields' orbit. Let's be honest: MY BLOODY VALENTINE's career is what a band would do with time travel but only reversed to leapfrog over deadlines.

Three albums. Forty years. I have heard buskers in Camden shell out that many albums in the time it takes to miss paying rent. But the three that they did release? Each one falls like a brick through your lounge window at 3 a.m. — frightening, inconsiderate, but somehow lovely when moonlight reflects off the splinters. "Loveless" (1991), the album everyone says is God sneezing slowly, is handled with the reverence it is given.

Perer not only buffs Shields' halo, but introduces us to the fellow and his cash-burning record company like a pyromaniacal accountant, scaring Island Records and engineers who likely still drink bourbon for breakfast. The book dispels the urban myth and presents us with the chaos for what it really was: half-genius and half-sheer and complete madness. "Loveless" isn’t the only era covered. Andrew Perer also chronicles the long, strange quiet period.

The "Are they dead or abducted by aliens?" decade, when Kevin Shields supposedly was working, maybe, or maybe just hiding in a cabinet with fifty guitars and a fear of sunlight. And he charts Shields' fill-in activities: production, remixing, inserting himself into Sofia Coppola soundtracks as some sort of musical vampire. Creeping around, messing about, returning with something that makes you wonder whether the guitar is an instrument or a weapon.

What I adore is that the book does not give anyone a free ride. It's not a gushy fan epistle. There are the breakdowns, tantrums of brilliance, the utter perversity of a band that created the most ground-breaking album of the '90s and then more or less coasted for a decade like they'd simply popped out to pick up some milk.

If you care about music history, this is a no-brainer.

If you merely wish to discover how one obstinate Irish boy rewired the way we hear sound, music, and guitars which can emulate dying engines, then this book is well worth your time. But if "shoegaze" to you is all about crashing around drunk and staring at the ground, then maybe hold the colouring book.".

Good book, good author. I still don't get it, why it would take twenty years to write three records, but now that I've read this, I nearly respect the sheer obstinacy of it. But then I spent three months putting in a shelf. Shields spent twenty years learning to tune a guitar. Maybe we're not quite so different, then. Words: Matt Denny.

The Brooklyn Hardcore legends known as BIOHAZARD are back with "Divided We Fall", their first studio album in over a decade, out October 17th via BLKIIBLK. 

Originally formed in 1987, and having had various personnel changes over the years, Biohazard has reunited the original line-up, creating an album that delivers a blistering statement of unity in chaos. Bobby Hambel (guitars) had this to say about the album:

"We are really excited to finally have the classic BIOHAZARD line-up back together in the studio. This album has been a long time coming, and the record is straight from our hearts - we can’t wait for everybody to hear it, and to head out and play these new songs live. See you out there!”

Now, in all transparency, I wasn't the biggest fan of them after their 1994 album, "State Of The World Address". Not for any other reason than my musical palette shrank as I dove into Death Metal; an egregious error on my part as diversity is the slice of life, and one that has since been rectified. With that in mind, don't ever limit yourself to one genre, it's extremely one dimensional, especially when you consider how much music is out there for us to experience. 

Anyway, as I sit here listening to "Divided We Fall", I can't help but notice that these guys, despite pushing 60 years of age, are just as vicious in their music as they were back in the day. I can't help but think that this is partially due to having the classic line-up back together, but also that there's a lot to be angry about in this day and age. We all are truly divided, both sides thinking that they're superior to the other, and both of them being completely wrong in that assumption. So yeah, "Divided We Fall" is exactly what's gonna happen if this country can't get its shit together!

Evan Seinfeld is still a badass, and having him back, he re-joined in 2022, has been a shot in the arm of this band. The way he writes and performs is absolutely essential to this band's sound, though that could be said about any of these guys, but for me, it centres on what Evan brings to the table. But enough ass kissing, let's talk about the standout tracks!

"Divided We Fall" opens up with “Fuck The System”, a statement that I completely agree with. Our current system in the US is irreparably broken, and we need songs like this to remind us that this shit is NOT ok. The Hardcore riffs are heavy, and in them I hear a bit of EARTH CRISIS, who are legends of the Syracuse Straight Edge Hardcore scene. While I do hear that band in there, this track is undeniably Biohazard, from the vocals to the overall tone and performance. 

Following that is “Forsaken”, another absolute banger of a track. This one also has all the hallmarks of classic era Biohazard, it's heavy, angry, and exactly what I want to hear from this genre. There's a sick lead break before what I'd consider to be the break down, which goes hard as fuck! Killer tune from start to finish!

“Tear Down The Walls” is pretty far down in the track list, but is no less a banger than any of the previous songs on this album. There's plenty of crushing Hardcore riffs, gang vocals, and positive messages hidden within the lyrics. Biohazard doesn't want you to take anything laying down, and they deliver that message as only they can. 

“Death Of Me” is another track that I find myself going back to over and over again. There's the obligatory sounds that one would expect from the band, riffs, heaviness, and the attitude that is a huge part of the genre itself. I believe that many of you will grasp onto this track like I have. 

Other standout tracks include “War Inside Me”, “S.I.T.F.O.A”, and “Warriors”.

Is Biohazard breaking the mold? No, but no one wants them to either. Fans expect a certain sound and direction from these old-school Hardcore legends, and they deliver it with all of the power and edge that they've exhibited throughout their career. So dig in now because the record is out and ready for your ears! Words: Tom Hanno.

ORBIT CULTURE is a band that's on the fast track to mass appeal, especially over the last 2 years or so. They hail from Sweden, a land rich in Metal history, and they carry that torch with reverence to the past, but while also standing firmly in the present. 

”This record represents change, a new beginning...”, says Orbit Culture guitarist, vocalist and songwriter, Niklas Karlsson. “It brings up a lot of good and bad emotions but it’s a big change for the better. It feels like a rebirth...”

Karlsson was inspired by a steady diet of METALLICA, GOJIRA and STATIC-X, all of which can be heard within the music on the band's newest, and possibly best album to date, "Death Above Life", released on October 3rd, 2025. I also hear influences from bands like IN FLAMES. 

“Inferna” kicks off the festivities in grand fashion! This track almost reaches the 7 minute mark, which can be tough for some listeners, but it never feels bloated or boring, making for an enjoyable listening experience. 

“Bloodhound” starts off with a riff that is as heavy as Thor's mighty hammer. Which is a fact that continues throughout the verse sections, but when he growls “You fucked it up, you fucking asshole”, that's when you really feel the power of this track. Then the band matches it with some groove heavy riffs, some nifty electronic elements, and killer vocal performances. This is one heavy track, serving as a perfect example of what Orbit Culture is all about. 

For a bit of back story, Orbit Culture had done an arena tour with SLIPKNOT in early 2024, which helped to open the band’s eyes to bigger possibilities. “If we never did the Slipknot shows, for instance...” says Niklas. “I would never have written a song like ‘Bloodhound’ on the new album. Just watching them every night, there was an intensity and furious rage that we got to see closely, first-hand, it pushed us...”.

“The Tales Of War” begins with a bit of orchestration, setting the mood for what is to follow perfectly. When the riff kicks in it also kicks your ASS, utilizing intricacy and groove in order to get your asses into the pit as soon as you hear it. This is one of those tracks that I feel is indicative of all the cool elements that this band has at their disposal.

“Inside The Waves” pulls in an influence that hit me hard when I realized what I was hearing, as I'm a huge fan of this band and their now deceased original singer … the one, the only, Wayne Static and Static-X. This influence is subtle, but it is most definitely there nonetheless. You wouldn't know it by listening to it, but … [Editor: Then...how did you know???]

 “For me, that was going into a LINKIN PARK phase...” Karlsson freely admits. “I wanted to write something that was easy and singalong friendly. Of course, it’s not written for the masses, because if I tried to do that, I would fail miserably!”

“Hydra” crushes from its intro, and will steam hammer its way into a lot of playlists, mine included. This one has the heaviest vibe thus far, and not because it's fast or complicated, but instead because of the undeniable power of the main riff. “Hydra” is in the Top 3 as far as my picks for the best of the best in Death Above Life.

Other standouts tracks include “Nerve” and “Death Above Life”.

I listened to this album for about the thousandth time while at work today, and didn't stop banging my head the whole time, all while customers looked at me like I was weird for that and for mouthing the lyrics like I was in the band.

In other words, I recommend that you go check out this album immediately! It's full of everything that the modern metal head loves, and I feel it will become a staple in your daily listening habits. Words: Tom Hanno.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big telly. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electric tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental care. Choose fixed-interest mortgage payments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching bags. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking materials. Select DIY and asking yourself who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Select sitting on that couch, scowling at soul-destroying mind-numbing game shows, stuffing your mouth with fucking rubbish food. Select to waste away at the end of it all, pissing away your final few in some sad hovel, nothing but an embarrassment to the self-centred, fucked-up little brats you brought into the world to take your place. Select your future. Select life. But why in the world would I want to do something like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. And the why? There is no why. Who needs why?

