‘So manche brücke bricht, Zu viel tinte ging verschütt, Ward mich nich ergeben, Mein herz hadert eben, Hast den tod an die wand gemalt’ / ‘So many bridges break, Too much ink spilled, I won’t give up, My heart is struggling, You’ve brought death to the wall’ (Liner Notes)

Berlin is the most evocative of cities.  And, as with many others, this history is being rapidly eradicated by the rapacious demands of real estate capital.  Yet musically, the imaginary remains as powerful as ever and is vibrantly conjured by Schimmel über Berlin (Mould Over Berlin).  Eisenmund (Iron Mouth) is its very embodiment – viscous banks of fog, perpetually damp streets, furtive figures lurking in the shadows, glowing windows of late-night reflection.

Schimmel über Berlin feature members of Aus, Benzin, and Noj.  This brings with it a certain anticipation, and their vividly atmospheric debut album blows even these high expectations clean out of the water.  That the release notes to this release were penned by Fiona Sangster of Xmal Deutschland gives us a healthy nod as to what we might expect.  Though, while this is undoubtedly an album that draws richly on its 1980s’ post-punk heritage, Eisenmund injects it with a thrillingly illicit new energy.  Nostalgia need not apply.

The guitar is icily compelling, brittle yet tensely serpentine, and it tautly interplays with a rhythm section that brings a supple, satisfyingly muscular edge to its martial instincts.  The semi-spoken vocals are coldly detached, yet braided through with an unexpected melodic warmth.  At times they are quietly desperate, at others bathed in a tensely sombre disdain.

The palette is austerely disciplined with subtle shifts in tone introducing a restlessly morphing energy.  From the surging agitations of Schattenriis (Silhouette) to the urgent gyrations of Der Gute Sohn (The Good Son), and then from the mournfully introspective title track to swirling invocations of Weise Fee (Wise Fairy), and the forlornly rhythmic closer Klagegesgang (Lamentation).  Every moment draws us ever deeper in to the ambiguously charged Berlin night.

‘They refuse to see what’s hidden behind each number, Knowing it hides a tragedy, It stops our hearts, It empties our souls, The machine is on’ (Numbering Machine)

Blurred Visions is a story of the world we have built.  One in which we have allowed the forces of capital to become society’s guiding light.  A society that knows the cost of everything, but the value of nothing, mired in technocratic self-delusion.  It has inevitably led to entrenched inequality and an ever-growing insecurity.  The alienation becomes ever more powerful.  An alienation that political opportunists are only too willing to exploit at the expense of those least to blame with glib solutions and barely disguised bigotry.

Bleakness, who share a member with Deletär, continue to hone a dark blend of melancholic post-punk and driving death rock, with a keen eye for theatre and a bristling hardcore energy.  This is the band’s fourth album, and their first since 2022’s Life At A Standstill.  While each of those fundamentals remains abundantly evident, there has also been a shift in gear.  Blurred Visions feels bolder, and even more dramatic, without losing the rich detailing that has always defined the French trio’s music.

The hoarsely compelling vocals remain front and centre, cleanly sung, darkly baritone, and straining with an impassioned defiance.  A brightly chiming yet elegiac melodicism infuses the guitars, as the rhythm section injects a notably limber bounce.  The tautly crafted Artificial Answers, the gothic shrouded Dead Of Night, the darkly contagious Spinning Around, and the plaintive fury of Numbering Machine each vividly capture the bleakly realised atmosphere.

Yet amid the darkness, there is a powerful seam of hope riven through the album.  It burns with a recognition of the importance of maintaining personal connections in our daily lives and, as we endure ‘a competition between the bad and the worse’, of not surrendering our knowledge that an alternative way is possible.

‘You’re kidding me, you think we’re free? I hope you miss that raised up fist, from someone you so sweetly kissed’ (Complicit)

Tethered’s debut LP is in many ways a love letter to another time, although not necessarily entirely in the way you might think.  Yes, musically it draws on a very specific musical tradition, namely that captured by the likes of Ebullition and Gravity Records in the mid-to-late 1990s.  Tautly serpentine riffage, and tension ratcheting builds, blended with a healthy metallic heft and jazz inflected rhythms.  Think, perhaps, Bread And Circuits entwined with You And I, with just a frisson of Swing Kids, and you’ll be heading in the right direction.

This, the London band do with a searing passion and sheer verve that ensures that what unfolds burns with its own very distinctive identity.  However, you sense that, perhaps, the more defining connection goes rather deeper than this, to the very values that fuelled that musical moment.  Throughout hardcore’s history there are phases when its horizons seem to narrow through attempts at commercial or political appropriation.  And that era, along with the earlier DC Revolution Summer, spoke directly to rejecting these bids for control – restating the value of DIY, reanimating the political, and reintroducing an emotional vulnerability.

