‘Living life like stagnant water, Scared of making waves, You chose this life, You chose to stay’ (Everyone Wants Something)

Hailing from Leeds, Mother Nature’s line-up features a veritable who’s who of that city’s fine hardcore lineage, including as it does members of Perspex Flesh, The Flex, Mob Rules, and Whipping Post.  As such, expectations for this latest incarnation were running high, and were peaked still further by some searing live performances.  I’m delighted to say that Loving, Joyful And Free comfortably exceeds even those high hopes.

Tautly discordant guitar, laced with an enticingly off-kilter twang, are underpinned by a rhythm section that locks into a notably burly bounce – in particular, there is an array of utterly killer bass lines that ensure a gratifying swagger to proceedings.  As the tension between the serpentine and the stomp escalates, the guttural, rhythmically barked vocals barrel into the mix and bind them into a force of utter sledgehammer velocity.

It’s fair to say that the album’s title belies an unsettling, agitated energy that manifests itself in lyrical themes that are suffused in equal measure with anxious exhaustion and an unyielding resolve to protect a sense of self amid life’s carnage.  Each of the six tracks is a banger with personal highlights being the swirling frenzy of An Infinite Sphere and the bleakly infectious closer, Everyone Wants Something.

‘Vivir es resistir, pero vivir conscientemente, No creo en el castigo pero sí en las consecuencías’ (Un Suspiro De Silencio) / ‘To live is to resist, but to live consciously. I do not believe in punishment, but I do believe in consequences’ (A Sigh Of Silence)

Lo Que Extrañas Ya No Existe (What You Miss No Longer Exists), is a notion that you face almost perpetually as you move through life.  The places that you felt at home, the communities that inspired you, the ideas that excited you, morph, dilute, distort.  The apparent replacements that emerge too often feel like pale imitations – shallow, less real, impure.

This is the second full-length from Lame – who feature members of Barcelona, Morreadoras, and Orden Mundial – and the follow up to 2023’s Dejad Que Vengan (Let Them Come).  Fuzzed guitars and a propulsively supple rhythm section provide the perfect partners to an utterly rampant vocal performance.  Vocalist Sally unleashes a rhythmically snarled tirade that bristles and spits with fury, that demands clear-eyed confrontation.

In intriguing contrast to this utterly venomous delivery, the lyrics much more closely reflect the introspection of the title.  They draw on the work of poets Alejandra Pizarnik and Cristobal Ortiz to conjure contemplations on the true meaning of justice and the importance of action in a world that is immersed in violence both against humanity and the planet itself.

As the album breathlessly sweeps from the seething opener Te Traigo Una Bomba Mi Amor (I Bring You A Bomb My Love), by way of the pneumatic velocity of Las Palabras, La Sangre, La Memoria (The Words, The Blood, The Memory), to the savagely escalating finale to Hasta Mañana Vida Mía (See You Tomorrow, My Life) the intensity is as embracing as it is unforgiving.  What we miss may no longer exist, but Lame forcefully remind us that it is only by pushing ourselves to adapt and change that we can realise those same values in new forms.  That is our resistance.

‘Will this rolling tide crash over me again? Am I helping? I can’t seem to find, Never reaching the surface in time, But in the bleak light of day, We will be far from here’ (The Surface)

The resonant bass and the shimmering, almost strummed rhythm guitar cautiously stalk one another.  The catchily propulsive drums snap into action, an infectiously crystalline lead surges.  Gothically drawled, baritone vocals swell into view, bombast seduced by sorrow.  Further heft is leant by slabs of glacial synth as the soaring chorus detonates.  Each element is adroitly layered as the track builds to a fiercely cathartic crescendo.  The Face That I Stood Behind is, perhaps, the perfect introduction to the bleakly evocative world of Body Maintenance.

Post-punk has come to be something of a promiscuous term.  However, the Melbourne band readily elicit thoughts of the pioneering bands of early 1980s’ England.  Yet these are thoughts also suffused with the reanimating vigour of the band’s own singular, darkly contemporary take on this their second full-length, and follow-up to 2023’s Beside You.  As a forlorn atmosphere of swirling ambiguity and dissolving hope is poignantly evoked, highlights follow in quick succession from the hazily dreamy ‘Far from here’ backing of vocals of The Surface to the contagiously driving melody that defines Symphony Of Bliss, before the assertive close of The Golden Fire.

