This is not background music. It is a ceremony.

In Sore Bless coaxes its listeners into a ritualistic trance — dark, unapologetic, and entirely singular. Weaving together post-rock, noise rock, art rock, experimental, cinematic, ambient, and trip-hop influences into what the duo describes as a musical mandala, it is a record that carries the spiritual power of speaking in tongues and retreating inward, away from the noise and fury of the outer world, toward something ancient and true. From the very first notes, something is being conjured here that is genuinely difficult to name — and impossible to resist.

For fans of Portishead, Noveller, Blonde Redhead, Chelsea Wolfe, and MONO, In Sore Bless offers both solace and challenge in equal measure.

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“We find inspiration in the entropy of life,” the duo says. “Sometimes we celebrate it and at other times we resist it. Art and music act like a bandpass filter — cut out the sound and fury and focus your attention on what moves you. Creativity is channeling energy to make your own bandpass filter, and inspiration is the motivation to express ourselves and to take leaps of faith when doing so.”

In Sore Bless is that filter made manifest — eight tracks that move through post-noise ballads, distilled jams, fragments of Anatolian trip-hop, and other genre-amalgams, all drawn into the orbit of CECILIA’s voice. She sings in English, French, and Italian, calling to an omnipresent yet elusive love — binding, repelling, fragile, transient, and spiritual. Her lyrics, rich with references and homages to dead artists and writers she loves, unfold over Ali’s background of synth drones, hand percussion, electronic textures, and strings. Olivia Baldi contributes cello on “ICI.”

“To me, writing and singing most often feels like entering into a conversation with invisible forces and the lingering aura of the dead,” CECILIA says. “A dialogue with voices and archives that have deeply resonated with me.”

The album required something genuinely new from CECILIA — a surrender of control that she has not offered in over a decade of solo work. For the first time, she took on strictly the role of singer, leaving all instrumental work to Ali. The voice, more exposed than ever, carries a direct and nakedly human strength.

“This is my first collaboration in more than ten years of working solo,” she says. “The voice is more exposed and in that nakedness, there is a direct, human strength. At a time when my own music is becoming more minimal and stripped down, it was refreshing to work with Ali’s instrumentals that are rich, heavy, saturated and opening up to different energies.”

For Ali, the record is a synthesis of everything — a tribute to a lifetime spent more in the audience than on stage, absorbing music across continents and genres, from a street concert in Frankfurt at the age of seven to a path that led through punk, post-punk, noise, free jazz, and finally into the recording studio.

“Music accompanies us throughout our lives,” Ali says. “It’s a steady drip of inspiration in itself and there’s always so much to learn and explore. CECILIA’s art and singing inspire me.”

Jason was deep in the creative marathon that would eventually produce the epic double album Soliloquy — six months of near-continuous writing fuelled by coffee, cigarettes, and a ham and cheese croissant each morning, which only ended when he was hospitalised for six weeks. During a rare break, he turned the television on to check for updates on Melbourne’s seemingly endless lockdown.

What he saw stopped him cold.

Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un — walking together. In peace. In solidarity.

For most people, it was a strange news item. For Jason, a man who had spent ten years serving aboard Royal Australian Navy vessels, it was something else entirely. Throughout his service, the captain’s voice had rung out over the ship’s speaker with a clear and consistent message: North Korea was an unstoppable force. Prepare accordingly. The idea that a phone call could resolve what had been framed as one of the world’s most intractable threats hit him like a physical force.

He sat down and started writing.

“War Killer“ is not a political endorsement. Jason is the first to admit he knows very little about politics and understands it even less. What he believes in is peace — and the bewildering, beautiful, almost naive hope that a moment of unity might be worth celebrating, regardless of which side of any line you stand on. He tried to reach a mate — a passionate political supporter on the opposite end of the spectrum — to share the moment, only to find him locked in heated online battles with strangers across the world. Jason’s question was simple: can’t we just celebrate this?

The song that came from that question nearly didn’t make the album. With 1800 songs to choose from for Soliloquy, the odds were against it. But after a beer and tequila break at The Avenue Studio in Cheltenham, the band laid down their first take — and something happened. Producer Simon Moro and Jason looked at each other when the vocals finished. They both knew.