GLASGOW KISS, "Down In Flames", is like gettin' yer heid bashed in the head with a bottle and kissed again by the same cunt who bashed it in there. No genre box for this one, no thanks to HALESTORM, no thanks to NIGHTWISH, no thanks to all their bollocks. This is no longer nice symphonic trash, this is riffs crawl oot the amp like septic in the pipes, Charlotte's screamin' voice like an angel got booted oot heaven for smokin' tabs in the loos. Daniel playing like he's got his guitars set alight, Sveinung slicing strings like he's flaying a rat, John Erik's bass thudding like the neighbour banging on yer door at 5am bawlin' ye still owe him fags, Frode on drums banging harder than the polis when they eventually kick the door in. The whole of them frightens ye like a bad trip ye cannae get yerself oot of, only ye dinnae want tae.

It ain't classy stadium effluvia, it's dirty, dripping, teeth-rattlin' metal still smolderin', wee pools of loveliness concealed in the muck. A chorus'll carry ye along, aye, then deposit ye belly-first once again in the sewer with the verse. That's the dance: highs that scorch yer lungs, lows that shake the bone.

Charlotte’s the one that fucks wi’ ye most -- she’ll croon ye soft, then suddenly she’s bitin’ chunks oot yer ear. One minute ye’re floatin’ in daylight, next minute ye’re choking in midnight smoke. Ye cannae trust her, and that’s exactly why ye cannae turn her aff.

This album’s postcards fae the abyss: wee moments of joy scribbled on the back of broken glass. They recorded it across random holes, clubs, anywhere they could plug in, stitched it together wi’ spit, sweat, and maybe a wee bit o’ blood. And it works -- it’s jagged, it’s cracked, but it’s alive, pumpin’ like a vein wi’ fresh gear.

When it's done ye're shakin', tryin' tae work oot what the fuck occurred. And ye'll dae it again, 'cos ye haven't got a choice. That's addiction. That's GLASGOW KISS.

Rating: 9 oot o' 10 Glasgow Kisses. Spare the last yin for the walk hame.

Translations (Scottish → English):
Cunt = Person (derogatory/familiar depending on context)
Tabs = Cigarettes
Fags = Also cigarettes. Words: Matt Denny.

"Down In Flames" is released December 12th, via ECLIPSE RECORDS

My nephew, he comes to me the other day, he says "Uncle, you gotta hear this music, it's called heavy metal." So I says to him, "What's heavy about metal? We got plenty heavy metal in the warehouse - lead pipes, steel beams, that sorta thing." But he shows me this... this compact disc thing from these Canadian broads called KITTIE.

Now, I don't know nothing about no kittens. I got three cats at the social club, they're good for keeping the rats away. But these KITTIE girls? They make more noise than when Tony "The Hammer" accidentally drove the Cadillac through Mrs. Benedetto's storefront!

This "Spit XXV" - and what's with all these Roman numerals? Are we trying to impress the Pope here? It's got four songs on it. Four! Back in my day, you paid for an album, you got twelve, maybe fifteen tracks. These kids today, they're running some kinda racket, but I respect the hustle.

The first song, "Brackish XXV",  I looked up "brackish" in my dictionary (The one I use to press flowers for my wife's funeral arrangements business). It means salty water. You know what else is salty? My cousin Rocco after he lost fifty grand at the track. But these girls, they're screaming about brackish this and brackish that, and I gotta tell ya - it's growing on me like a fungus.

Then there's "Charlotte XXV",  Now, Charlotte, that was my first wife's sister's name. Beautiful woman, terrible cook. Could burn water. But this Charlotte song? It's got what my nephew calls "aggressive energy". Sounds like when my crew found out somebody was skimming from the poker games. Very passionate, very loud, very... how you say... therapeutic.

"Do You Think I'm A Whore XXV",  Hey, I'm a family man! I don't ask these kinda questions! But the music, it's like when Paulie gets really worked up about the garbage routes. All that intensity, all that... what's the word... angst. These girls got more fight in them than a bag full of wildcats.

And the title track, "Spit XXV", now this one, this one I understand. Spitting. That's universal language, you know? You spit when you're disgusted, you spit when you're angry, you spit when somebody disrespects the family. These Canadian girls, they get it.

The producer, this Garth Richardson fella - sounds like a nice Irish boy - he did the original back in 1999. That's the same year I opened my third pizzeria! Good year for business. He comes back 25 years later to work with these girls again. That's loyalty. That's respect. That's what we call "doing business the right way".

Now, I don't understand why they gotta scream so much. When I got something to say, I just lean in close and whisper. Much more effective, believe me. But these girls, they got what we call in the business "presence". When they walk in a room - or in this case, when their music plays - everybody knows they're there.

My verdict? Listen, I still don't know what the hell a "nu-metal" is (Sounds like some kinda modern art garbage to me), but these Kittie girls? They remind me of my late wife - small, sweet-looking, but don't cross them or they'll tear your throat out.
Four cannoli out of five. Would recommend to anyone who needs music for, intimidation purposes.

So, picture this: it’s half nine on a Thursday night, rain coming down in that relentless sideways way it does when the gods are taking the piss, and I’m parked outside some cul-de-sac in Leith, trying to wrestle a busted washing machine out the back of the van. My hands are numb, my back’s a write-off, and I’ve got Classic Rock Radio spitting adverts for stairlifts and Viagra when my phone buzzes.

It's my mate Gary — the guy who thinks that doom metal is a school subject that you can learn at school — and he tells me (I say tell, when Gary tells you something, it’s basically a demand), "Stick on the new FRAYLE, mate. It'll shift the weather in your head." So I did. And he was right.

The second "Heretics & Lullabies" starts, and the world crawls along. "Walking Wounded" starts — heavy crawling guitars like a motor warming up in a cemetery. Gwyn Strang's vocals don't sing; they haunt. They wriggle beneath your skin and nestle near your ribcage. The harmonies enfold one another like smoke, and the entire thing seems too delicate to be, but heavy enough to break asphalt.

"Summertime Sadness" — may well be a LANA DEL REY cover song, but they’ve turned it into some velvet-trimmed funeral dirge. It's the tune that makes you think of all the awful things you did when you were in love, but you want to hit replay so you can relive it anyway.

And then "Boo" hits. Like they opened the doors on the van and let the ghosts out to dance. The riffs sway, the vocals drift and break down, and there's this odd, sensual pull at it all — like listening to terror sing sweet nothings.

Later on the album, FRAYLE start to really experiment. "Demons" has this creeping sense of horror that makes you remember doom is not necessarily about velocity — it's about heft. And "Souvenirs Of Your Betrayal"? That's a tear-fest. That's heartbreak concretized, a glacial autopsy of trust with a distortion pedal thrumming in the distance. Gwyn's vocals here are blade and cut.

“Glass Blown Heart” does what it says on the tin — fragile but deadly sharp. The mix from Aaron Chaparian deserves real credit: there’s air in the sound, but no relief. Everything feels close, too close, like you’re locked in a room with the band as the amps hum and breathe around you.

By the final song, "Hymn For The Living", it's pure transcendence. Doom metal for the last mass on the last day. The smashing drums are surf on steel, and the vocals drift like incense up through stained glass. "Heretic" ties it all together — hook-prone, epic, and in-your-face. It's one standing exposed amongst the ashes and unbroken.

And "Only Just Once". The ballad. Sad, soft, heartbreaking. It's like the band are leading your hand out with the lights fading. You feel each straw of fatigue, each rasp, each drizzle of disillusion. When it is finished, there is this silence that has been well-won — like you've witnessed something you shouldn't have witnessed, but you're glad you've done so, anyway.

FRAYLE are not some doom band. They've built a cathedral out of distortion, misery, and desire — and managed to set it alight. "Heretics & Lullabies" is simultaneously old and new, sadistic and calming. It's their best, and come on. It's got to be a contender for album of the year.

A solid 9.5/10, bordering on a spiritual experience if you’ve ever worked night shifts, lost something precious, or just needed a reason to keep the van engine running while the world falls apart outside. In another life, I might be a roadie and not a man in a van, but now, halted on the edge of town, with FRAYLE drifting through the speakers and rain tapering off, I reckon that's alright. Words: Matt Denny.

Woke up this morning, made myself a cup of coffee, and began checking emails... where I found the upcoming TESTAMENT album, "Para Bellum". I immediately unzipped it, pushed play, and was blown away by the extreme power of the first track, "For The Love Of Pain", which may as well be Extreme Metal with Thrash leanings. If the rest of the album is this good, then Testament just put themselves at the tippy top of the Thrash Metal pile. 