The harshly invigorating vocals prove an irresistible binding force, rooted more in a traditional hardcore, rather than screamo, delivery.  Their poetically framed lyrics explore themes of isolation and disconnection, interwoven with a recurring recognition of our own complicity in this atomisation of our lives.  The intensity is as unrelenting as it is tightly crafted.  The savage escalations of Consume.  The lacerating desperation of Time Travel.  The seething agitation of Complicit.  The dissonant melancholy of Home.  Prepare for some sweet convulsions.

‘Benefits for society, Might cut into their profit, Everywhere, anything for greed, Control over information, Maintaining power dynamic, Everywhere, their narrative’ (Fed Up With Their Lies)

There is a lot to be said for musical innovation.  The desire to expand boundaries, introduce differing musical traditions to each other, and take hardcore in intriguing new directions.  But the pleasures of the warmly familiar, well-executed and passionately delivered, are not to be underestimated.  This a lesson delivered like an adrenaline shot to the heart by Youth Avoiders, returning with their first album in eight years.

Defiance sees the Parisians continue to deftly hone their melodic punk with an impressively singular focus.  The lean, clean toned guitars brim with a melodic intensity, shimmering with a wisp of post-punk jangle, while the rhythm section locks into a remorselessly propulsive barrage.  The latter’s frenetic energy is matched by the vehemently impassioned vocals that strain with a desperate urgency.  The band’s political clarity remains just as fiercely undiluted as they tear into a society suffocating in the exploitative grasp of surveillance capitalism, that criminalises the homeless, turns a blind eye to genocide, and then tells you that none of these things are really happening.

It is a rollicking, absolutely hook packed ride that brims with a heartfelt conviction from the raucously sing along opener Endless Fight to the brightly compelling Falling, by way of the bristling defiance of This Is The Sound.   Almost without being aware, you will find yourself transported to a dark basement, sweat dripping from the ceiling, and fists punching skywards.  Sometimes the simple pleasures are the ones we need most.

‘Swept under the rug, Locked in the chest, Feed us your crumbs, Like we’re your fucking pet, Endorsed false promises, Years of blatant lies’ (Refuse To Comply)

Reek Minds, who share members with fellow Portlanders Alienator, are back with a new six-track EP and follow-up to their excellent 2024 full-length, Malignant Existence.  If you have not yet had the pleasure, Reek Minds revel in fast, nasty 1980s’ US hardcore delivered with the venomous convulsions of the very best power violence and, this time round at least, with a certain dash of rock’n’roll swagger.

Unvarnished speed remains at the band’s heart, yet they equally revel in whiplash tempo changes and unleashing groove laden breakdowns with a brutal abandon.  The key is the deftness with which these twists are marshalled.  They feel wholly instinctual, fiercely organic, which ensures that coherency is never sacrificed.  Amid this uncompromising onslaught, the hoarsely growled vocals – death metal tinged yet with a hardcore cadence – dissect a world rooted in economic exploitation and narcissistic self-interest.

The number of ideas that are used and tossed aside in such a short time span is enough to make those of us less inventive weep, but it ensures that not a moment is wasted.  The choppy groove that propels Refuse To Comply, the rabid fury of Desolate, and the admirably full-throated solo that fuels the absolutely crushing climax to Aesthetic are particular highlights.  The EP closes with a splendid hidden cover of Blinding Light by Bedford anarcho-punks Legion Of Parasites, taken from their 1985 album, Prison Of Life!

‘With a future so grievous, It’s easy to fatigue, We’re all mad and tired, Show them, Collective action can start many fires’ (Idle Animosity)

Hailing from Richmond Virginia, Siphon’s debut EP, Stark Raving Mad, erupts out the gates at a ferociously frenetic pace and it doesn’t take its foot off the pedal for the duration of the four blistering tracks.  Influences from earlier generations of UK and Japanese hardcore are evident and then refashioned through a more contemporary lens – metallic in form, raw in execution.

Waves of surging riffage unfurl throughout, exuberant solos fleetingly flare and die, the battery propelled by a manically relentless rhythm section.  Meanwhile, the savagely rasping vocals breathlessly confront the authoritarian slide engulfing the US, still hopeful that redemption can be found amid collective action.  The frantic opener Mass Casualty Incident and the equally unrestrained title track land with a particular snap.

‘Verdets resurser utnyttjas till bristning, Den eviga tillväxten ska ske, Till va pris? Giftet sprider sig ever varlden’ (Giftet Sprider Sig) / ‘The world’s resources are being exploited to the breaking point, Eternal growth must happen, At what price? The poison is spreading across the world’ (The Poison Spreads)

Disskerarad (Dissected) are a band very much forged in the ever-fruitful crucible of Stockholm hardcore, drawing members from Avskum, Exploatör, and Totalitär among others.  They have been active now for just over a decade, and Väggarna Rasar (The Walls Are Falling Down) is their first release since their contribution to 2023’s crushing four-way split album alongside Destruct, Rat Cage, and Scarecrow.

