I've been spinning the new HIGHER POWER record "There's Love In This World If You Want It" for a couple of days now and I'm proper conflicted about it. I should slag it off because that’s what I do when something pokes at the bit of me I’ve spent years trying to shut up. But, the fucker keeps crawling under my skin like an old regret I can't scratch out. Probably because I'm drawn to anything that matches my state of decay.

Even the title makes me want to bin it off. All that hope and optimism, makes me sick. But then "Two Doors Down" comes crashing in with those mental breakdowns and I'm reminded why I fell for this lot in the first place. They seem to have taken all that genre-hopping madness from their early days and mashed every genre button like a bored kid at a self-checkout, but somehow kept one muddy boot planted in the mosh pit.. Of course I'd gravitate toward something that sounds like it's falling apart.

The fact they kept everything in-house this time round shows. No fancy producer trying to polish the rough edges. Just Louis Hardy back on guitar duties, apparently he dug through forty shite demos to salvage these half-dead riffs and bits of broken magic. Some of these tracks apparently date back to 2018 when they were touring with VEIN.FM. It’s mad to think they've been sitting on these ideas for years, just left them to stew amongst some warm cider fermenting in the glovebox of a dead car you can’t be arsed to scrap. Bit like me really, aging badly in the corner.

"All The Rage" is the one that proper gets me. It started life as trip-hop apparently, which sounds about as appealing as a wet weekend in Blackpool, but what they've done with it is almost as if Dave Grohl’s been up for three nights straight and decided to scream into a Dictaphone. It's the kind of track that makes you want to air guitar in your bedroom mirror whilst simultaneously hating yourself for enjoying something so shamelessly uplifting. Though to be fair, I hate myself for most things these days.

"Lunar Tuesday" hits different though. There’s loose chords and solos that give you that neck-prickle you pretend not to notice - it's like they've captured that feeling of being half-cut on a Tuesday afternoon, watching the world go by and not giving a toss about anything. There's something almost poetic about watching a car crash in slow-motion whilst Thom Yorke is sobbing through the stereo and you’re just sat there, with your dick in your hand, watching it unfold.

Then there's "Better" drifting along as if it's never been ghosted or gaslit a day in its life. It makes me want to volley some hooded youths just for looking smug. All that carefree wonderment when the rest of us are stuck in dead-end jobs and deteriorating relationships. But that's the thing about Higher Power - they make you feel stuff even when you're actively trying not to. Which is annoying when you've perfected the art of feeling nothing.

"Count The Miles" is where they let the beast off the leash properly. It's clawing at the walls like it's late for something violent. The sort of track that makes you want to run through walls or at least briefly consider jogging, then remember your knees are shite and you’d rather die in bed than in Lycra.

The closing track "My Sweet Surrender" is where they really take the piss though. All those heavenly strings and euphoric atmospheres - like they want you to believe the universe isn't just a massive wind-up. The crescendo builds and builds until you're practically levitating off your grotty sofa, and for a moment you forget that most days are just disappointment and overpriced meal deals. Then you remember you're still you, sat in your pants at 3pm on a Wednesday.

What really does me in, is how mental it all gets - up one minute, down the next, but not in a showing-off way. More like mood swings set to music. You're getting your head kicked in by crushing breakdowns one second, next thing you know you're floating about on some cloud of sound. It's like they've got the same emotional problems as the rest of us, only they can actually play instruments instead of just complaining about everything.

Higher Power have made something that's both familiar and completely off its head. It's what happens when a band stops caring about what people think and just makes noise that stinks of their own blood. Apparently, there’s love in this world—if you’re daft or drunk enough to go looking. Most of us either too proud to ask or too knackered to try. Personally, I’d fumble it anyway, then blame the universe for being a cunt.

This album grabs you whether you like it or not. Even when you're convinced, you're not worth grabbing.
 
ALBUM SCORE - 7 Worlds Destroyed By Galactus; Hungry For Love (And Sustenance) Out Of 10

Released June 27th 2025 (Out Now Digitally) Via NUCLEAR BLAST RECORDS. 

Words: Matt Denny

The new album by SIX FEET DEEPER doesn’t start, not in any normal sense. You’re already in it. Guitar halfway unzipped. Amp humming like something half-alive. No warning. No welcome.

Patrik Andersson plays like he’s restraining something, but it’s not fear. The tone’s not clean, not dirty—just worn. Dented. As if it’s been dropped more than once and still won’t die. The first riff slinks in sideways, doesn’t grab you. It’s already under your skin by the time you realize you’re moving wrong.

“Oxymoronic” builds down, not up. The notes sink into the mix like bruises rising under skin. Andersson keeps his phrasing close to the chest—coiled, mean. There’s no climax. Just pressure. The kind that makes you shift in your seat and not know why.

​Emil Mickols doesn’t play fills. He tightens screws. His toms don’t echo—they stalk. The snare’s dry, cracked. It’s being punished. He’s not keeping time. He’s daring the rest of the band to get out of line. On “Binary” his kit sounds like a bed frame you shouldn’t be on, the sound of the floor when someone shouldn’t be standing behind you.

Erik Arkö’s bass is being dragged, not played. Notes are pulled slow, stretched taut. There’s no groove there’s a trail of blood. You don’t ride it. You get pulled under. When it syncs with the kick, it’s like a pulse you only notice when it skips.

Sara Lindberg’s vocals are the part you feel days later. No scream. No seduction. Just control. Tight as a fist in your mouth. She doesn’t sing to you. She works through you. Voice restrained, held, then pressed deeper. There’s a pegging metaphor in there, but not the way people usually mean it. This isn’t playful. This is practiced. She keeps rhythm like she’s keeping someone still. And when she lets go, it’s not some cinematic payoff. It’s a release that leaves you cold, emptied, and used.

The production stays out of the way. Not minimal—more like ignored. Mics were too close. Or not close enough. Doesn’t matter. You hear room tone, cable hum, and a breath that shouldn’t be there. It’s all too real, and not in a cute lo-fi way. It feels like walking into a room still warm with something wrong.

The title track, “The Death In Hollywood” unravels like a lie you’ve told too many times. Instruments drop out like excuses. Lindberg stays just long enough to make it uncomfortable, then vanishes mid-thought. It ends, technically. But it doesn’t resolve.

Upon listening to "Prayer By The Edge" it’s already done what it came to do. And if you’re smart, you won’t ask it to stay.

"Prayer By The Edge" comes in at 8 broken rosaries, out of 10. Released July 4th, via LION MUSIC.

Words by Matt Denny.
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