The album title was taken from the Latin phrase “Si vis pacem, para bellum”, which translates to “If you want peace, prepare for war”. So if you're going to war, maybe use "Para Bellum" as your soundtrack. [Editor: Let's not encourage war perhaps, David Draiman got justifiably rinsed for personally signing missiles]. After about 2 weeks of steady listening, "Para Bellum" comes across as a heavy AOTY contender for me, and I feel that many others will have similar thoughts on it. 

Chuck sounds so fucking good, like, did this dude even age at all? Even at 63 years old, he attacks the mic like it owes him money, a lot of money, and in the process he sounds hungry for more. This album feels like it has the late 80s/early 90s vocals but with the intensity that Chuck displayed on albums like "Low" and "Demonic". There's times when he's bordering on Black Metal, especially on the first track, which we're gonna talk about soon. 

Eric Peterson and Alex Skolnick, do I even need to elaborate further? These two are icons of Thrash Metal guitar playing, and they have done nothing but get better over the years, culminating in this, their most brutal album in years! The riffs are brutal, the leads are memorable and melodic, and all the pieces fit together tightly. 

The bass playing of Steve DiGiorio is what it always is... out-fucking-standing!!! As a bassist myself, I always pay attention to what he's doing, because he's an immensely skilled bassist, no matter how many strings are on it. His playing with DEATH opened me up to the fact that Metal can be played on a fretless bass, a trick that many now apply, but no one does it like Steve does it. He's your favourite bassists favourite bassist, and nails it every fucking time. 

Then we have Chris Dovas on drums, and he's equally as incredible a player. With him onboard, this band is firing on all cylinders. Chris has touches of Louie Clemente, Dave Lombardo, and Gene Hoglan, yet attacks these songs with his own style and sound.

Now we're gonna jump right in and talk about the standout tracks on "Para Bellum"!!

"For The Love Of Pain” is my #1 pick in this record, and a perfect one to begin the record. It starts off with a quick drum piece that gives us a taste of what Chris can do, and what he does gives off a bit of a vibe that could be lightly compared to JUDAS PRIEST’s “Painkiller”. This all happens before the guitars kick in, but when they do, all bets are off because you're about to experience the magic that is Testament. This track is very heavy, the guitars are at Mach-speed in certain sections, and in others they're some of the best Thrash riffs that I've heard in recent times. However, for me personally, it's Chuck's vocals that are the highlight of this tune, and it's truly mind-blowing that he can still be this heavy in his early 60s.

One of my top 3 tracks is, ironically, the 3rd one on "Para Bellum". “Shadow People” is a lesson in Thrash mastery, with all of the hallmarks of old school Testament, and an excellent use of, dare I say it, melody, a word that can sometimes persuade hardcore headbangers to run in the opposite direction. But don't you do it, otherwise you'll be missing out on an incredibly good song. 

“Meant To Be” comes to the delight of many of us life-long Testament fans, as its inclusion is the first time they've done a “ballad” in many years. It's also a lesson in diversity, as it encompasses all of the different facets of their earlier ballads, think of their song “Return To Serenity” as a reference for that statement. The entire song is truly incredible to me, so make sure you don't skip it as you check out this record. 

“I love how the song takes off at the end and just doesn’t look back”, explains Peterson. “It's different, but it fits. It’s like a breath of fresh air". This also marks another novel moment for the band using true, orchestrated strings performed by world renowned cellist Dave Eggar.

“Witch Hunt” kicks off with a fast guitar part, one that borders on Death or even Extreme Metal, but once that ends, we get a riff that sounds like it would have fit right in on their album "Low", which, if you haven't heard it, is a must hear release. They had James Murphy on guitar for it, and if you know anything about Metal music, then you know his name. This song is another example of Testament reaching into their past for inspiration, yet fully committing to their present day sound, which produces wonderful results. 

“Room 117” is another one that's in my Top 3. This is mainly due to how infectious the riffs are, seriously, I challenge you to not move during this one … you won't be able to sit still though, so get ready for a sore neck. The verses and the chorus are insanely catchy, but it's the section that starts off with the lyrics, “I'm feeling lonely, I'm feeling helpless” that is my favourite part of this track. I loved that the guitars started the melody by employing a Thrashy riff that ended up following the vocal melody perfectly. It's heavy, catchy, and will stick in your head for hours after listening.

Chuck recently told "The Metal Voice"…

“I’m just happy and looking forward to the fans to listen to it, check it out because to me, this record sounds current...” he said. “It sounds modern. It doesn’t sound like a band that’s been 40 years around rehashing the same riffs, going through the same motion, taking the easy route out.”

He's right, because this record is straight fire from start to finish, no filler tracks, no weak anything. So get ready to snap your necks while headbanging violently to "Para Bellum", out via NUCLEAR BLAST RECORDS on October 10th, 2025.

Score: 8/10 - Words: Tom Hanno.

"Chameleon", the long-overdue monument to TOYAH, Britain's patron saint of DayGlo war-paint, anarchist jazz hands, and gloriously over-the-top posturing. A box set so brazen it tries to condense 45 years of musical shapeshifting into one package, and challenges you to take it seriously in the process.

Across three discs, a Blu-Ray, and a veneer of promotional gloss that could laminate a small country, "Chameleon" will stop at nothing to make the point that Toyah is not so much a pop star as a walking, wailing work of art with a back catalogue that won't lie down or go quietly.

​They start with the singles. Even the strangest monsters must get to unleash their courtship calls. "I Want To Be Free", "It's A Mystery", "Thunder In The Mountains", records suspended in a hairspray capsule since 1981. They glitter, they thunder, they shriek their eye-lined facts across the decades, still somehow broadcasting from some dystopian panto somewhere nearby.

CD2 is where things get deep. The solo years/The Fripp experiments. Songs that sound like KATE BUSH took a side-street and wound up in a cyberpunk squat. A mood-whiplash experience: lust, terror, cosmic navel-gazing, and something very like spoken-word therapy over a Yamaha keyboard in agitated distress.

And then, of course, CD3, the "rarities and collaborations", or the aural equivalent of digging around your strange aunties attic and finding a VHS labelled FOR THE COUNCIL OF THE FUTURE. There’s a track recorded with Blood Donor (mercifully not as gory as it sounds), some Fripp-y ephemera that wheezes like sentient steam, and a track from a radio drama called "Children Of The Circus", which frankly raises more questions than I’m equipped to answer. By the time "Blue Pearl" whirls around, you’re not sure if Toyah’s an artist or a portal to a parallel dimension powered by shoulder pads and existential dread.
The Blu-Ray has 12 promo clips posing the question, "What if Ziggy Stardust was trapped in a BBC broom cupboard with a fog machine and just, leaned in?" There is also a newly edited version of "Brave New World", to remind us that Toyah's type of madness is, 100% organic.

And don't miss the sprawling 48-page book: half-archive, half-scrapbook, half-mad fantasy. It's punctuated by quotes from Shirley Manson (GARBAGE) and Saffron (REPUBLICA), who do their best to elaborate on Toyah's impact in straight human language. It's a glossy hymn to the woman who brought eccentricity into fashion and each gig look like some kind of celestial catwalk with the occasional electrical hiccup.

"Chameleon" does exactly what it says on the tin: it morphs, it scorches, it bewilders. It's a third act revisited, a rebirth, and a rebellion all in one. And like Toyah herself, it won't remain still and quiet, even though the box it comes in is devoid of embossed letters (cowards).

​Recommended for: eyeliner enthusiasts, time travel buffs, and the sound of post-punk fairies banging pots and pans in a glittering apocalypse. Words: Matt Denny.

The new VICIOUS RUMOURS offering has struck me in the same way as that one night in Tunbridge Wells, where I Woke up in a stranger’s bed, wearing one sock and a scratch on my neck I couldn’t explain. I didn’t plan it. I don’t even think I enjoyed it. But it had me grinning like an idiot the whole drive home, bruises and all. But, I digress...

For forty-six years they’ve been out there, dragging their gear from stage to stage, sweating on the faithful, building the kind of stamina you don’t get from going easy. You hear it in the opening minutes and it felt as if I still had that cheeky finger in my prison wallet from THAT night.

Geoff Thorpe’s guitar playing makes every riff feels like it’s got one hand on your hip, steering you somewhere you’ve never been. The new guy, Chalice has a voice that, by the time you realize what’s happening, you’re in it, and you’re not leaving.

Denver Cooper, that bastard could out play Beelzebub’s cock. The solos burn hot, curl into the air, and hang there long enough to make you squirm. The rhythm section Larry Howe and Robin Utbult keep things as tight as gnats vajayjay.

“Bloodbath” doesn’t waste time. It’s a slap, a bite, and a laugh in your face all at once. “Dogs Of War” is pure midnight mischief — the kind of track you put on when you know you’re not going to sleep until the sun’s up. “Crack The Sky In Half” is the song that convinces you to stay the night, even though you know you’ll regret it.