The band continue to hone their merciless take on Swedish mangel – ferociously tight d-beat rhythms underpin ominously surging riffage, leavened with just a dash of metallic influence in the heft of the production and the occasional recklessly careering solo.  Meanwhile, the hoarse, rhythmically barked vocals unleash a tirade that builds the connections between relentless capitalist excess, atomising communities, rising right wing authoritarianism, and escalating militarism.

The execution is as savagely precise as you would anticipate.  Such is its fierce tautness that it just takes the slightest refinement to introduce an unexpected new texture to the onslaught.  From the melody subtly braided through Giftet Sprider Sig to the burly menace of Vinster (Profits), and then from the quivering tremolo picked riff that propels Nedmontering (Dismantling) to the percussive velocity of the title track, the highlights land with a vehement relish.

‘Pushing you down, A life at the bottom, Enemies around, Hide in the shadows, Losing hope, Going under’ (The Gutter Is No Home)

As society fractures under the weight of an insatiable economic system, it becomes ripe for exploitation.  Somebody must be to blame.  Of course, not those manipulating the system for their own gain. But rather those already forced to the margins – those having to juggle two jobs just to get by, those unable to afford a stable home, and those forced on to the streets.  Punch down and look the other way.  This is the bizarre dichotomy that Unarmed set about dismantling on Gloomy Skies, Screaming Vultures.

Hailing from Sweden, and featuring members of Exploatör, 3-Way Cum, and Verdict, Unarmed were initially active in the mid-1990s, releasing two split EPs.  They then returned with a new 7-inch in 2022, before now unleashing this, their debut full-length.  Their sound is rooted very firmly in the traditions of 1990s crust.  The waves of metallic riffage are liberally laced with flares of melancholic melody and propelled by galloping d-beat rhythms, while the roared vocals, alternating between Swedish and English, are utterly cavernous in their brutality.  Highlights include the bleakly melodic Blinded by Hate, Driven By Fear, the choppily insistent Overseas, and the loose limbed swagger of King Of Nothing.

‘Can’t you hear them, Screams from the silent ones, Prisoners in cages, Herded into slaughterhouses, Knowing that death awaits them’ (Don’t Choose To Abuse)

Kläpträp are a pan-European project and with three demos already under their belt, they now arrive with their debut album, The Infernal Machination.  Featuring members of both Doom and Visions Of War, it will come as no surprise that Kläpträp treat us to a fiercely unremitting crust punk battery and one that it is delivered with an irreverent, combative belligerence.  Those who come for the filthy riffage and bludgeoning rhythms won’t be disappointed in the slightest, from the venomous velocity of the opener Squeezing The World to the bruising slabs of Not True.

Yet it is, perhaps, the vocals that hold centre stage.  For the most part, they are delivered with a rasping power, alternating between German and English as they confront themes of prejudiced policing, animal rights, predatory behaviours, and climatic breakdown.  But importantly, they also seethe with an admirable variety, from the chanted close to No Heroes and the raucously layered chorus of Not True, to the energetically duelling vocals of Don’t Choose To Abuse. The striking cover art finishes things off rather nicely.

‘The feeling of being stuck and speechless, helpless, of not knowing what to do, as people and as artists. It was a constant questioning of the meaning of our work in a moment like this, a constant search for it, and wondering if it exists at all’ (Mai Mai Mai interview with Foxy Digitalis)

‘What does it mean to make music in the midst of a genocide?’  This is the question that Mai Mai Mai asked himself and his Palestinian collaborators throughout the creation of Karakoz.  The Italian musician spent six weeks in Bethlehem and Ramallah during early 2024, working with a cast of Palestinian musicians, such as Maya Al Khaldi, Julmud, Osama Abu Ali, and Karam Feres, some planned, others spontaneous.  This region, the Cremisan Valley, is one of the last remaining rural landscapes in the vicinity of Jerusalem.  Its patchwork of Palestinian owned olive groves and vineyards is under constant threat of annexation and illegal occupation.

Mai Mai Mai’s soundscapes have always sought to use the concept of hauntology – how ethical calls from the past and future demand change in the present – to explore where he grew up in the port city of Crotone in Southern Italy.  On being invited to work with his Palestinian friends, he was determined to explore those same themes in this very different context.  To conjure the ghosts of the Palestinian past, present, and future and to place them at the very heart of the album’s narrative.  Where they would not fade nor disappear but instead gain new life.  His music is rooted in percussion – intricate yet reassuring, mechanical yet limber – and, on Karakoz, it is intertwined with an understated assurance with Middle Eastern chants, traditional wind and string instruments, and a beguiling tapestry of field and archive recordings.  The result is utterly immersive.