“We have a hit here,” they said. “And we’re both going to get cancelled.”

Without a single moment of promotion, “War Killer“ has already become a fan favourite.

Heavily influenced by punk and recorded with the raw, first-take energy that defines the genre at its best, “War Killer“ channels the communal spirit of Sham 69 into a song about the absurdity and exhaustion of political division. It is Jason’s first heavy track as a lead vocalist — a deliberate step outside his comfort zone as an artist known for emotional, softer performances — and a statement that the world needs to hear right now, even if it takes a lot of convincing to believe it.

“A punk rock take on the current political climate,” Jason says, “may be just the thing to get us all holding hands again.”

Jason is in early discussions regarding a UK and European tour in Autumn 2026. Nothing is confirmed yet, but the momentum behind Reetoxa — from the extraordinary Soliloquy double album to the growing fanbase that found “War Killer“ without any help from the promotional machine — suggests the world stage is the logical next step.

The backstory goes like this: during Melbourne’s COVID lockdown – the longest and most restrictive in the world – McKee was deep in a creative marathon that eventually put him in hospital for six weeks. During a rare break, he switched on the television and saw Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un walking together in apparent peace. For someone who spent a decade in the Navy being briefed that North Korea was an unstoppable existential threat, the image hit differently.

McKee is open about knowing nothing about politics and not pretending to. What he felt in that moment was simpler – the bewilderment of watching something you were trained to fear apparently dissolve over a phone call, and the frustration of not being able to celebrate it without it becoming another front in the culture war. That tension is what “War Killer” is built from. The track channels the spirit of Sham 69’s “If the Kids Are United” – unity as punk rock aspiration – and it came together in the band’s first take after a beer and tequila break at The Avenue Studio in Cheltenham, with producer Simon Moro and McKee both immediately recognising they had something that would get people talking.

It’s a sharp move for a debut single push: politically charged enough to generate conversation, but grounded in a genuine and somewhat naive sincerity that keeps it from feeling like posturing. McKee isn’t preaching or telling you what to think about Trump or North Korea. He’s describing what he saw and raising some interesting questions. That’s a more interesting punk position than most. With a UK and European tour reportedly in early talks for later this year, “War Killer” is a good foot forward for taking ReeToxA‘s story somewhere new.

Gambles doesn’t try to resolve it. The music video makes that tension visual, with a corporate figure meeting protest with pure indifference, and Gambles himself surrounded by mirror reflections – facing himself while being fully aware that the corporations are very good at redirecting that gaze inward.

The song has a lot of energy and momentum from the rhythm section, with the bass driving alongside hot, sizzling drums. The guitar riffs are understated and mostly highlight the chord progression, which is the right call – a song like this works best when the vocals have space to carry the weight. For guitar lovers, don’t be discouraged, though, because towards the climax, there is some really inventive usage of octave pedals in the bridge, à la Jack White, which is a cool break in the pacing that makes the final chorus land harder for it.

Tim Gambles has been building a live reputation for a while now – Sofar Sounds Newcastle, support slots at Little Buildings, the Cluny – and a song recorded in one live take at MONA reflects an artist who trusts the room. The tour that follows this release is worth catching if you’re in any of the cities on the run.

The song feels less like a linear composition and more like a carefully built atmosphere. The guitars don’t simply carry chords, they breathe, layered with tape saturation and subtle degradation that give the sound a tactile, almost physical presence. Melody is still there, but it doesn’t dominate; instead, it dissolves into the surrounding textures, becoming part of a wider sonic landscape rather than sitting at the forefront.

This is where the analog approach becomes essential, not decorative. The use of reel-to-reel machines and cassette recording doesn’t just add warmth, it introduces instability, softness, and depth. The slight imperfections, the blurred edges, the gentle warping of tone all contribute to a listening experience that feels alive, shifting. It’s a sound that resists digital sharpness in favor of something more human, more fragile.

Beneath this textured surface, “Let Us In” carries a weight that contrasts its sonic lightness. Lyrically, it reflects on how quickly we categorize others, especially those navigating mental health struggles, and how that instinct to label creates distance rather than understanding. There’s a quiet tension here: the music opens outward, expansive and almost uplifting, while the message turns inward, asking for reflection.