‘Building a shell, worn out!  Fight! Compromise! A wireless passion without the hidden cost, Take it from them so that we may richly live again’ (Compromise!)

Me Lost Me is the DIY folk project of Jayne Dent and her most recent album, RPG, was an intriguing electro-folk exploration of the increasingly blurred lines between the virtual and the actual.  On this, her follow-up and fourth full-length, This Material Moment, she has retained the fundamentals that shaped RPG but realised them with an even more assured boldness.

Dent’s powerful vocals, graced with their distinctive North East cadence, remain at the heart of proceedings, sweeping from the haunting ethereal to the stridently melodic with a seamless ease.  Indeed, the unaccompanied Vanishing Point is a mournfully arresting highlight.  The impact of her vocals is elevated still further by their deft layering with those of her co-conspirators.  This is, perhaps, most evident on the acapella of A Souvenir, but is braided throughout the album and works particularly vividly on the stirring eruption of Compromise!

The instrumentation is rich yet subtly understated.  Dent’s own glitching electronics are laced through the haunting arrangements of clarinet, double bass, and percussion.  This restraint creates an atmosphere that is equally imbued with reflection and drama, not least when the band’s full power is unleashed, as on the thumping Ancient Summer.  This oscillating pattern is mirrored in the fractured, allusive lyrics as they draw on natural imagery and our sensory experiences to explore how we can stay true to ourselves in a world that seeks to absorb us all into its relentlessly draining, ever less satisfying cycle of extraction.

‘Now just a mark on cold, porcelain. Seeping through the grout, underneath the tile, the history of suffering won’t come out. Come closer. Come and see death’ (Hospital Tile)

When I caught Iron Lung live back in June, they were in utterly uncompromising form.  Power violence can appear a misleadingly straightforward business at times – sludge mired riffage here, blast beat eruption there.  But when you see it in the hands of such accomplished performers, this misconception is swiftly shed as they ruthlessly render it down to its very essence.

The duo, who have been honing this sonic brutality for over twenty years, are now back with their fourth full-length, and first since 2013’s White Glove Test.  And Adapting // Crawling delivers everything you could hope for from an Iron Lung release.  The lurking danger with any power violence album, no matter how well realised, is that it can unwittingly merge in on itself.  However, Iron Lung again prove supremely adept at investing each track with its own clear identity and injecting their onslaught with a sense of space that amplifies the wider stop-start ferocity.

Conceptually, the poetically roared vocals grapple with both notions of mortality and more directly experiences of the US healthcare system, which is one seemingly shaped rather more by motives of profit than of clinical care, or even basic humanity.  Personal stand outs are the bleakly savage A Veiled Eye, the industrial fury of Virus, and the desperation drenched Hospital Tile.

‘Promise freedom, prey on weakness, capture language, snap your fingers, prey on weakness, lay in grass, lust for ignorance’ (Figament Of Reality)

As screamo has evolved, it has become ever more expansive, broadening its palette from the unhinged velocity of its roots.  This is a trend that Los Angeles’ Nuvolascura continue to largely eschew on this, their third album and follow-up to 2020’s As We Suffer From Memory And Imagination.  This is not to imply a lack of invention or a monochrome cadence.  Amid the whiplash changes in pace, there are flourishes of haunting melody, flares of dissonant electronics, fleeting moments of reflection, but they are so deftly absorbed into the band’s remorseless battery that they feel utterly organic to their sound.

The writhing, twisting compositions intuitively unfurl so as to feel almost improvisational in conception, yet their visceral intensity speaks to a sound that has been honed to its leanest expression, any extravagance mercilessly exorcised.  Taut leads skitter.  Slabs of muscular riffage erupt.  Songs dissolve and reassert themselves with discordant abandon, while the limber rhythm section morphs without hesitation to match these ceaseless contortions.  Figament Of Reality and Cordiform Projection vividly embody these seething oscillations.

The raw, harrowing vocals conjure up a fractured, bleakly allusive stream of consciousness.  They grapple with both the constant battle to escape the chains of depression and addiction together with more directly political expressions.  The latter draw on an anarchist framing to explore themes of community organisation and the power of collective resistance.