“The Devil's Asylum” is the moment right before you cross the line. You can still turn around, but you won’t. Every note’s a shove in the small of your back, daring you to step over.

They recorded this whole thing in a few weeks, and it’s got that fresh, dangerous heat of something that hasn’t cooled down yet and has no safe words.

If you’ve ever found yourself in the middle of something filthy and thought, oh God, I shouldn’t be here, but stayed anyway, you’re going to like this album.

​This album is worthy of going full on D.V.D.A. [Editor: Matt, I had to Google that and have questions...]

Words: Matt Denny.

There comes a time when we must pause and honour not only the mountaintop triumphs, but every bit of the journey in between. "Watching The Sky", is a four-disc tribute to THE BANGLES, those Los Angeles daughters who would dream beyond the constrictive limits of what society would have them think was possible for women in rock and roll.

​When Susanna Hoffs and the Peterson sisters, Vicki and Debbi, first sat down together in the early 1980s, they were a part of a movement that history would name the Paisley Underground. However, they were part of something greater: a soft revolution that declared, in the gentle power of jangly guitars and breezy harmonies, that creativity is not female, that talent is not limited, and that the human spirit will always manage to sing.

In tracks such as "Getting Out Of Hand" and "Call On Me", we don't hear the state-of-the-art perfection of their subsequent commercial peak, but something more precious, the raw ambition of young performers denied a platform. These bonus cuts are a reminder that every dream first has to be dreamed in darkness before it can shine in the light.

Their inaugural record in 1984, "All Over The Place", provides the background for this collection with the visionary declaration of "Hero Takes A Fall". Here was a group that understood, maybe instinctively, that heroism does not translate to never falling but getting up every time we fall. The cross between 1960s-style melodies and power-pop sensibilities on the record yielded something new, a sound at once retro and new, familiar and dissonant.

With "Different Light" The Bangles truly arrived in their promised land. "Manic Monday", that gift of mercy from Prince himself, had been their burning bush; almost a sudden flash of divine musical intervention announcing to the world that these four women would not, could not be ignored. When they told us to "Walk Like An Egyptian", millions obeyed, dancing to a beat that transverses cultural boundaries and united people in the simple joy of music.

The use of live cuts and extended versions on these albums illuminates the extent of The Bangles' abilities. The live medley of "Walking Down Your Street" and "James" demonstrates how they can take studio productions and make them breathing, living things that reached directly into the hearts of their audience.

Their final studio album, "Everything", completes this set with the fiery passion of their enduring ballad. "Eternal Flame" wasn't merely a song, a prayer, even, a musing on love's unending power beyond the fleeting nature of all things on this planet. When Susanna Hoffs sang those words, she spoke for every heart that ever loved with all its might, ever dared to hope against hope, ever believed some things are everlasting indeed.

The wealth of this collection, with John Earls' thoughtful essay to boot, is both celebration and education. We learn of Michael Steele's addition in 1983, her career from THE RUNAWAYS to complete the classic line-up. We witness the in-fighting leading to their breakup in 1989, a reminder that even the most sing-alike voices can occasionally get out of tune.

But what most comes to the forefront in these four discs is recognition of what THE BANGLES did in their brief lifespan. In an industry that too often pushed women onto the periphery, they claimed centre stage. In a universe that demanded they sacrifice commercial success or artistic integrity, they made such choices appear false dilemmas.

The B-sides and oddities scattered about on these discs, “What I Meant To Say", the transcendent dub version of "Hazy Shade Of Winter", remind us that art must be allowed beyond the confines of radio-friendly constructions. The Bangles understood that every song, whether destined for the charts or consigned as a bonus track, held within it the seed of human expression.

As I reflect on this record, I am reminded that action in any field, civil rights, music, human evolution, occurs not due to sweeping action, but due to the cumulative strength of individual acts of courage. Each time The Bangles took the stage, each time they harmonized together with each other in that perfect harmony, each time they defied being belittled by an industry that discounted their efforts, they rang a bell for justice and equality that still rings.

"Watching The Sky" is more than a box set, it is a document of dreams realized, of extended vacations taken, of harmony achieved both musically and socially. By keeping these recordings alive for centuries to come, we ensure that the fire The Bangles lit will continue to burn, inspiring new dreamers to pick up their instruments and add their voices to the great chorus of human expression.

The reach of music history is great, but it curves toward justice. The Bangles helped warp it, one flawless harmony at a time. This anthology is tribute and invitation alike, a remembering of what was done and an incitement to artists yet to come to keep coming, to keep singing, to keep singing about how beauty can move us, how love can overcome even the most deeply rooted of divisions.

Finally, The Bangles didn't merely gaze upward into the sky, instead, they reached up, grasped it in their hands, and sent us all a piece of heaven. This box set ensures their place in history will never dwindle, a beacon for all bold enough to imagine a world in which music knows no bounds and genius has no limits.

Score 9/10. Not in deficiency, but in reverence. For even the flame that burns eternal leaves room for the sky above it. And the sky, is vast. Words: Matt Denny.

She looks like the person who slept at Comic Con and woke up in a bondage shop, and her new album "Encores" is even more bizarre. Imagine classical music shoved headfirst into a shredder of industrial depravity.

She's fast, yes, but it's speed with a dash of fear added. There is art in her fingers, she'd probably be able to restring a violin balancing scalpels, but the result is this blur wherein Paganini's spirit is chuckling or suing. Half the time I'm not even certain if I'm astonished or just sick.

Thirty songs. Thirty-six minutes. "Encores" is not an album in the traditional sense. It's a seizure. This is...for whatever reason...THE GREAT KAT...

"Paganini’s Caprice No. 9": She murders Paganini so fast, he skipped rolling in his grave and went straight to pole-dancing on it. "Sarasate’s Malaguena": A Spanish dance, now performed by someone who sounds like they’ve never even danced socially. Or had friends.

"Leather Britches Guitar": This sounds more like pleather pants rubbing up against one another as someone cries in a Hot Topic dressing room and less like leather britches. "Santa Lucia Guitar": What is more cliché for the tearful Italian serenade than a woman crying over the violin as if screaming for help from the back of a speeding car.

"Cumberland Gap Guitar": – A folk tune. And nothing captures the spirit of Appalachian mountain folk like a Juilliard grad in fishnets screaming at ghosts. "Pizzazz": The only thing this track pizzazzes is my migraine.

"Paganini’s Caprice No. 14":  At this point, Kat isn’t covering Paganini, she’s just speed-dating his corpse. "Pizzicato by Delibes": Delibes wrote this to sound light and cheerful. Kat plays it like she's auditioning for the slasher film with a busted lawnmower.

"Joplin's The Entertainer": Consider a stripper emerging to this, but she trips immediately, breaks her teeth, and keeps dancing. "Minute Waltz": Chopin wrote it to be performed in a minute. Kat finishes it before you can say, "This was a mistake."

"Shredssissimo":  Not a word, not a style, but a cry for help. "Nessun Dorma": Puccini's master aria of victory. Kat brings it down to the whine of a dying microwave.

"Dixie": She dares to play "Dixie." Considering this album already has enough sins against humanity. "The Flight of the Bumblebee": – Rimsky-Korsakov gave us buzzing chaos. Kat gives us a wasp sting inside your ear canal.

"Blue Danube Waltz": Strauss wanted waltzing elegance. Kat delivers the soundtrack to a drunk uncle vomiting into a wedding cake. "Caprice No. 24": Paganini’s most famous piece. Kat treats it like an ex-boyfriend she found on Tinder: fast, messy, and ultimately regrettable.

By the end, I wasn’t clapping “Encore". I was calling the emergency services.

Score: Paganini’s ghost just called. He wants his dignity back. Words: Matt Denny.

SUN DON'T SHINE has a new EP being dispatched by CORPSE PAINT RECORDS called "Coming Down", and my copy just showed up a few days ago. If you don't know who this band is, then may I suggest that you keep reading to find out? You'll stay? EXCEPTIONAL NEWS! Let's forget ahead then, shall we?

Sun Don't Shine started life as EYE AM, and is composed of Kenny Hickey, (Who you'll know from TYPE-O-NEGATIVE and SILVERTOMB), and he will be supplying vocals and guitars. Kirk Windstein of CROWBAR and the Stoner Metal supergroup known as DOWN will be doing the same. Then we have the one and only Johnny Kelly of Type-O-Negative, Silvertomb, PATRIARCHS IN BLACK, etc on Drums, and Todd Strange from Crowbar / Down laying down what James Hetfield once called “The four string mother fucker”.

These guys all have excellent resumés, right? With that fact firmly in mind, you are already aware that these musicians are going to deliver upon the promise that their careers imply. "Coming Down" has a total of four tracks, which is far too short in my opinion, but let's talk about each of them now.

