‘And still you might say we are resolutely in the camp of the defeated, but you should know, defeat has nothing to do with surrender’ (Liner Notes, Qlowski)

Inspired by an interview with the late Palestinian poet, Mahmoud Darwish, this statement is included in a series of short thought sketches that accompany The Wound.  It captures the very essence of the themes that Qlowski have set out to grapple with.  A grief, a trauma, an overwhelming despondency arising from the unrelenting social corrosion of late-stage capitalism.  Yet a belief continues to burn that collective action and community co-operation can still build an alternative.

This is the London band’s second album, following on from 2021’s Quale Futuro? (What Future?).  Formerly a duo, comprising Cecilia Corapi and Mickey Tallarini, the ranks of Qlowski have expanded by three new members – Christian Billard, Lucy Ludlow, and James Luxton – in a revamped rhythm section.  Tautly angular post-punk guitar and pulsing darkwave synths are underpinned by dancefloor inflected bottom end, while Tallarini’s desperate, gothic tones wrestle back and forth with Corapi’s brighter, more hopeful urgings.   The atmosphere evoked can only be described as one of melancholic euphoria.

The title track and Surrender share not only an utter infectiousness but are in many senses lyrical companion pieces – the former suffocating in its sense of powerlessness (‘We’ve spent all the words, we’ve raised all the flags, It looked grandiose, It was already gone’), while the latter bristles with a renewed defiance in defeat (‘Can you hold it your heart? Can you hold it in your hands? Can you hide it in the dark?’).

The rentier capitalism that has ravaged London’s housing is the focus of the jarring A Vision (‘Rotting in my own bed, Black mould crumbling through my mattress, Drowning in my defeat’) and the inhumanity of Europe’s treatment of migrants is that of the deceptively upbeat In Cold Blood (‘Choose the hand that holds your head, Under the water’).  Meanwhile, the darkly intoxicating Praxis (‘You were a fire that never expires’) teases out the power of personal grief as a force for change.