The album opens with the striking melancholy of Grief, which weaves together a hauntingly layered mourning chant with sparse, darkly pulsing synths and spartanly metronomic percussion.  It then segues into the almost pastoral reverie of the title track, before things take a more unsettling turn with the elegiac Echoes Of the Harvest, which fuses ominously skeletal chants with plaintive swirls of saxophone.  Side two continues to morph and reformulate itself with the same imperceptible deftness.  From the wailing rubab (lute), syncopated beats, and disembodied spoken word of Poem Made Of Sand to the woozily elastic, yarghul (flute) fuelled closer, Wandering Through The Crowded Paths Of Al-Hisba.

Karakoz is a form of shadow theatre originally popularised across the Ottoman Empire, and the album is undoubtedly an entrancing sonic embodiment of this tradition – one that elicits a powerful sense of place, memory, and identity.  And the answer to the original question posed?  As Mai Mai Mai comments in the accompanying booklet, ‘Perhaps, among the waves of Karakoz, you will find the answer, several, or none’.  But, at the very least, it lays down the challenge and gives voice to those that the world is determined not to hear.

‘I’ll become night for your sleep, I’ll stay wide, pale and far, a moonbeam, A starry cloak for you to keep, During the dark time of your dreams’ (Peace Of The Unsaid)

Julinko is a musical project based in Treviso in Northeast Italy that has boasted a duality of form over the past decade.  On the one hand, they are a dramatically gothic, doom infused psychedelic trio and on the other, they are a stripped back solo project for vocalist Giulia Parin Zecchin to explore those same musical instincts but through the lens of dark folk.  Naebula is very much the fruit of this latter incarnation.

Its musical palette is relatively restrained, yet saturated in a billowing, sombre mysticism.  Organs segue from the hazily viscous to the assertively jolting, while being intertwined with an understated austerity alongside melodically shimmering guitar and mournfully cascading keys.  Intriguingly, physical percussion is deployed sparingly, yet there is a spectrally pulsing cadence evident throughout.  It is easy to be lured into its otherworldly embrace, only to be jerked unceremoniously back to reality by unexpected, foghorn-like eruptions of discordance.

The soundscape that emerges fuses darkly ambient influences with more folk orientated instincts.  It is equal parts fervent drones and delicate laments, minimalist repetition and dense textures.  This provides the perfect inspiration for the virtuoso vocal performance, which spans Italian, English, French, and Hindi.  It sees Giulia sweep from the glacial murmurs of Peace Of The Unsaid to the haunting whispers of Skin Dress, and then from the swirling incantations of Jeanne De Ríen to the strident urgings of Thow Ashes with a fevered intensity.  Welcome to a hallucinatory shadow world of grief, loss, and new beginnings.

‘Generation of people always sitting in silence, Feeding off hate, division and violence, Complacent in their atrocities, Silence is a privileged man’s disease’ (No Remorse)

The social alienation of the 1980s continues to cast its spectral shadow across our lives.  A crumbling public realm.  Collapsing living standards.  Youth unemployment soaring and work ever more precarious.  Alongside a spiralling, reckless militarism.  While the privileged few stoke distrust of those already most marginalised to disguise their own self-serving complicity.

So, it seems only fitting then that we mine that same decade musically.  This Catastrophe do with undisguised relish as they draw on the first waves of UK anarcho-punk – flares of Cress, flashes of Amebix – before firing them through with a fierce lacing of more contemporary metallic crust. The darkly surging, dissonantly fuzzed riffage is punctuated with searing solos and propelled by a powerfully limber rhythm section.  Meanwhile, the gutturally barked vocals confront a society mired in institutionalised greed and fear of the other.

This is the debut album from the London band, who feature current members of Scab and Traidora, and the follow up to their 2024 demo, Dead On Arrival.  The highlights come thick and fast.  The savagely martial drumming that fuels the bruising title track.  The soaring solo that erupts with majestic abandon amid the venomously escalating Decline.  The bass versus guitar joust that kicks off Love Is Love.  All culminating in the crushing climax that is World In Decay.  Cries From The Gutter these may be.  Yet each burns with a defiant clarity of intent.

‘Tout sonne faux, À mes yeux, Tous les jours, Ça sonne creux, Dur à dire, à choisir, Autour de moi tout va trop vite, Les reflets sont tous faux’ (Tout Sonne Faux) / ‘Everything sounds false, To my eyes, Every day, It sounds hollow, Hard to say, to choose, Around me everything is going too fast, The reflections are all false’ (Everything Sounds False)

We live in a world where the real and the fake are increasingly blurred.  One where we are constantly under surveillance.  Our lives scraped, commoditised, monetised.  Every element feels like it has been specifically constructed to isolate and atomise, to ferment insecurity and to sow self-doubt.  Comme Un Poignard (Like A Dagger) conjures this very unease, a life that feels as if it is bound in chains yet spinning out of control at the same time.