1. “Coming Down” was the first and only track that I had heard before pre-ordering this black splatter on clear vinyl, limited to 100 copies. What I love about this one is that you can hear their other projects in it, which is solely due to the fact that these guys have a certain identity within their playing styles. There's a strong melody that flows throughout, and the vocal performances are outstanding as well. I was aware that Kenny could sing, but he exceeded my expectations with his performances across all four tracks. However, it's the guitar work that grabs me the most, with killer riffs and well written leads that are memorable and powerful. I also love the way the riffs and the vocals compliment each other. About 3 minutes in I picked up a PALLBEARER vibe, which is another band that I highly suggest to everyone with working ears. 

2. “Dreams Always Die With The Sun” is an excellent track, full of melody and Kenny's incredible vocal approach, which adds an almost ethereal and atmospheric quality to the proceedings. There's a riff that leads into the chorus that is reminiscent of Type-O-Negative, but on subsequent listens I have found that there's a massive "Odd Fellows Rest"-era Crowbar sound to it as well. I'm just noticing it, but Kirk is putting in a great backing vocal in the chorus. I didn't catch that it was him at first, because I expected to hear his raspy, Crowbar voice, but he's sounding phenomenal right here nonetheless; the way that they trade off singing the song title is the icing on an already delicious musical cake. 

3. “The Promise Song” kicks off with a bouncing and energetic riff that is super cool. When the vocals kick in, I started thinking that this song has a Chris Cornell and SOUNDGARDEN vibe. The track shifts and takes on a different feel, yet that Soundgarden sound persists and I'm totally here for it. The band is still able to keep their uniqueness, and I'm telling you what, this is one hell of a track. Again, the guitars and the lead breaks are perfectly executed and fit the overall tone very well.

4. “Cryptomnesia” is the last track, yet it is on par with the others in terms of song-writing, performances, and retaining their sound. Kenny and Kirk do some vocal back and forth that I found extremely enjoyable; I'm so impressed in how their voices compliment each other. The acoustic bit at the end reminded me of DAVID BOWIE, which was a huge, but really cool surprise. When the needle lifted at the end of this song, I knew that I'd be starting the record over several times. A fact that has carried on for several days at this point. 

If you hadn't noticed, I haven't brought up the drums and bass guitar much, but don't let that fool you into thinking that they aren't worth mentioning. Johnny is one of the most solid drummers out there, and he adds fills and flourishes where they're needed, putting out a performance that is exactly what these songs need. 

Lastly, we have the powerful and tasteful playing of Todd Strange. His bass tone is enormous yet not overpowering, and the notes that he chooses to play are interesting and support what birth the drums and the guitars are doing. There's so many spots where my bass player brain just melts and thinks about how fantastic what he's doing is. 

In closing, none of these tracks are carbon copies of their other bands, with this, and all of these tracks having their own identity, creating a new brand so to speak. It's crazy to me that I'm having a hard time picking a favourite track, but if forced to do so, I would go with “Dreams Always Die With The Sun”, there's just something extra special about that one that really stuck with me.

So go to YouTube, or wherever you listen to music and stream the tracks. Or, and even better yet, lay some money down on the vinyl if you can, then kick back and let these stellar songs work their way into your subconscious.

10 Out Of Mother Fucking 10! Words: Tom Hanno.

Death rattles aren't practiced this close to the actual thing. KALAMITY KILLS' self-titled reprimands its own arrival. Veins push against skin, teeth grind, it flails across broken stone, like a revenant too arrogant to perish before the gates of the cemetery. Its coming is dark. Beauty is absent, no comforting aroma of perspiration, but rather the unmistakable odour of rot. This is an involuntary reaction to your own death, and knowing our final destination is eternally dust.

"Anthem" is stripped bare less as a song and more as the closing grip of strangulation. Luzier's drums are crushing, like dirt on a coffin; each strike a second you can't get away from. The album is a procession of anguish. "Dearest Enemy (Pressure)" is venomous to the point of choking rather than strangled. "Dark Secrets" seeps into your core, gorging on grief which no shepherd can brush away. Guitars go awry, their shrieks falling into white sound. "Burn" rages like a funeral pyre, and the GPS matter-of-factly tells you to remain in the fire, since rescue is not possible, and rerouting is not an option.

"What's On Your Mind? (Pure Energy)" sheds the shallow smile to expose gnarled teeth. Kiarely Castillo warbles in zombie-like cadaverous voices, distorting nostalgia into something feral and unyielding, with memory rotting like rusty highway signs buried under a shroud of obscurity.

"Hellfire Honey" wields irony as dagger in the teeth, slaying belief and defying altars, brick by rotted brick. "Sinners Welcome" continues to drive the nails of the coffin deeper, until there are nothing but splinters.

"I Still Believe" emerged from a superficial grave, plodding under an indifferent sky. [Editor: My bias towards 'The Lost Boys' dictates that this song slaps. TIM CAPELLO! you sexy saxophone wielding warrior of wank-banks!] The final "Amen" breathes like a dying star, and silently devours everything. The GPS utters the self-evident truth

Kalamity Kills haven’t merely produced an album, it’s a voice defiantly screaming into the void, fully aware the void won’t respond. It leaves deliberate scars, deep reminders of our own insignificance. By the end, you’re left tasting eternity's bitter flavour: small, inconsequential, and already forgotten.

Final Score: 8/10. Not by fault, there aren't many that are worth mentioning, but because numbers don't mean anything, like mileposts on an endless desert. Words: Matt Denny.

"On May 1st...I thought that was IT...I was at PEACE with this being my last show. But little did I know...when I got into that room with the guys, everything changed. It wasn't just about saying goodbye; it was about being reborn with music. And, we had two rehearsals, and the show...and from the moment we started playing music together, I realised this was just the BEGINNING. How to disappear, and never be found? That's a great question...let's find out..." - NIKKI SMASH

The very first aspect that draws your attention when you experience "The Art Of Disconnect" is not the music itself, but rather the overwhelming presence of the crime scene surrounding it. This scene is as unyielding and raw as a live performance can possibly become. You find yourself confronted with a stage marked by bootleg stains, suggesting a chaotic past, with the lighting intentionally dimmed to levels reminiscent of those found in an interrogation room, creating a chilling atmosphere.
The band's name looms in the air like an unsettling admonishment, echoing the title of a missing persons alert for Madeline McCann: HOW TO DISAPPEAR AND NEVER BE FOUND. It's absolutely crucial to understand that this is beyond a mere confession; rather, it works as a highly powerful testimonial that counts.
Listening to this live album is like flipping through case files past midnight, every song another recorded interview, another blacked-out paragraph, another witness who claims to have seen but can't quite get it right.
It commences with a composition entitled "Enthusiasm And Fumes", which possesses an energy and presence that could almost be mistaken for an alibi—it's subdued, assured, and has an aura that seems almost rehearsed. The lines on guitar charge forward, reminiscent of suspect testimony that can't quite be trusted, while vocals envelop you in a way reminiscent of how a cloud of cigarette smoke suffuses a room when you have that uncomfortable sensation that the detective is openly lying through his teeth. By the point that the band runs through the song "Blueprint For A Breakdown", a malevolent chill has permeated.
Within the context of their creative world, the theme of disappearance manifests itself as both a profound tragedy and a grotesquely twisted form of artistic expression. And that's where The Art Of Disconnect's brilliant trick lies: it's not a concert that you listen to; rather, it plays out like a procedural thriller. You don't applaud between numbers in appreciation but painstakingly keep notes in the margins of your mind, circling particular words and phrases that could potentially have a deeper relationship.
With this novel event, the audience become the jury while the band become suspects. And then there are the songs, the evidence in this complex trial. Some numbers clearly have a guilty appearance while some could provide a reprieve; but both of these remain bathed in an insurmountable level of doubt and uncertainty.
By the closer “Deadhead”, you realise the title was never about stagecraft at all. It was a manifesto. To disappear and never be found isn’t just the band’s name, it’s their verdict.
If NIKKI SMASH hadn't been intercepted in the act of making his audio or video recording of his last crime, then he most likely would have gone completely out of sight and would have never been discovered or found again.

When the gavel finally came down, the number written on the record was 8.5 out of 10. Not justice. Not closure. Just a verdict that feels temporary, like any good mystery, one that's infuriating in all the right, terrible ways. Words: Matt Denny.

"The Art Of Disconnect" Is Available Digitally October 24th. Physical Pre-Orders Open Now.

LIVING COLOUR’s guitar virtuoso VERNON REID launches his fourth solo album "Hoodoo Telemetry". [Editor: Cold open much!] This record feels less like an album and more of a public execution of anyone foolish enough to think they can play guitar. I put it on, and suddenly every clumsy note I’ve ever hit comes rushing back, mocking me, so I launched my guitar at the wall.