What stands out most is how naturally The Shrubs hold these contrasts together. The track never feels overloaded, despite its density. Instead, it moves with a kind of quiet confidence, each layer serving a purpose, each sonic choice reinforcing the emotional core. Miguel and Sophie treat texture not as background, but as narrative itself.

“Let Us In” by The Shrubs indeed feels like a subtle but important evolution. Not louder, not bigger, but clearer in intention; a deeper commitment to a sound that exists somewhere between memory and immediacy, between clarity and blur. It provides a soundscape that is unresolved, gently pressing, and difficult to fully shake!

First of all, props to whoever engineered this live session because all of the details are positively popping through. That level of clarity in a live room recording is harder to pull off than it sounds, and it pays off across the whole EP. “Fine Time” is a genuinely great anti-war song – the harmony and rhythm section do what’s needed, but the lyrics are the real story. They could easily be commenting on current events in 2026, when the song was actually written back in 2014. The live version sounds more mature for it, like a song that got to marinate with the band long enough that the performance has become more nuanced and settled.

“Desire” pops more in a live setting because, by design, it leans heavily on the lyrics, so when the instruments are naturally more present in a room recording, everything feels more balanced. Thematically, it sits with adult responsibilities pushing against what we actually want, and how difficult it is to break the pattern of routine long enough to explore our own instincts – getting out of the box is hard when the box is what keeps the lights on.

Musically, “Day After Day” is the most interesting track on the EP, with a lot more rhythmic variation than the other songs in the session. The bass riffs have a Primus-inspired quality, and the evolving synth sounds push it toward 70s prog rock territory – a combination that shouldn’t work as cleanly as it does. The band executes it live in a way that doesn’t just honor the original composition but takes it somewhere further.

A live EP from a band this deep into their catalog could easily feel like a stopgap, but Live From The Attic earns its place in the discography. The Wheel Workers have shared stages with The Flaming Lips and Phantogram, toured nationally, and spent time on the NACC charts with Harbor – they know how to perform. With the full-length still months away, this is a worthwhile entry point for anyone who hasn’t caught up with them yet.

The song has a 10-minute runtime, which can be quite intimidating for outsiders in such genres, but it’s pretty standard practice for any enthusiast of a post-rock derivative genre, as these songs usually traverse vast auditory landscapes to stimulate the mind as it wanders off to various modes of interiority. So by design it is vague and provides ample space for interpretation and adaptation to one’s own narrative, and every person’s experience with the song will be their own and might even be contradictory to the artist’s original intent or vision for the song, but therein lies the beauty of the human experience. Your experience shapes your reality, and it will shape your perception of this auditory journey.

However, the fact that your experience with it will be unique doesn’t mean it won’t share any commonalities with other people’s experiences, because we have common understandings and ideas about the textures used in the song. The song leans on the orchestral style of arrangement for most of its runtime, but those long, stretched out string sounds are accompanied by the occasional thumping of heavy industrial drum sounds, which gives it a flavor of surrealism.

Cracksinthereal’s building a world where sound design, abstraction, and emotional unease are the primary language. “Dagaz” is immersive and uncompromising, inviting listeners into a shadowed space where structure dissolves into sensation.

Q doesn’t try to win you over, it tries to unnerve you. Built on distorted minimalism, eerie synths, and fractured rhythmic patterns, the song plays like a scrambled transmission from a dream you can’t remember. Vocals drift in like whispers from a broken speaker: disembodied, unreadable, and oddly familiar. It’s disorientation as an aesthetic, and Vorpal leans in hard. There’s no sing-along moment here, just tension that tightens with each second.

This isn’t music meant to please. It’s a sonic act of defiance against streamlined content and predictable patterns. Think dystopia, but internal. Think poetry, but the kind written in static. Think emotion, but filtered through a screen until it flickers.

Vorpal’s genius lies in his ability to transform discomfort into a magnetic force. Q feels like the sound of scrolling endlessly at 2 AM, lost between information and identity, spiraling in and out of clarity. It’s cinematic without a film, deeply intimate yet emotionally distant. And somehow, it sticks with you.