‘Stiamo entrando nella regione della notte infinita, Stiamo entrando nella regione della notte infinita’ (Nella Regione Della Notte Infinita) / ‘We are entering the region of endless night, We are entering the region of night infinite’ (In The Region Of Infinite Night)

Festa Del Perdono (Feast Of Forgiveness) have been born from the fulcrum of a myriad of Italian hardcore projects, including Kalashnikov, Ceremonia Secreta, and Spirito Di Lupo.  The band’s debut EP from last year, Società Mentale, was a thoroughly intriguing release, melding together a mesmerising blend of anarcho-punk and dub, braided through with flaring organs and brass flourishes.

The band are now back with Galactic Jazz Night Part I: Nella Regione Della Notte Infinita, the first of two interconnected 7-inch EPs exploring the theme of shadow worlds.  Proceedings are opened by Galactic Jazz Night Part I, which marries languidly haunting brass with hypnotically ethereal spoken word, before feeding into a fiercely confrontational cover of Combattere (Fight), originally released by Ceremonia Secreta.

The flip side sees Nella Regione Della Notte Infinita fuse contrasting aspects of these opening two tracks into a languorously unfurling track as rhythmically infectious spoken word and dub fuelled instrumentation are pushed to the fore.  Part two, L’Arca Dei Nuovi Maestri (The Ark Of The New Masters), will follow in the autumn.

‘What has this city become? It seems that everything that makes sense has gone…Chained by the ankle to some envisioned comfort’ (Circus)

Hailing from Nantes, Precipice’s debut album, Down The Well, is a fierce slab of urgently claustrophobic, deeply discomfiting hardcore.  The leanly abrasive guitars are laced through with flares of dissonant melody and eerily off-kilter leads, while underpinned by spryly punchy bass lines and burly, uncompromising drumming.

Meanwhile, the desperation-soaked vocals are steeped in a bleak cocktail that is equal parts revulsion and anxious exhaustion.  This is a desolation provoked by the commoditisation, often with our complicity, of our lives and cities to serve the interests of capital and technology.

As the album’s relentlessly agitated patterns emerge, shadows of early 1980s’ pioneers such as Die Kreuzen and Mecht Mensch are evoked, as well as those of more contemporary exponents such as Permission.  The unsettling atmosphere is, perhaps, best captured by the serpentine discordance of Maze Spectacle and the ferocious contortions of Disguised.

‘Insubordinados en un mundo decadente, Hurtan nuestros sueldos honorables presidents, Ningún sistema podrá silenciarnos, Cambian de verdugo, seguiremos protestando’ (Anti-Poder) / ‘Insubordinates in a decadent world, They steal our salaries, honorable presidents, No system can silence us, They change the executioner, we will continue protesting’ (Anti-Power)

Extermaninación (Extermination) is Lumpen’s second 7-inch and follow-up to their excellent 2022 debut full-length, Corrupción (Corruption).  The Barcelona-based band, featuring primarily members hailing from Colombia, continue to hone the kernel of their sound drawing on UK82 inspirations, but then feed these through the bleakly abrasive lens of Latin American hardcore.

What emerges is a densely layered, darkly urgent onslaught.  An overriding sense of raw intensity is the initial reaction. But as you immerse yourself in the five tracks, a rich detailing reveals itself from the flaring melodic solo of Desplazados (Displaced) to the martial stomp that opens Finnira Mai? (Will It Ever End?), by way of the anarcho-punk tinged Apatia De La Raza Humana (Apathy Of The Human Race).  Meanwhile, the despair shredded vocals are a rallying cry to resist the militarised and economic violence of those in power.

‘Helpless peoples desperate cries, The void stares back, From lifeless eyes, Crucifixion of the masses’ (Crucifixion Of The Masses)

Having released a couple of cassette-only demos in 2018/19, Fuckin’ Lovers now unleash their debut 7-inch, Crucifixion Of The Masses.  It is fair to say that the Philadelphia trio, who feature members of Allergy, Flower, and ICD10, have dialled down the intensity not one jot.  This is noise punk in its most discordant, unvarnished form.

The guitar is utterly drenched in distortion that floods over the primitive, cymbal awash drums, and the equally filthily distorted bass in a torrent that is just shy of white noise.  Meanwhile, barked, duelling vocals are chaotically layered in their rage against a society rooted in economic inequality and systemic violence against the marginalised.  The rhythmic fury of Arrogance and the swirling, more metallic inclined instrumental closer, The End, are particular highlights.