Hailing from Bordeaux, and featuring both current and ex-members of Bombardement, Faucheuse (Reaper) are back with their second full-length and follow-up to 2024’s, Rêve Électrique (Electric Dream).  As the title track erupts through the squalling feedback, the band’s trademarks are firmly in evidence – fiercely galloping d-beat riven through with a boisterous rock’n’roll swagger and brimming with buccaneering solos that strut that hazy line where blues and NWOBHM intertwine.

It is though, perhaps, the vocals that remain at the very heart of their sound.  Cleanly sung and robustly melodic, they call with equal vigour on both a punk urgency and a rich sense of pop drama.  It is a frantically breathless yet tautly crafted ride as they sweep from the scuzzy melodicism of Pacte de Feu (Fire Pact) to the frantically careering Météore (Meteor).  Before, Faucheuse throw an unexpected sidestep and bow out with the mournfully cascading organs and hauntingly reflective vocals of Etincelle (Spark).

‘Poverty and violence will keep us in line, The earth’s like a bloated corpse, Covered in flies, Civilisation burning up in front of your eyes’ (Crucified Minds)

People’s lives are saturated in an unsettling discordance.  It is one born of a society slowly cannibalising itself.  Hollowed out by austerity economics, entrenched in inequality, and mired in state sanctioned violence.  Flags Are False is the debut album from Acid Casualties and follow up to their 2021 demo, Victims Of Psychick War.  It seethes with a bristling antagonism toward those responsible for this malaise as it unleashes a truly unhinged onslaught that brings the rabid frenzy and the burly stomp to bear with equal relish.

Hailing from New Jersey, Acid Casualties derive their name with pride from a track, Acid Casualty, by early 1980s’ Knoxville hardcore outfit KORO.  Then, they take this influence and ramp it up to an almost overwhelming level of intensity.  The rhythm section locks-in with a frenetic ferocity, propelling forward the blistering waves of scuzzily fuzzed out riffage, all bathed in lacerating feedback that seemingly pulses with a serpentine life all of its own.

Meanwhile, the frantic, desperation drenched vocals confront the self-serving interests that seem intent on gorging themselves at the trough as the world burns.  The highlights slam home with a relentless consistency. The fevered escalation of Why Decide?. The venomous convulsions of Crucified Minds.  The searing riff that defines Southern Cross is utterly insane.  The louche swagger of Officer Down.  In short, this is an absolute scorcher.

‘Sinister bodies, Tethered for command, Subliminal power, Eternal nightmare’ (Gods Of The Grim And Dismal World)

Hardcore bands confronting the invidious effects of religious fundamentalism has been a constant since the first chords were struck, the first vocals barked.  You almost wonder, at times, what more there is to say.  Then, you read of US generals quoting the Book Of Revelation as they tell soldiers that they are doing the work of God in attacking Iran.  This involves wreaking murderous havoc on a civilian population that has, of course, itself been under the yolk of a ruthlessly oppressive theocratic regime for some 40 years.

At that point, you realise that it can never be said enough times and Black Phosphorous Dungeon sees Cryptid Spawn savagely evoke a world that still remains in thrall to zealots of every hue.  I must confess that this is not an album that would necessarily have sung to me from the shelves unbidden – the band name, the album title, all feels quite on point.  But I’ve learnt over the years to trust Iron Lung’s judgement.  They are what you might call a ‘Ronseal Plus’ label – their releases invariably do rather more than they say on the tin.

Sonically, the Singapore based band root themselves in doom mired death metal, enriched with the flares of black metal melodicism and the rhythmic textures of hardcore.  The vocals are demonically spewed and the rhythm sections segues from frenzied eruptions to more supple expressions with a crushing yet disciplined velocity.  The heart of the band though lies in the sheer heft of the down tuned, buzzsaw guitars and the skilfully crafted progression of the song writing itself.

Across the five tracks, Cryptid Spawn evoke a bleakly suffocating atmosphere.  Yet from the brutally squalling convulsions of Gods Of The Grim And Dismal World to the sludge fuelled grooves of the title track, and from the hauntingly viscous Byssal Thread to the bludgeoning climax of Primal Sorcery, one that you find yourself only wanting to immerse yourself in ever more deeply.

‘In the garden of sorrow where nothing grows, haunted by faces I used to know, thorns of grief pricking skin, blood for roses that no longer bloom’ (Flowers For Ghosts)

A bleakly resonant bass line is enveloped in squalling feedback.  This subsides into mournfully roiling, darkly melodic guitar and sparsely restrained percussion.  Sombre spoken word evokes a stirring mantra to the power of community and collective action.  Another World Is Possible is quite the opening and one that Hope? do not squander.