If you’re looking for easy listening, keep moving. But if you’re willing to lean into the weird, Q might just be the track that reminds you how much art can still surprise you.

Now streaming, if you dare! 

The track leans hard into its bruised lineage: grunge, noise rock, post-rock, post-punk, all bleeding into a feverish storm of sound that recalls the disaffected sneer of early Nirvana but with something rawer, more ragged. It’s a chaos that feels lived-in, not stylized. The vocals: anguished, emotionally stripped, cut through the sonic grit like someone screaming into a void that won’t answer back.

The band: Reece Caldwell (vocals, guitar), Tyler Farrell (drums), and Jacob Marsh (bass) don’t just play their instruments, they weaponize them. The song builds tension through a deceptively quiet instrumental passage that suddenly detonates into a visceral scream, catapulting the listener into a wall of distortion and crashing rhythm. It’s not just a dynamic shift, it’s an emotional ambush.

Their process is as chaotic and anti-industry as their sound. Recorded mostly on analog gear in their own studio, the band embraces everything from pristine digital takes to trashy lo-fi phone recordings. It’s a deliberate rejection of clean-cut norms and industry polish; music made on their own terms, for reasons that have nothing to do with approval.

Lyrically, “Dignity” emerges from a place of bleak introspection. Inspired in part by a psychological experiment involving monkeys trapped in metal funnels, a metaphor that bleeds into every rasped line and battered chord, the track captures the suffocating inertia of depression and the grotesque beauty of just barely surviving it.

This isn’t music designed to comfort. [SAMPLE_TEXT] seem more interested in exorcising than impressing. The result is something strangely beautiful in its decay, an offering from a band that isn’t here to perform the role of “artist,” but to carve sound straight from the wound. They just want to make noise. And lucky for us, it’s the kind worth turning up!

The song begins with a piercing siren-like call,  not unlike a warning signal from some rusted-out satellite, before launching into a head-on collision of distorted, sliding riffs and tightly wound drums. The guitars, stripped of frets and full of raw unpredictability, slither and scream across the mix like electrical wires snapping loose. You can hear the danger in every bend. The genre lines are obliterated, one minute you’re in a pit of sludge, the next you’re lifted by a melody that could have emerged from a lost punk gospel. It’s hardcore punk swallowed by post-metal, laced with the twitch of nu-metal and the weight of stoner doom.

Vocals here aren’t sung, they’re delivered like warnings from the edge of belief, equal parts curse, chant, and confession. Inspired by the ancient Alexamenos graffito,  an image mocking a Christian devotee, the song speaks across time, pointing its finger not just at the absurdity of faith, but also at the absence left behind when belief crumbles. There’s sorrow and irony interlaced, but not a drop of indifference. Tritonic doesn’t preach; they challenge. They provoke.

What makes “Alexamenos!” land so hard is its duality: it’s raw but composed, ritualistic yet feral. Every screech of guitar and guttural shout is soaked in intent. The production captures every sonic splinter while keeping things gritty and alive. There’s a sense that the band is summoning something rather than simply performing, a noise seance in which the past, present, and unknown collapse into each other.

This track doesn’t flow. It jerks, convulses, breaks open, and reforms. There’s no comfort zone, no melodic plateau to rest in. The rhythm section grinds forward with the force of machinery in revolt, while the guitars sharp, sour, and searching, tear through any illusion of order. It’s chaos sculpted into something resembling ritual.

Tritonic’s upcoming album Bend the Arc! is looming on the horizon, and if Alexamenos! is any indication, this is not gonna be  just an album, it sure gonna be a reckoning. With the full project to be only available on wax-dipped cassette, Tritonic is drawing a line in the sand: you’re either in or you’re not. Passive consumption is out; active engagement is the price of entry! 

In Alexamenos!, Tritonic has found a new form, not genre, but gesture. A strike against complacency, a sound that digs into the philosophical and theological sediment of our time and drills until it hits something buried, something real. You don’t just hear this song. You confront it; and once you do, you don’t walk away unchanged!