‘Ciudadades sim alma, Embudos de dinero, Demuestran con cifras, Y bloques vacíos, Las calles se llenan, No hay derechos, Solo custodios’ (Lamebotas)/  ‘Cities without soul, Money funnels, They prove with ciphers, And empty units, There are no rights, Only custodians’ (Solelickers)

Following on from two self-titled EPs, Montreal-based Total Nada return with their debut full-length, Aquí Y Ahora (Here And Now).  The band continue to distil influences drawn from mid-1980s’ UK hardcore through the raw lens of Latin American punk from that same era.

Densely rhythmic Spanish language vocals, reflecting the band’s Colombian heritage, interplay with blistering guitar and a truly frenetic rhythm section to unleash an onslaught that is not only remorseless, but braided through with an aura of bleak foreboding.  From the raucous, unbridled fury of Aquí Y Ahora to the bass fuelled swagger of Deseo De Muerte (Deathwish), by way of the stomping climax to Conviértete En Un Símbolo (Become A Symbol), there is not even a hint of respite.

Coruscating lyrical themes span the legacies of imperialism (Fallas Crónicas / Chronic Failures), the military-industrial complex (Desollaron La Paloma / Slaughtered Dove), and the financialisation of our cities (Lamebotas / Solelickers).  The album evokes the spectres of squandered futures on the title track and the sense of listless timelessness that perpetual crisis engenders in our lives (Máquina / Machine).

‘J’ris de toi pour pas pleurer, pour pas trop désespérer, que tu puisses encore croire, que tout le monde devrait vouloir, exploiter, commander, dominer’ (C’est Qui Le Patron?) / ‘I’m laughing at you so as not to cry, so as not to despair too much, that you can still believe, that everyone should want to exploit, command, dominate’ (Who’s The Boss?)

Aqua Tofana was an intense, essentially undetectable poison that first emerged in 17^th century Italy.  It gained notoriety as the poison of choice for women looking to kill their husbands, both due to its difficulty to trace, and the fact that its slow acting nature allowed victims to prepare for their deaths.

Given this context, it comes as no surprise that the debut album from this Parisian trio is a fierce, unequivocal denunciation of the patriarchal conventions that continue to distort much of society, a slow violence with sometimes deadly consequences.  The band’s sound is one that straddles both the restless invention of art punk and the juddering rhythms of progressive hardcore, laced with flares of sombre melody.  It is a stripped back palette, yet one that is also characterised by a notable sense of theatre.

This dramatic inclination is stridently amplified by a virtuoso vocal performance that sees the delivery sweep from the playfully teasing to the sardonically quizzical, and from the quietly reflective to the unquenchably raging, all with an impressively fluid dexterity.  The sinister unfurling of Dégâts (Damage) and the grunge fuelled fury of C’est Qui Le Patron? (Who’s The Boss), perhaps, perfectly embody the album’s unsettling, shapeshifting essence.

‘Arnasa harta ezin ta egunerakusa, Erlojuan zurka bizi biharra’ (Erlojuaren Aurka) / ‘I can’t breathe and I can’t see the day, I’m living tomorrow by the clock’ (Against The Clock)

Gure Gerra (Our War) is the debut album from Basque punks Bellum (War).  It is an intriguing treat, fusing melodic punk with an upbeat pop sensibility that draws on their home region’s rich musical heritage, while also fashioning an interpretation that is very distinctively their own.

The chunky basslines and crisp snap of the drums lock-in a healthy swing to complement the sharply bright guitar that carries with it just a frisson of jangle.  The result is infectiously breezy, with enough grit to keep things honest, and the apparent off-the-cuff looseness can’t disguise the tightly crafted songwriting.

The strident vocals are shaded in a bleak melodicism, Bellum’s buoyant energies belying themes of anxiety and self-doubt.  This threading of shimmering sonic positivity with lyrical frustrations of the everyday is vividly captured by the fizzing Keroseno (Kerosene) and the contagiously impassioned escalation of Erlojuaren Aurka (Against The Clock).