Hell On Planet Earth sees Hope? following up on their 2023 7-inch, Your Perception Is Not My Reality.  As much as I enjoyed the latter, it barely prepares you for the sledgehammer fury of this, their debut full-length.  The Portland band have taken their trademark metallic crust and dialled up the intensity to the maximum, while also bringing a razor-sharp focus to their song writing.  It is a compelling combination.

There is a notable muscularity to the guitar, a fierce clarity amid the distortion as the riffage unfurls, alongside a d-beat fuelled rhythm section that locks in with an unrelenting precision.  From the surging Mycelium to the agitated Five Of Swords, by way of the haunting oscillations of Flowers For Ghosts, the velocity is savagely marshalled.  The defining force though is, perhaps, the vocals.  Harshly rasping, frequently duelling with the guttural roar of the guitarists, they lurk on the spectrum of sheer rhythmic vehemence somewhere between Flower and Sacrilege.

Lyrically, the album challenges the warped logic that builds a society based on human exploitation and planetary extraction.  Yet it is shaped throughout by an unquenchable defiance.  A defiance that recognises the importance of maintaining hope.  That recognises the power of creating alternative social networks.  And that recognises that nothing is inevitable, nor is power eternal.

‘Altre case senza gente, altra gente senza casa, In un mare di mura vuote, di porte blindate, Un altro sgombero, un’altra farsa, Un altro macigno’ / ‘More houses without people, more people without homes, In a sea of ​​empty walls, of armoured doors, Another eviction, another farce, Another boulder’ (F.D.S)

We live in the age of manufactured anger.  Resentment has become a resource to be fermented and exploited by political opportunists and grifters.  Yet despite this suffocating prevalence, it is remarkable how easy it is to still sense the real thing.  An unbridled fury that seethes in opposition to the world we have built.  One not born of self-interest, but a desire to do things better for the common good.  Per Tutto Il Male Che Avete Fatto (For All The Evil that You Have Done) is ablaze with just such conviction.

This the debut album from Milan’s Apoptosi (Apoptosis) and follows up their 2024 7-inch, Verso Un Futuro Di Completa Anestesia (Towards a Future of Complete Anaesthesia).  Driving d-beat rhythms that seamlessly morph into fierce blast beat eruptions are then fused with elements of both anarcho-punk and metallic crust.  These influences are all crafted together with an assured confidence, but the glue that truly binds is the sheer rage and brutal velocity of the delivery.

The combative, bristling vocal tirades build breathless connections between housing justice, socio-economic inequality, the commoditisation of culture, and animal rights.  The ten tracks rampage past in just 16 minutes and yet fizz with unexpected flourishes as the band hone a battery that is unrelenting as it is intriguingly varied.  From the bruising slabs of Per Il Tuo Piatto (For Your Dish) to the manically mutating Inesorabile (Inexorable), and then from the raucous exhortations of the darkly melodic Ancora Una Volta (Once Again) to the frenzied closing title track, you are simply left reeling.

‘Onhan meillä varaa, Olla hiljaa, Huoneet täynnä raskasta ilmaa, Kun hengität sisään, Jotain takertuu nieluun’ / ‘We can afford to, Be silent, Rooms full of heavy air, When you breathe in, Something gets stuck in your throat’ (BS)

Modem are a band with deep roots in the Finnish punk scene, comprising Ville – of Foreseen, Kohti Tuhoa, and Yleiset Syyt – along with Tytti from pop punks Plastic Tones.  But, before you leap into imaginings of thrashing guitars and swirling pits – stop.  This is a very different project.  You need to shift to that parallel universe, the one where we can all dance with a clinical yet animalistic elegance.  Modem are here to entice us once more into the beguiling embrace of their vividly realised synth punk, on this follow-up to their 2024 debut full-length, Megalomania.

The Helsinki duo retain the high velocity delivery that their punk influences demand, while crafting a soundscape that is grounded in dance music with an undeniable 1980s’ sheen and a keen eye for a catchily melodic pop hook.  Ville handles electronic duties.  There is a wonderful analogue depth to the synths as they are layered and intertwined with the crisply motorik percussion.  The bottom end pulses with a rich depth, while the melodies throb assertively or skittishly flare as occasion demands.

This provides the perfect amphitheatre for Tytti’s clean sung Finnish vocals.  Stridently melodic at their core, yet also vibrantly nuanced, segueing between moments of whispered introspection and dramatically soaring abandon with a seamless, playful ease.  Amid this uplifting euphoria, the lyrics mine a rather darker seam – one of self-doubt and fractured self-worth, of refusing to take refuge in nostalgia, but instead confronting our current realities.

From the brooding fervour of BS to the pulsating drama of Ave Maria, and then from the slyly contagious Image to the hauntingly pared back Paino (Pain), the pulsating intensity doesn’t diminish even momentarily.  So, bust out the those dancing shoes, you know you want to.