"Door Of No Return" sets the tone immediately. There’s no warm-up, no mercy. Vernon cuts straight into the strings, leaving scorch marks across the air. He isn’t playing; he’s dismantling, and MY guitar is now dismantled courtesy of the wall.

Then comes "The Haunting". The title is too neat, but the music earns it. The track breathes in smoke and exhales fire. Every note carries memory and menace. I can’t turn it off, though it makes me want to set fire to my own, now fully shattered guitar and walk away.

"Bronx Paradox" is chaos held together by sheer willpower. Brass stabs, glitching rhythms, guitars carving through the mess, it shouldn’t work, but he bends it into shape. Meanwhile, I’m stuck wrestling an instrument that refuses to obey me.

By "Black Fathom Five", the bitterness has taken over. It’s heavy, drowning and it’s smothering. Vernon yet again absorbs his guitar until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I’ve never managed anything close.

"Hoodoo Telemetry" doesn’t offer comfort or answers. It just offers a mirror, and for me, that reflection is ugly and shows an obsession with a craft I can’t master, sharpened by the sound of someone who already has.

There’s no point giving it a number. This isn’t a scorecard. It’s a reminder that Vernon Reid is untouchable. I’m still staring at the embers of my own guitar in the fire.

Vernon has stated that this album’s "Like a piece of my all-over-the-place mind". That’s one fucked up mind and a stupidly talented one at that. 

Words: Matt Denny. 

Well tickle my prostate and light the fuse, "Some Kind of Alchemy" isn’t just a reunion. Sure, if your idea of reunion involves chainsaws and parole violations; OTHERWISE didn't come back, they came back with a crowbar and a grin that'd make a mortician nervous..

I’m not here to hold your dainty little hands mouth breathers, or wax poetic about "Emotional journeys" and all that daytime TV horseshit. I’m not your therapist, and I certainly won’t explain the emotional depth of this music as if it’s some college dissertation.

This EP was fermented in a Nevada back alley with blood, sweat, bourbon, and a dash of righteous indignation. If you want subtlety? Go read a Hallmark card. This is six songs of gasoline and a match. And it's got me strutting around in circles, throwing confetti and middle fingers.

"Some Kind of Alchemy" starts off with an intro that gives you that greasy, bone-deep chill, like you just walked into a war-zone wearing a clown nose. It's raw, it's sharp, and it smells of napalm and cheap aftershave.

They've dragged original drummer Dave McMahan back into the fold like a long-lost cousin from the wrong side of the apocalypse, and it shows. There's this primal stomp to the whole EP, or just a biker gang doing tribal rituals behind a strip mall. You choose

The choruses are big enough to swallow a tour bus. Adrian Patrick belts every word like it might be his last breath before the gas ignites. And his brother Ryan’s guitar is the sound of desert ghosts whispering through the amps. If you’re still blinking,  congratulations, you’re probably not devoid of breath just yet.

Speaking of alchemy, this thing is a transmutation. It's pain into power. Trauma into triumph. A pair of Vegas-born brothers who’ve been chewed up by the industry and spit back out with gold records and gritted teeth, now digging their heels into the dirt and screaming, “Try again, motherfucker!”

If you want something slick, polished, or safe, go find a STEREOPHONICS CD and cry into your pumpkin latte. But if you're looking for blood-soaked riffs, battle-scarred vocals, and a band that’ll grind your bones into confetti, Some Kind of Alchemy is the sermon you’ve been waiting on.

This is family-hating, cop-baiting, drive-faster music and it sounds just like your ex lighting a cigarette off your burning house.

​Score: 8/10 Barbequed road kills not so fresh off of Route 95... Words: Matt Denny.

"It Can’t Rain All The Time" (especially in Scotland) is a title wrapped in an enigma,  trapped in a rumour and sealed by a whisper.

SILVER DOLLAR ROOM haven’t made an easy listen. They’ve built a shrine out of damp stone and broken glass, then dared you to kneel on it. Every track hurts, and that’s the point. This isn’t comfort—it’s a reminder that the rain never really stops. Subjects such as male suicide, destructive relationships, class divide, addiction, poverty, wealth, and greed make this a record that’s lyrically jarring but delivered in RADIOHEAD, SMASHING PUMPKINS, MANIC STREET PREACHERS, and STONE TEMPLE PILOTS type fuzz.

At the heart of the album is "Monsters". This track tackles the harsh reality of the Rochdale Scandal in which calling schoolgirls liars was easier than doing actual police work.

John Keenan’s tearing his throat raw spitting venom at the filth who let Rochdale burn. Every riff’s another brick lobbed through their office windows, every drum hit’s another skull cracked against the kerb. FUCK THEIR EXCUSES, FUCK THEIR FAKE APOLOGIES!. It’s a boot in the teeth of authority, screaming YOU KNEW, AND YOU DID FUCK ALL!
You don’t listen to this album, you survive it. You crawl from underneath it bruised, bleeding, but laughing because at least someone’s still got the balls to scream while the rest of the world nods off. SILVER DOLLAR ROOM aren’t here to be liked, they’re here to haunt you. "It Can’t Rain All The Time" is the sound of the storm breaking your windows in, and if you’re not soaked and shivering by the end, you weren’t listening.

Score: [7.5] — Louder than the lies, but not yet loud enough to bury them... Words: Matt Denny.

The album "It Can't Rain All The Time" is released independently on September 13th

(Ruffling through some legal documentation) Are we sure we can cover this? I mean I’m open to music of all kinds; wobble boards and digeridoo's included, but this seems like a push even for us! (Double checks email) Oh...oh ok my bad...It’s WOLF ALICE, not ROLF HARRIS...sincerely my bad. Untie that kangaroo, we’re going in a different direction, change of plan, hop along Skippy, simple misunderstanding...untie that kid too! (Behind the scenes commotion) Look just let the kid go! Give him some sweets and a fiver and get him gone! Jesus! OK a tenner we can stretch that, just get rid! Sorry folks...technical difficulties...Matt stop trying to box that kangaroo! 

WOLF ALICE, who originally formed in London as an acoustic duo, have over the years cemented themselves as a decorated and critically acclaimed outfit, fleeting between shoe-gaze indie-pop, folk, and grunge influenced dreamy post-pop. They’ve won Brit Awards, iTunes Awards, a Mercury Prize, NME Awards, and been nominated for countless others in their career...and 2025 finds them hoping to add to their list of accolades and accomplishments, as they release their latest album “The Clearing”. The question is, are WOLF ALICE going to have us howling like “Dog Soldiers”? Hit us for six and leave us equally discombobulated as disembowelled, or are they going to be like the twink puppers from “Twilight” and leave us equally devoid of rationale and respect? All will be made clear when we press play... 

We open up with “Thorns”, yet the soft piano keys and string instrumentation are about as sharp as a wet sponge covered in butter. And as a Brit, not even I would put that in a sandwich. It’s a metaphor really for the therapeutic process of art and song writing; the thorn representing the thing that’s irked and inspired you to create, but then the guilt of feeling like you’re able to extort gain from the experience through song. “Ooh I must be a narcissist, God knows that I can’t resist, to make a song and dance about it...”. It’s like, they’ve channelled real life situations into song, but there’s a nagging doubt of pretentiousness demeaning them and they can’t win. It’s almost a case of damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and it’s a damning insight into an artist's psyche; fake and fortune, or sincere and struggle? The industry higher-ups are the real thorns in the side of every artist...you’re either marketable or you’re maligned. It’s actually a beautiful intro... 

We follow this up with first promotional single “Bloom Baby Bloom” and we’re immediately met with a more upbeat, jovial piece of music. However again it’s a song of defiance. “Do I have to make you sit on your hands? Fucking baby, baby man, do you want me to show you who I am?”. These lyrics scream strip-club etiquette, and it’s like they’re saying, keep your greasy hands off, we’re the artists, and we’ll do what WE want, what WE are comfortable with...there maybe money involved, you may have requests, personally, professionally, but we’re doing the creating, and keep your mitts to yourself. I want doesn’t always get. There’s a great drum track and a funk-filled rhythm underlying this track, some powerful vocal projection. This is a middle finger to executives and really anyone in your life who believes they have control over you. They don’t. You do you, and bloom. 

Closing track “The Sofa” is also a promotional single and it’s a deeply reflective track...a very personal track, about normality really. Dreams of reaching California, living in North London, accepting a sense of stability as an outcome while dreaming of living in LA, laying on the sofa watching reruns, knowing there’s this passion inside you that longs for this, but while it may not be on the cards just yet, don’t quash your dreams. Things might not be as you want right now, but it doesn’t mean things are going bad, or wrong. Being sprawled on the sofa may seem like a defeatist attitude but use that time to better yourself mentally; to rest, regroup and plan your next move. Do whatever it is that makes YOU happy and prepare for a wildly adventurous future on your terms. Self-preservation is not laziness.  