‘Craving blood, down to abuse, Electric vultures, eyes on the noose, Marching soldiers, evil beat, Starving war dogs, looking for meat, Licking the boot, of the elite’ (Concrete Nightmare)

A glitch is, of course, a minor, temporary malfunction.  It’s fair to say that as Lille’s Gutter, who feature members of Utopie, barrel forward through our current social malaise, they feel that something rather more fundamental has gone awry – we’re not so much glitching as plunging into terminal meltdown.

This is the band’s third release, and follow-up to 2020’s Simulation 7-inch.  They continue to favour a lean, burly hardcore punk. The muscular riffage, wailing solos, and gruff, echo drenched vocals are interwoven with a healthy dose of rhythmic rock’n’roll strut together with a rich seam of mournful melodicism.

The fundamentally no-nonsense delivery is also textured with some well-judged detailing, including the brass fuelled intro and shards of tinkling piano.  From the bruising Infected to the swaggering Concrete Nightmare, by way of the barging Stranded, this is the sound of a world suffocating in the tentacles of surveillance capitalism.

The album captures a prevailing sense of us being trapped between a virtual world and reality, knowing that it is fracturing our sense of self, but unable to break free.  The increasing disposability of both our material and cultural lives and the polarising echo chambers that pollute the social discourse are captured in the rather natty accompanying lyric booklet.

‘With no eyes to see, no mouths to scream, they were shot in the back, left for dead, Long time ago but I can still see, I can still feel, scars of the past’ (Scars)

Zealots, dictators, and demagogues of every stripe seem intent on plunging the world back into the horrors of global warfare to feed their imperial delusions, warped bigotries, or simple economic greed.  The new four-track EP from Burning Kross serves as a timely reminder of the often unseen costs of war, one’s that can poison the groundwater of a society for generations.

It constructed around life in the countries occupied by Nazi Germany during World War II.  It specifically tells the story of Oscar in Belgium who went into hiding to avoid being assigned to work for the Nazis.  He was betrayed and found himself imprisoned in a labour camp.  He kept in touch with his family by letter, letters written under Nazi supervision, which give a fragmented, knowingly distorted insight into the harrowing consequences of war beyond the bloodshed itself.

This the band’s third 7-inch and their vehement, d-beat fuelled hardcore provides a bleakly raw tableau to capture the pain of those under occupation – the paranoia, the humiliation, the isolation.  The searing opener Killing Time robustly sets the tone, and proceedings are closed out with a ferocious cover of Alles Moet Kapot (Everything Must Be Broken) by 1980s’ Bruges anarcho-punks, De Jeugd Van Tegenwoordig (Today’s Youth).

Considered and thought-provoking packaging rounds off the release.  Each record is housed in an envelope to mirror those that Oscar sent home, and on the reverse to the lyric card to each song is the sobering art of Keith Caves.

‘Our bodies for sales and our brains to rot, On the dole they can buy the fucking lot, They’ll work you to death until you’re obsolete, Upper-class dreams, human machines’ (Take Them By Storm)

Cards on the table – Barren?’s 2021 debut album, Distracted To Death…Diverted From Reality, was undoubtedly my defining album of that year.  So, it’s fair to say that, as I first dropped the needle on this their follow-up, there was a certain excited anticipation.  And while life can frequently disappoint, Barren? most certainly do not – this is an absolute belter.

The Parisian trio, two of whom also play in Turquoise, have honed another deeply contagious slab of anarcho-punk.  The pacing is essentially mid-paced, allowing the band to build a densely layered sound and one that is rich in arresting detail.  Their 1980s’ UK anarcho-punk roots are laced with the soaring melancholy of more contemporary post-punk, while the rhythm section segues from the fiercely propulsive to the more fluidly supple with impressive dexterity.  The agitated vocals are imbued with a striking gothic drama without this ever diluting the combative cadence, and the supporting harmonies and group vocals inject a powerfully anthemic energy.

The passionately articulated lyrical themes span our morally bankrupt economic system, the collective forgetting of colonial legacies, the systemic scapegoating of migrants, the state-sanctioned violence of the police, and the political polarisation fuelled by surveillance capitalism.  There are so many moments to savour from the sombre yet infectious chorus of Men At The Door to the haunting refrain of ‘Amnesia’ that frames Once Upon A Death…, and from the funereal swagger of The Opprobrium to the searing rhythmic tirade of Our Brains Are A Warzone.