‘Ascolta il vento senti la voce abbandona il destino segui il cammino, Nella nebbia segui una luce, oltre lo specchio i loro cuori non cederanno mai’ (Nella Nebbia) / ‘Listen to the wind, hear the voice, abandon destiny, follow the path, In the fog, follow a light, beyond the mirror, their hearts will never give up’ (In The Fog)

Festa Del Perdono (Feast Of Forgiveness) are the wayward yet undeniably charismatic sibling of any number of Milanese hardcore projects, perhaps most notably Spirito Di Lupo, Kobra, and Kalashnikov.  L’Arca Dei Nuovi Maestri (The Ark Of The New Masters) is part two and follow up to  last year’s 7-inch, Galactic Jazz Night Part I: Nella Regione Della Notte Infinita (In The Region Of Infinite Night).

Once again, they fuse together anarcho-punk and dub influences, studded with flaring organs and brass flourishes, to create a thoroughly intoxicating atmosphere. This second act continues to see the band evocatively explore themes of shadow worlds and secret gatherings through an impressionistic lyricism drawn from the natural world – a mystical anarchism.

Side one kicks off with the raucous eruption of Nella Nebbia, which for anyone who enjoys Spirito Di Lupo is a particular treat, reuniting the vibrantly duelling vocals of deadpan Fra with the energetically impassioned yelps of Vittoria, amid the elastic bass lines and martial drums.  The title track then sees Fra’s semi-shouted vocals vigorously interplay with shards of sombre post-punk melody and swells of swirling organ.

The flip side opens with the dub drenched Città Segreta (Secret City), juxta posing a fierce vocal tirade with its organ fuelled, cosmic otherworldliness.  The EP climaxes with the instrumental Galactic Jazz Night III, skeletal piano and woozily serpentine saxophone intertwining in a plaintive, Jazz Noir-tinged finale.  It really is quite the ride.

‘Well, there’s no reason to fight the cause, I’d rather sleep than change the world, This depression, it seethes and burns, I dream a world that never was’ (Conditional)

The Crawlers were originally active in the second half of the 2000s, releasing a slew of EPs before heading off on hiatus after their 2009 debut album, Level The Forest.  A new EP followed in some ten years later – Planned Obsolescence – and they are now back with their second full-length, We Told You So.

The Portland trio’s sound remains rooted very much in stripped back, no nonsense 1980s’ US hardcore.  Think, perhaps, Government Warning with a healthy dash of Verbal Abuse and yeah, an affectionate nod here and there to the Portland originals, and you’ll be heading in the right direction.  The riffs come thick and fast and lock into a fiercely unrelenting synchronicity with the rhythm section, while the raspingly snarled vocals contemplate the hollow refuge of nationalism amid a society literally grinding all but the privileged into the dust.

Side One careers along with a vigorous intensity, not least on the barrelling opener, Lobby Dwellers.  The flip side then sees the band flex their shoulders just a touch more with the melody laced Flat Broken and the louchely swaggering Pain Relief, before closing on a raucous reworking of I Wanna Be An Eco-Terrorist, originally from Level The Forest.

‘Another condo coming up, Another hole in the ground, Tearing down our history, Just to build another box’ (Renovict Arnold)

Knife Manual hail from Victoria, British Columbia and their name calls back to the solitary 7-inch from 1980s’ Seattle punks, Silly Killers.  This is the European press of their debut single, Step 1, and it similarly takes its inspirations from that first wave of West Coast hardcore punk.

The eight tracks are unleashed in ten helter-skelter minutes, none lasting beyond the ninety second mark, each packed with an acerbically fizzing energy.  Indeed, Fucking Metal Song acts as their admirably concise musical manifesto (‘Gotta keep it short and sweet, two minutes is the max’).

The jerking rhythmic patterns of the vocals rather unexpectedly spin me back to early Bad Religion, albeit a rather burlier and irreverent delivery.  Meanwhile, the lyrical themes dissect the relentless gentrification of the band’s home city and the mental toll inflicted on us all by the age of surveillance capitalism.  The bruising Renovict Arnold and the atavistically spiralling Cake Jumper land with a particular relish.

‘Pink and orange strokes, In silent applaud, On the day’s retreat, As I retreat, From humanoid ant hills, And swarms alike’ (Humanoid)

As the self-titled debut album from Dust Collector erupts into life, the swells of savage riffage brace you for an onslaught of unforgiving, blown out noise punk.  Yet what emerges is something subtly different.  Yes, the guitars are fiercely distorted, hissing and spitting with venomous intent, but also in possession of a lacerating precision.  This affords space for the rhythm section to take a greater prominence and lay down a formidable foundation – the bass lines throbbing with a supple clarity, the drums altogether more primitive and absolutely unrelenting in their monochrome cadence.

