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.

TALLBOY. Not to be confused with some amplified pub bore on stilts singing FRANK SINATRA’s "My Way" on the karaoke, though I’ll admit the decibel levels are similar and both seem hell-bent on rupturing your inner ear. Only one of them, however, is a weaponised hymn to collapse. This particular Tallboy a five-headed sonic siege engine from Cumbria. They've just released "House Of Glass", which I initially assumed referred to the Gherkin-shaped building in London. But I was very wrong. This isn’t some sterile phallic tribute to capitalism. This is a cathedral of feedback and fury, lit from within by flickering trauma and probably condemned by planning authorities.



TRACK ONE: "INSOMNIA".
If you weren’t suffering before, you will be. It’s a migraine with sirens. You won’t sleep. You’ll be too busy checking the walls for structural damage and wondering whether your spleen is supposed to vibrate.

TRACK TWO: "SNAKE".
Had METALLICA grown up in Workington and been angry about the price of a Greggs sausage roll, you might get somewhere close to describing Tallboy, but you’d still be wrong.

TRACK THREE: "Name & Shame".
FINALLY, an anthem for vengeance. There’s a spreadsheet of people who’ve crossed me, and this track is what I play while highlighting their names and pressing delete. Fast, merciless, and frankly rejuvenating. I listened to it three times, then streaked down the high street just for the sheer thrill.

TRACK FOUR: "Ego Trip".
It builds with the quiet menace of a houseplant that’s learned how to plot revenge, then detonates in your ribcage. If this had been playing every time Donald Trump entered a room, we’d all have been spared the second season.

TRACK FIVE: "Pressure Point".
Now with an accompanying video, because apparently audio demolition alone wasn’t thorough enough. It sounds like a group therapy session for poltergeists, conducted entirely in screams and bass drops, with breakthroughs measured in shattered glass.

​"House of Glass" is emotionally volatile, instrumentally violent, and quite possibly illegal in certain jurisdictions, especially on a Tuesday.

SCORE: 7 cracked windows of Capitalism. Released 25 July 2025. Words: Matt Denny