‘Realise our potential, our own capabilities, And the time will soon arrive, When we’ll consider each other, the hero’s of our daily life’ (The Package)

Karma Sutra were an anarcho-punk from Luton who were active from 1982 until the late 1980s.  A few years back, Sealed Records released an excellent compilation, Be Cruel To Your Past And All Who To Seek To Keep You There, which brought together the band’s various demo recordings and captured the band’s evolution from their heavier initial sound to its more melodically inventive expressions as the decade played out.

Now, the band’s sole 1987 full-length, The Daydreams Of A Production Line Worker, receives an equally welcome reissue.  By this stage in the band’s evolution, their more experimental inclinations were firmly established – their songwriting was still firmly rooted in anarcho-punk, but there was a greater confidence to give rein to increasingly fluid song structures and more expansive melodic passages.

The rhythmic intensity of the opener, Roleplay, flows into the unaccompanied vocals and then strumming acoustic guitar of Pillow Talk, before haunting flute is braided through the infectiously escalating The Package.  Meanwhile, the ethereal When The Music Stops and the darkly rollicking Indifference Kills ensure that the album’s restless dynamism never dissipates.

The duelling, layered vocals, together with the accompanying booklet of short essays, apply an anarchist framing to exploring themes of economic exploitation, sexual freedom, the ever-expanding penal state, and the power of collectivism, as well as reworking the tale of A Christmas Carol.  The fact that these themes are still as relevant now, if not in many respects even more so, speaks volumes to not only society’s regression, but also serve to remind us of just how forward-thinking the debate was that bands such as Karma Sutra were seeking to ignite at the time.

‘Ekonomisk integration hotar deras villaförorter, Kostnaden måste upp till varje pris, Tyst överenskommelse bland de välbeställda’ (Tyst Överenskommelse) / ‘Economic integration threatens their residential suburbs, The cost must go up at any price, Silent agreement among the affluent’ (Silent Agreement)

Exploatör’s ranks comprise members of many of the cornerstone names of Swedish hardcore, old and new. To name but a few, they span Dissekerad, No Security, Verdict, and, of course, Totalitär.  With such a heritage packed within the band’s ranks, the absolute precision savagery of the onslaught that ensues comes as little surprise.

Apokollaps (Apocalypse) is the band’s third full-length and follow-up to 2022’s Blind Elit (Blind Elite).  The approach remains uncompromisingly focused – a groundwork of frenzied d-beat rhythms, wave upon wave of viciously catchy riffage, and raspingly intense vocals.  Whiplash solos, fleeting melodic flourishes, and fiercely concise breakdowns ensure the intensity is unrelenting, with the blisteringly fluid title track and the scorching fusillade of Blodet Rinner (The Blood Runs), together with the raucous Exploatör (Exploiter), hitting home with particular venom.

The album weaves together a blisteringly succinct denunciation of the warped economic logic that entrenches existing wealth, while perversely claiming that only endless growth, rather than redistribution, can bridge the growing inequality.  This blind obedience serves only to sow the seeds for growing right-wing extremism and to further accelerate the trajectory toward climate disaster.

‘Feasting their eyes on the profits at hand, To steal is all they understand, To steal from the poor is all they understand’ (The Cutting Begins)

Umeå’s Aftermath plunge us with unreserved relish back into the heyday of late 1980s UK stenchcore, that murky realm where anarcho-punk and metallic rust become one, on this bleakly atmospheric follow-up to their 2022 debut EP, Garbage Day.  Down tuned, buzzsaw riffage and a barrelling, d-beat orientated rhythm section lay down a filthily distorted, mid-paced barrage that is wreathed with flourishes of sorrowfully melancholic melodicism.

The venomously roared vocals introduce a more avowedly death metal influence in the vein of Bolt Thrower’s Karl Willetts as they explore themes of economic austerity / insecurity, unbridled consumerism, environmental degradation, and religious indoctrination.  Stand out moments include the infectiously burly First Blood and the slab-like fury of Altered States, before the sepulchral lament of When Birds Sing No More.

‘Med hjärtat brant i lagor, Och brostet fullt av saknav, Full av angest in I marden, Och I sjalen fusen nalar’ (Sorg) / ‘With a heart burning in flames, And a chest full of sorrow, Full of anguish into the grave, A thousand needles into the soul’ (Sorrow)

Hailing from Lidköping, Illvilja (Malice) return with their second album, Döden (Death), building on the conceptual themes first explored on their debut full-length, Livet (Life).  Teasing out how death’s shadows shroud our lives, it examines both the ruptures and the liberations that it provokes.  Their emotionally charged neo-crust provides an evocative counterpoint to these bleakly poetic reflections on mortality.