Album highlights include tracks like “Passenger Seat”, which incorporate those string elements with a lightly bluesy country number, and the easy-going acoustics with the simplistic drumbeat provide perfect backing for Ellie Rowsell’s harmonious soprano vocals. It’s short, it’s lulling and outright pleasant as a listen. “Bread Butter Tea Sugar” on paper isn’t the recipe for a good snack let along song, but it’s got a decent bounce to it, with some piano driven, subtle glam pop that harks back to the late 70’s and again, the strings are prominent, carrying the vocals elegantly. Joff Oddie provides a lovely little guitar solo too adding and extra dynamic, but the track ends far too swiftly.  

Penultimate track “White Horses” has a little more drive and distinction, a little more bass within its acoustic presentation, and it carries with it a folky, country swagger with a solid groove and rhythm. It’s a simple but enjoyable track that in ways could pass for a modern-day JEFFERSON AIRPLANE. Piano ballads like “Play It Out” are sweet, innocent in the hushed vocal delivery, which is quite popular now with the likes of BILLIE EILISH, but it’s a deep song of motherhood, or sadly lack thereof. Ellie is pushing herself creatively and striving for her career but questioning her own biological clock, and the conflict it creates as the music supplants motherhood currently. There’s inner turmoil here and this is raw, honest song writing.  

All in all, “The Clearing” isn’t an obliteration. It isn’t about some hot naïve indie band full of piss and vinegar looking to go all out to make a name for themselves, with an album full of anthems and floor fillers, that’ll be forgotten about because DJ’s will ALWAYS play THE KILLERS and ARCTIC MONKEYS regardless, this clearing is more a case of clarity of mind; a deeply introspective, personal record that SHOULD touch you. It SHOULD resonate with real life struggles. It’s about identity and self-worth, self-respect as much as it’s about self-doubt. WOLF ALICE here haven’t cried wolf...they’ve let the wolf in, fed it and made peace with the conflict that balances life. The eleven tracks here may not be instant radio hits, but oh my, Grandma...what great songs you write. The wolf looked at me stupid, clearly, I’d been drinking again, and proceeded to eat me alive. We’d have been better off with Rolf Harris... [6]. Words: Gavin Griffiths.

Tickets for the upcoming live tour, and more information, can be found via the links below. 

Gather round, you perfumed bastards and flea-bitten mongrels. The Rock n Roll throne’s groaning under me, and I’ve still got spit left to fling.

Beth Blade is back like a punch in the face with broken glass in your mouth and her mascara smeared into last week’s hangover. She is a force of nature on this album. Ms. Blade roars, wails, purrs, struts and often within eight bars. She has the sort of voice that makes you either fall hopelessly in love or sprain something in sympathy. The band behind her are tighter than a nuns chuff, sharper than broken glass and you get the impression they could bash out an anthem blindfolded in the middle of a motorway and still have time to pick up milk on the way home.

"Vintage Rebel x Trauma Bond" is essentially at its core, two albums sharing a flat. One of them smokes cigars, wears leather trousers and insists on telling you about how the 1970s were better, and the other spends evenings staring into the mirror wondering if the mirror’s staring back. Together they make an oddly compelling couple, though not the sort you’d invite to dinner unless you’ve already hidden the best glassware.

​The “Vintage Rebel” portion honour's rock history with its heavy nods to KISS, THIN LIZZY and Y&T. This is six songs of brisk, swaggering rock and roll. “Never Let Go” opens the proceedings with shoulders squared and boots firmly stomped, before handing you over to “You Only Love Me When You’re Drunk”, which is, incidentally, the sort of title that makes you think someone’s been reading my fan mail. “Down The Front” has the cheerful energy of a pub lock-in gone on two hours too long, while “A Rock N Roll Romance” drags in GORILLA RIOT’s Arjun Bhishma, who sounds as though he’s arrived halfway through the party and promptly started rearranging the CD collection into the Cyrillic alphabet.

​Then, after a brief intermission (Presumably for Wild Turkey, tears, or both), we stumble into the other half of the house: “Trauma Bond” explodes and explores emotional struggle, giving depth and contrast. “Colour Of Our Bones” has the kind of weight that makes you want to sit down, preferably somewhere padded, and “Dysmorphia” does that clever trick of sounding simultaneously furious and fragile, .The we have “You Never Screamed?” I did, but I don't think anyone heard, and “Eclipse” ends things by pulling the curtains shut with both hands.

Some critics will say it’s uneven, two personalities stitched into one body. I say that’s the fucking point. Who says Rock n Roll needs symmetry to be interesting? Great Rock and Roll needs wobble and unpredictability, otherwise, it’s just a particularly loud operetta.

Beth Blade & The Beautiful Disasters - "Vintage Rebel x Trauma Bond" Is released independently on September 9th 

Score: 7 Abby Normal brains out of Twelvty. Words: Matt Denny.

Like many music fans, I was extremely excited when Adam Gontier rejoined THREE DAYS GRACE. That excitement waned some when I realized that they hadn't lost their other singer, one Matt Walst. Then the first single dropped, and that excitement gathered some steam again; that track was titled "Mayday" and was released on November 22, 2024. It had all of the hallmarks of classic Three Days Grace, and Adam sounded fantastic on it. 

Now mind you, I loved their "One-X" album, it helped get me through a messy divorce in 2008. I still believe that it's their best effort, with the exception of “Riot”, that song, despite its massive popularity, just never sat right with me. Anyway, it's not like I wasn't coming from a place where I wasn't a fan of their music. I even saw them in 2008 at a Krockathon here in Northern New York State, and though they weren't the headliner, they made every other band look like trash with their energetic performance and stage presence. The headliner was the most boring band that I've ever seen live, SEETHER, who barely moved away from their mics for their entire set … which is lame as hell.

I was excited to hear "Alienation", but even as I listen to it and write these words, I find myself paying more attention to the writing of this review. Normally, the music will distract me from the writing, so the fact that it's not isn't a good sign for what could have been an incredible comeback album. 

I'm 7 tracks in, and even the 3 decent tracks (“In Waves”, “Mayday”, “Alienation”) aren't anything overly special, and, for the sake of transparency, this is where I gave up on things. I hit stop on my player, and have zero expectations that I will ever listen to the rest of it. 

The problem with bands of this nature, or of all genres if I'm being honest, is that they stick to the formula that they've used for years. I personally feel that is just the nature of the music business, they go by the “If it ain't broke, don't fix it”, (METALLICA is a prime example of what I'm speaking on). Well, that's a phrase that shouldn't be in the vocabulary of any musician. We, the music fans across the globe, want you to step outside of your comfort zone, be daring and invent new sounds, tones, etc. 

In closing, and much to my own surprise, I wasn't into this record, but fans of the formulaic style of Three Days Grace will most likely enjoy the hell out of it. But for me, this album is the musical equivalent of elevator music, if the elevator was stuck between floors, and all the buttons were labelled 'meh'.

I just want more from the bands that I listen to, like excitement and pushing the envelope … much like my current hero has done on his new album, "Idols". That man is named YUNGBLUD, and he broke the box he was in on prior albums, though he wasn't stale in any way whatsoever, he just wanted to push his own boundaries. In other words, be a Yungblud by challenging yourselves and your fans, which I direct to all bands who get stuck in a creative formula.

Rating: 2/10, I'd give it less, but I still have hopes for this band's future... Words: Tom Hanno.

In this present age, wherein man is beset on all sides by the twin oppressors of hypocrisy and politesse, there sometimes arises a voice most monstrous in its candour, raw, unfiltered, and foaming with the froth of indignation. Such a voice is that of the ANTI-NOWHERE LEAGUE, whose debut long-player, "We Are… The League", now re-issued in a most handsomely appointed gatefold edition, does return to us like an unruly bastard child, grinning through broken teeth and clutching a gin bottle laced with vitriol.

It is a record not intended for polite drawing rooms nor the parlours of maiden aunts. No, dear reader, this is the noise of the back-alley, the howl of the guttersnipe, the inchoate scream of the misruled and misunderstood. When first it emerged, in that curious spring of 1982, it made not only a stir but a veritable ruckus, climbing to the No.2 rung of the Independent Chart ladder and even breaking into the loftier reaches of the UK National Chart at No.24. A feat not dissimilar to a mud-caked urchin sneaking into the Queen’s own banquet.

The songs, if one may employ so gentle a term, are as follows: "I Hate People" is a sentiment delivered with such glee as to make Mr. Scrooge himself blush—and a mangled, sneering interpretation of "Streets Of London" that turns sentimentality inside out and displays its entrails upon a spike. Each track is a lampoon of society’s hypocrisies, shrieked with all the subtlety of a town crier on laudanum.