It some becomes clear that the Los Angeles band don’t wish to simply overwhelm.  They want to create a discordance that gives you no choice but to move.  And this they assuredly do as the positively louche breakdown to Scalpel Life, the groove fuelled Canvas, and the pogo inducing fury of Midori bear testament.  Meanwhile, the raw, shredded vocals plunge us in a world of poetically invoked nihilistic frustration, morbid reflections, and haunting desolation.  This is a cacophony with a purpose beyond noise itself.

‘I write down my thoughts and throw the page away, No use in keeping it, I wrote the same thoughts down yesterday…I see no change, because I won’t change’ (Little Man)

Malaise is the debut album from Class Act and they hail from Kansas City.  By way of context, that is about all I can tell you.  But who needs a backstory when you’ve got tunes as fine as these?  There has long been a school of thought that hardcore that emanates in the Midwest, away from the historic punk epicentres, evolves in intriguingly distinctive ways – a theory that Class Act are more than happy to sustain.

Their sound is one that fuses the energies of stomping hardcore with abrasive noise punk dissonance and a dash of garage velocity, before saturating everything in their own wildly off-kilter aesthetic.  Not to mention some splendidly offbeat instrumental interludes.  It works an absolute treat.  The rhythm section lays down an ever-shifting battery, utterly frenetic at times, unashamedly rugged at others. The semi-shouted vocals unleash a haranguing tirade, one part nihilistic polemic questioning the potential for change, the other a self-disgusted diatribe at our own lethargic failure to even try.

This is all bound together by the tautly stretched, discordant guitar – somehow clean and filthy at the same time.  And be assured, there are riffs aplenty – twisting, writhing, and bludgeoning as appropriate.  The highlights slam home in quick succession.  The juddering angularity of Peachy.  The brooding indolence of Big Man.  The agitated unfurling of Temple Run.  The pounding fury of World Peace.  Who knew our malaise could sound so good?

‘Everyday I get up, Gotta get on the street, Get my head in a book, So I don’t look at my feet, Am I making work now? I don’t know, I can’t tell which way to go’ (A Race)

Thrills is the debut full-length from Richmond, Virginia’s K9 and it proves a thoroughly engaging one as the band artfully fashion a myriad of contrasting influences into something very distinctively their own.  Shimmering jangle pop and a certain indie punk raggedness strike first.  But as the album evolves the underlying hardcore snap that binds their sound becomes increasingly apparent.

This is, perhaps, most evident in the song structures themselves.  It can be in your face, such as on the tautly coiled Who Ya Know and Bootstraps, but it is a subtly perceptible influence throughout.  From the languid country twang of the opener, Arms Fall Off, to the sombrely roiling melody that propels Shades of Red, by way of the jauntily upbeat The Island, K9 succeed in marrying their tightly crafted song writing with some intriguingly unexpected twists.

The dual vocalists – one laconically drawled, the other sweetly melodic – add another vivid layer to this dynamic.  They weave an eclectic path as they muse on the entrenched status quo, the myths of meritocracy, and the dangers of sleepwalking into authoritarianism, alongside odes to the flawed delights of living on the James River and the quiet pleasures of drifting through life.  Thrills flashes a bright and breezy smile.  But don’t be deceived – the bite that lurks beneath is a sharp one.

Burning Future is the utterly uncompromising debut EP from New York raw punks Arson.

Arson return with their debut 7-inch and follow up to their 2024 demo, Más Noize.  We are talking unforgiving raw punk rooted in the traditions of crasher crust, its shape rooted more in the original hardcore expressions than the more metallic interpretations that followed.  It is not a coincidence that one of the six tracks is a cover of Gloom’s Disgrace from their groundbreaking 1994 EP, Speed Noise Hardcore Rags.

The guitars are absolutely blown out, unleashing waves of just shy of white noise riffage, while the cymbal awash rhythm section is without mercy.  Amid this sonic carnage, the guttural, desperation drenched vocals contemplate with little hope a society mired in violence and corruption.  My personal highlights are the closing tracks, Damage and No Shame, where the band allow their sledgehammer groove the fullest scope to pound us into submission.

‘Maniacs on iron horses, Foam from their mouths at the gates of hell, Reality is constant death’ (Visions Of Impending Death)

Featuring members of Mexico City’s Elektrika and Philadelphia’s Psych-War, Zyclone arrive with their debut EP, Visions Of Impending Death.  They are purveyors of truly savage d-beat fuelled raw punk.

The base riffage nods towards Scandinavian käng but is filtered through a more distorted Japanese lens.  The rhythm section is remorseless as it locks into a thunderous onslaught, while the rasping vocals survey a world locked into a cycle of entrenched inequality and indiscriminate warfare.

Each of the four tracks is executed with a punishing intensity – rigorously tight, blisteringly fast – with the flaring melodicism of the rampaging Life For A Life and the searing finale of Exterminate Them All landing with a particular velocity.