They key to the album’s intensity lies in the band’s deftly handled pacing dynamics, their ability to relentlessly build tension, intuitively balancing vigorous velocity with passages of haunting delicacy.  Defiantly soaring melodies, galloping riffage, and blast beat eruptions are interwoven into a darkly evocative tapestry.  The blackened vocals are raw yet impassioned and lock-in with a rhythmic synchronicity that is insidiously contagious.

The mournful acoustic intro to Sorg (Sorrow) lures you inexorably into Illvilja’s embrace as they sweep from the surging intensity of De Som Forsvänn (Those Who Strayed) to the swaggering optimism of Ärr (Scar).  Döden sees hope and horror as two sides of the same coin, swirling and intertwining in a mesmerising dance for domination.

‘Clocking in, no clocking out, No separation, no dividing line, Conveyor belt, production line, Converyor belt, you’re out of time, Animal, animal unnatural, Who’s the product?’ (Human Market Capital)

In our lifetimes, we have witnessed the repurposing of our civic life to optimising capital accumulation at the expense of the collective good.  Our democratic institutions have been hollowed to foreclose political contestation.  The governing ‘common sense’ has become immutable, the very form of our existence. Forever.

What Seems Forever Can Be Broken is a visceral challenge to this depoliticisation, a fierce recognition that hegemonies can seem eternal to the very moment before they collapse under their own hubris.  I had the good fortune to catch a searingly brilliant show from Vampire on their recent UK run where the Australian trio brought all the finest qualities of anarcho-punk – duelling semi shouted vocals, martial drumming, and darkly surging riffage – vibrantly to life.

The velocity of this live performance is vividly captured on this their debut album, which has been given a thoroughly welcome European pressing by Discos Enfermos and Phobia Records, having been first released last year by Perth’s Televised Suicide.  The highlights come thick and fast from the burly fury of Built For Decline to the bleakly melodic Nothing To Hold, by way of the raucously infectious The Zone.  Meanwhile, the contrasting vocals from each of the band members are layered in a ferocious rhythmic fusillade as they dissect an economic system that is quite literally grinding our collective futures to dust.

‘You were designed by an idiot, a self-styled creatif, you’re a Friday five o’clock toss off, before another wasted wet weekend’ (The Arcade Claw King)

We are currently amid the shifting sands of a fourth industrial revolution driven by emerging digital technologies that we’re promised / threatened will be even more transformative than those that have gone before.  Whether that proves to be the case remains conjecture, but what we can guarantee is the likely outcome will be lower wages, poorer jobs, and even more outsized corporate profits.  Not exactly enticing is it?

AAA Gripper’s debut album, We Invented Work The Common Good, expressly sets out to explore our relationship with work in its contemporary setting – how we are first compelled onto the production line and how, despite whatever intentions we might have, escape frequently proves elusive.  Tautly resonant bass lines and crisply precise drums provide the band’s cornerstone, while shards of angular guitar flare abrasively, with each element fizzingly audible.

Meanwhile, the drawled spoken word vocals lock-in with a rhythmic synchronicity as they unfurl a sardonically surreal series of vignettes, spanning everything from the horrors of team awaydays to the work ethos of wasps.  The overarching sense is one of staccato agitation, the essentially monochrome palette fuelling the album’s singular sense of clarity as it sweeps from the fevered Lower Demons to the more limber expansiveness of Angel Washes.  The result is a blend that mirrors our own experiences – wide-eyed naivety, knowing complicity, burning cynicism all leading to the realisation that we are shackled to an economic system that is plundering both us and our communities for its own gain.

‘A neo-fascist state disguised like democracy, On the backs of the oppressed there’s always opportunity, Violence, injustice, these are state run industries’ (Service State)

Austerity has become one of the defining aspects of capitalist society, despite never having succeeded even on its own warped economic terms.  But the slow violence that it unleashes has proven both highly predictable and uniformly destructive.  It entrenches existing wealth, punishes the already marginalised, and incubates the conditions for an authoritarian turn.