In this edition, two additional abominations have been affixed: chief among them, the infamous "So What", is a ballad of depravity so unrepentant it would cause the Reverend Chadband to faint dead away. It is no wonder METALLICA, those brawny colonial bards, did later lift it for their own devices.

The gatefold itself is a most sumptuous relic, resplendent with relics of the time, news clippings, handbills, adverts for gigs held in beer-soaked hellholes and municipal rooms alike. One may, with a glass of sherry and a magnifying lens, observe the rise of this gang of malcontents in the very ink of history.

"We Are… The League" is not so much an album as a broadside. A furious missive from the mob. To listen is to be pelted with metaphorical cabbages by a mob of sneering Cockneys, yet there lies in its rancour a peculiar charm. A document of revolt, painted in bile and wrapped in a jacket of cardboard splendour. I do not recommend it to the faint of heart, the weak of will, or those who prefer Handel to hooliganism. But for the rest. The rebels, the outcasts, the chimney-sweep souls choking on the soot of modernity, it may prove a kind of salvation. Or, at the very least, a fine excuse to shout obscenities at the wall.

Score: 9/10 – A wretched triumph, and all the better for it. Words: Matt Denny.

This is a review that I'm surprised to be writing. It's also where you're gonna' see me do the rare negative review, as I don't usually write about things that I'm not excited about. 

HELLOWEEN is an ok group, but like most Power Metal bands, it falls flat for me; their new album, "Giants And Monsters" (Out on August 29th, 2025), is no exception. You see, the problem with these types of bands is that I'm bored by the fifth track, and with this new Helloween album, I was bored by the THIRD track. Don't get me wrong, they're very good at what they do, and their long-time fans will be very pleased with this record … which is great, that's the beauty of music, it hits each and every one of us differently, as each and every one of us is different from the person next to us.

The first track is called “Giants On The Run”, and during its nearly 6 and a half minutes you will find things that will bring to mind modern era JUDAS PRIEST, a bit of the only King that matters, KING DIAMOND, but even this, the one song I liked, is more of a miss than it is a hit. Realistically, it would be a much better song if they shaved a minute and twenty seconds off its runtime.

Track 2, “Savior Of The World”, is where my attention began to wander. As Lars Ulrich would say, it sounds stock, which isn't in any way a compliment. Thankfully it's about 2 minutes shorter than its predecessor, but even that can't save it from being completely unremarkable.

I have to admit, though I did make it through the full record, track three, “A Little Is A Little Too Much", is where I stopped on subsequent listens. I mean, literally shut the album off before the one minute mark. My attention was everywhere but on the music, making this an utter failure in terms of quality and bringing in new fans.

With fifteen gold records, six platinum records and over TEN MILLION records sold, there's plenty of proof that Helloween is a talented group, but "Giants And Monsters" is a lacklustre effort. It just does nothing for me, but as I said earlier, long-time fans of Helloween will enjoy this album, and I hope that I am among the few that don't find it appealing.

Score: 2 Mouldy Prop Pumpkins Off Of A John Carpenter Haddonfield Set, Out Of 10.

Words: Tom Hanno.

This is a proper archive. Not like that CD of “Ambient rave classics” someone posted through my letterbox last week with a note that said “Listen or die". This is the real stuff. Canon. Fibreglass glory. "Made In Japan" is reissued in a way that respects municipal codes and the spiritual hygiene of live rock documentation. Five compact discs. Ten vinyl's. A Blu-ray. It’s what we used to call in the parish council a SIGNIFICANT UNDERTAKING.

They've got EVERYTHING. Osaka. Tokyo. Gillan yelping like a dog who's just been shown a gas bill. Blackmore noodling with the same face I’ve seen on regional bus drivers stuck in fourth gear. The whole band is just GOING AT IT, in a manner that would be considered inappropriate in a school gymnasium.

I haven’t seen such attention to detail since I catalogued the ceremonial spoons of the Pennine Tent Revival. They’ve included edits from Germany AND Mexico. International versions. Like "Eurovision", but with proper trousers.

Steven Wilson’s done the remixing. I don’t know the man, but I imagine him as the sort of person who alphabetises his dental records. And thank God he does. Every crash of the cymbals now feels like an official letter. Every organ swell is logged. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the parquet flooring of the Budokan. I can see the usherette, probably cold.

And it's LOUD. Not your modern, shapeless “Festival” loud. No. This is 1972 loud. The kind of volume that would have required planning permission and a laminated safety sheet. The songs are long, often with no clear exit strategy. “Space Truckin’" goes on for weeks. I lost track of time. At one point I believed I was in a multi-story car park in Nagoya with a very cross Ritchie Blackmore handing out felt tipped pens.

There are liner notes. Roger Glover says it felt magical. That’s as emotional as he gets. Jon Lord doesn’t say anything as he’s dead, but his Hammond still haunts the air like a disgruntled former mayor.

This isn’t a “Deluxe Edition". It’s a CORRECTIVE. A historical artefact retrieved from the embers of improper archiving. Finally—after decades of partial data and sonic guesswork—we can say with absolute confidence what DEEP PURPLE sounded like in Japan. And it’s all above board.

Highly recommended for fans of rock, audit trails, and responsible live sound engineering.

Score: 8 Richie Blackmores - 0 Yngwie Malmsteens - [Editor: Sounds like a pre-season football score!] 

Words: Matt Denny.

I opened the post half-asleep, looking for that USB bidet I swear I ordered off eBay. Instead, there’s this THING. Heavy, and it’s just sat there like a brick of haunted meat. I stared at it for a bit. Had a lager, warm obviously. Had another. Unwrapped it and stared at it blankly.

Put disc one on. "Slowly We Rot". 1989. I think I was 15 when I heard it first—skint, spotty, shoplifting Salt ’n’ Shake crisps with Lee, who later lost a toe. The whole thing sounded as if a diseased cow fell down a metal staircase. Tardy’s vocals are not words, they’re not even close. Just these retching, beautiful, wet belches of grief. It sounds like he’s contracted some prehistoric lung infection. I love it.

Disc two… "Cause Of Death". Suddenly, OBITUARY has got TEETH. James Murphy is playing guitar like it’s fucked his wife. "Chopped In Half" came on, and I started barking. Legit barked. Woke up the cat. Beer all over the floor. Don’t care. The floor needed it.

Disc three’s "The End Complete". Somewhere around track four, I forgot how the calendar works. The police knocked as they’d had complaints about the noise. I tell them to sit. They did. We hung out and chain-smoked through the whole disc in silence. It was, religious. Not in a Jesus way. More in a “We’ve seen hell and it’s groovy” way There’s a riff in "I’m In Pain" that reminded me of falling into an escalator.

Then… "World Demise". 1994. You can tell there’s paranoia baked in. Cleaner riffs, but not in a healthy way. The guitars are trying to behave, but the rot still seeps through. Industrial clangs here and there. Samples maybe. It could be the radiator. Or I was having a minor stroke. But it SOUNDS like how bins smell in August.

The box is nice. A slipcase with Jewel cases inside gives it a proper retro feel, except now everything’s sticky. Liner notes are somewhere under a pizza, and one of the postcards ended up in the loo. If you don’t own this, you’re either vegan, dead, or under house arrest.
 
Score: 8/10 Swollen Uteruses. [Editor: I'm guessing we're talking Endometriosis as opposed to pregnancy?]

Words: Matt Denny

Gather your glitter, tighten your corset, and clutch your pearls; SIGNS OF THE SWARM have just birthed a record so heavy, so unflinchingly personal, it will make your false eyelashes fall clean off.

“To Rid Myself Of Truth” is a record dressed in leather, blood, and the quiet tremble of a man finally speaking truths he’s spent years screaming over. David Simonich has turned his Stargardt disease into a powerful force. This isn’t pity porn; it’s pain with a backbeat and a breakdown that ruptures your ribcage.

This is deathcore theatre. Every track a curtain drop, every guttural snarl a soliloquy. “Scars Upon Scars” had me clutching my velvet fainting couch. Addiction, redemption, the slow and awful burn of self-awareness, it’s Shakespeare in drop tuning. "Macbeth" if "Macbeth" had blast beats and a snare that sounds like it’s been punched in the face.

“HELLMUSTFEARME” made me want to set fire to a church and then cry in the pews. Not since I accidentally saw CANNIBAL CORPSE without earplugs have I experienced such sweet, obliterating agony.

Down-tuned guitars slither like venom through every verse. The drums go off like someone hammering nails into the coffin of your former self. The production is positively vile, as if someone took a diamond and dipped it in sewer water.
This record may be drenched in trauma, but it's also strangely triumphant. It struts. It KNOWS it’s ugly and dares you to look anyway. There's a queasy glamour to it.

​"To Rid Myself Of Truth" doesn’t just peel back skin, it peels back soul. It's camp and it's catharsis in corpse paint.

SCORE: 9/10 bloodied feather boas. Words: Matt Denny.