Hekátē hail from Athens, with Greece having been subjected to a particularly brutal austerity package as part of the country’s 2015 financial bail-out.  The repercussions of this – poverty, insecurity, far right extremism – form the central focus of the album, captured with particularly bracing velocity on the uproarious Service State as it deconstructs the trail of destruction in blackly acerbic style.

Μαύρη Τρύπα (Black Hole) is the band’s second full-length and follow-up to 2020’s Μέρες Οργής (Days Of Wrath).  The strident, semi-shouted vocals, which alternate between Greek and English, together with the throbbingly resonant bass lines bring to mind 1980s’ UK anarcho-punk and are fused with crisply precise drumming and synths in the vein of more contemporary post-punk.

With no guitar in play, the synths carry the melodic weight, segueing from the jauntily skittering to the more coldly anthemic, and providing space for the band’s wider instrumentation to punch through emphatically  An atmosphere that is fuelled in equal parts by a sense of melancholic despair and defiant rage unfurls, sweeping from the woozily gothic opener Εμφύλιος (Civil) to the darkly brooding Βουβές Φωνές (Silent Voices) and swirling Δίνη (Vortex) to insidiously catchy effect.

‘Far above the skylark sings, And beats the air with joyful wings, Till all the sky with music rings, At high noon of the day’ (Margaret L Robertson)

Shropshire’s Haress return with their third full-length album and follow-up to 2022’s Ghosts.  It is an album of remarkable emotional weight, a visceral ode to both our connections with place and the power of community.  It draws on The Gallows Pole by Benjamin Myers, a fictionalised retelling of a collective of 19^th century weavers and land workers who mass forged coins in one of England’s most significant financial counterfeiting operations as they sought to protect their livelihoods from industrialised automation.

The album opens with Blood Moon, the guitar shimmering and trembling like an eerie early morning mist as it swirls relentlessly from primordial forests and sweeping valleys to tight city streets.  The track then locks into a haunting, groove-laden loop, occasional spectral howls only adding to the darkly foreboding atmosphere.  Waves of instrumentation – encompassing guitar, bow-played guitar, and subtly propulsive percussion – similarly shape King David and Coin Clippers as they are incrementally layered upon one another, ebbing and flowing between passages of meditative reflection and those of surging, hypnotic power.

It evokes a mesmerising sense of being guided through our island’s history from the Peterloo Massacre to the Tolpuddle Martyrs, from the 1926 General Strike to the social democratic moment forced in the aftermath of World War II, a legacy systematically squandered over the past forty years.  But a more hopeful tone, simmering with both optimism and defiance, emerges as the title track calls upon the folklore of the skylark, the harbinger of a new dawn.  The moment midway through where a sole voice kicks in with ‘Far above the skylarks sing’ is utterly spine-tingling and as the communal vocals join, it builds to a euphoric intensity that calls upon our past to resist the paucity of ambition that defines our present.

Scottish folk singer Quinie unfurls a haunting fusion of dark Celtic folk and the music of the Scots traveller community to deeply evocative effect on her debut album.

Walking is, in many ways, the best way to fully understand a landscape, whether it be urban or rural. It allows you to experience the rhythms of a place, to slow yourself to absorb, even if only subconsciously, the fine grain detail of everyday life.  Scottish folk singer Quinie took this thinking to the next level as she embarked on a trek through western Scotland in company with her horse, Maisie.

Quinie had previously been inspired by the music of Scots traveller singer, Sheila Stewart.  This trip was an opportunity for her to explore the history of this musical tradition and to immerse herself in the interconnections between people and place, a process heightened by the slow pleasures and complications of travelling with Maisie.  This journey was to prove the catalyst for Forefowk, Mind Me.  Largely sung in Scots, the traditional dialect of lowland Scotland, forefowk means ancestors, speaking to the reflections that the trip provoked.

A spartan assemblage partners Quinie’s distinctively lilting, emotionally charged vocals with austere instrumentation spanning sombre viola, jaunty fiddle, and the almost primeval howl of the small pipes.  It’s swirling emotional eddies are perfectly embodied by the pipe fuelled opener Col My Love and the mournfully unaccompanied Generations Of Change.  It is an album saturated in a certain timelessness – on the one hand ethereal and otherworldly, on the other deeply rooted in the communities in which it was forged.