Driven by jangling guitars, steady rhythms, and raw vocals, the track blends indie rock, folk rock, and alternative influences into a sound that feels both timeless and contemporary. There is an undeniable sense of urgency running through the song, yet Dexter Flew never allow the message to overshadow the music. Instead, the band’s sharp songwriting transforms complex social and political themes into something accessible, memorable, and surprisingly catchy.

The lyrics touch on power, misinformation, public spectacle, and the lingering uncertainty of recent years without slipping into easy conclusions. Rather than presenting a manifesto, the song creates space for reflection, encouraging listeners to question, observe, and engage with the world around them.

“Crowned” thrives on strong hooks, textured instrumentation, and a dynamic energy that keeps the track moving forward. The balance between thoughtful lyricism and infectious melodies gives the song a lasting impact long after it ends.

With “Crowned,” Dexter Flew demonstrate that meaningful songwriting can still resonate in today’s fast-moving world. It is a bold and intelligent release that challenges listeners to look beyond the headlines while delivering a thoroughly engaging rock experience..

The premise is simple: if humanity constantly needs an enemy to unite against, perhaps the solution is to find one beyond Earth; but rather than delivering this idea with gloom or cynicism, BAÏKI leans into humor, using irony to expose the darker sides of conflict, nationalism, and colonial ambition. The result is a song that is both entertaining and quietly unsettling.

Musically, KosmoX is driven by punchy guitars, infectious rhythms, and a chorus that sticks long after the song ends. Its upbeat energy creates an interesting contrast with the message, encouraging listeners to sing along before realizing what the lyrics are actually saying.

The accompanying video adds another layer to the experience, depicting the colonization of an imaginary planet with a deliberately light-hearted aesthetic that reinforces the song’s satirical edge.

With KosmoX, BAÏKI proves that social commentary doesn’t have to be heavy-handed to be effective. Clever, catchy, and thought-provoking, the track leaves listeners with a smile on their faces, and lots of reflections to be made!

Doing Fine explores the tension between personal identity and collective expectations. Rather than presenting rebellion as something reckless, the track frames it as an act of self-preservation. It becomes a reminder that choosing your own path does not make you an outsider; it can simply mean staying honest with yourself.

The song leans into the spirit of ‘90s grunge and punk. The opening riff immediately establishes a familiar atmosphere filled with grit, distortion, and restless momentum. There is nostalgia woven into the arrangement, yet it never feels like imitation. Instead, OPCRITICAL uses these influences as a foundation for a message rooted firmly in the present.

The rhythmic drive keeps the song moving with urgency. Persistent beats push the composition forward while the guitar passages create moments of tension and release, allowing the track to breathe without losing its intensity. The energy remains consistent, gradually building as the song unfolds.

The track  challenges social and institutional pressures that encourage conformity. Its recurring refusal to “fit into the box” becomes more than a hook; it evolves into the emotional center of the track. The message is direct, unapologetic, and perfectly aligned with the song’s rebellious character.

The accompanying video strengthens this atmosphere through its VHS-inspired aesthetic and chaotic visuals, echoing the alternative culture influences behind the release.

With Doing Fine, OPCRITICAL delivers a statement on authenticity; using riffs, rhythm, and resistance to celebrate the courage it takes to, gain at all odds, remain yourself!

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.

The track is not built as a political declaration, despite the themes it touches upon. Instead, Villani approaches identity, belonging, and social pressure from a deeply personal perspective. The song feels less concerned with proving a point and more interested in capturing a feeling, that subtle but persistent sense that something no longer sits quite where it used to.

Throughout the track, emotional honesty becomes its strongest element. Rather than offering solutions or choosing sides, Villani leaves space for reflection. Questions surrounding survival, modern pressures, and shifting realities remain open, allowing listeners to enter the experience through their own interpretations.

Who Do You Belong to Now? (Great Southern Land) draws from alternative rock foundations while incorporating dark wave atmospheres, industrial textures, emo undertones, and experimental elements. Layers of distortion and uneasy sonic details create a restless landscape that mirrors the emotional weight carried by the lyrics.

Equally compelling is the balance within the production itself. The harsher industrial edges bring tension, while softer atmospheric moments preserve the vulnerability at the song’s centre. Experimental choices never feel excessive; instead, they deepen the emotional atmosphere and strengthen the track’s sense of intimacy.

In a musical climate often driven by certainty and loud declarations, this release takes a different path. Who Do You Belong to Now? (Great Southern Land) chooses introspection over conclusions. Paul Louis Villani offers a thoughtful exploration of identity and unease, crafting a release that lingers through mood, tension, and emotional openness..

The first thing that struck me was how crass and vulgar the music video was, but upon closer inspection, it’s clearly an intentional choice to build a caricature of America: vulgar and ignorant, the main character just drives through bystanders and urinates out the window with no regard for anyone’s well-being, representing the current state of American apathy towards the world and its own people. A self-destructive menace, tainting everything it comes into contact with.

Musically, the song is quite simplistic in its approach, which makes sense – with a political message this direct in the lyrics, letting the music compete for attention would risk losing it entirely. That said, the driving rock beat does sound a bit generic, so the song banks almost entirely on the anthemic quality of the vocals rather than any distinctive musical fingerprint. Overall, it does what it needs to do; it doesn’t need to be a musical masterpiece. The song is just a mechanism for delivering some sharp observations in a catchy way.

“The Choice” began with a journey up the Hudson River on a brilliant sunny day. Standing before the white-rock Palisades, framed by greenery and the blue water below, Oledude found himself thinking about the history of that river — its struggle, its near-ruin, and its remarkable recovery. He thought about Pete Seeger, who sailed the Clearwater sloop for decades campaigning to clean those waters, and who understood that environmental change begins with human minds being moved, one at a time. He thought about choices. The song followed.

What makes “The Choice” musically distinctive is its source material. Oledude took the haunting, lullaby-like melody of the medieval hymn “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” and transformed it into something urgent and contemporary — new lyrics, new meaning, a sermon built from a carol. Influenced by folk icon Pete Seeger and progressive rock giants including Jethro Tull, Rush, Kansas, Emerson Lake & Palmer, and YES, Oledude has long been a “big sound” composer who hears his songs through orchestras and guitars alike. The track was shaped in collaboration with Berkeley-trained guitarist Zachary Staples, engineered by Mark Dann and Kat Lewis, and brought to life by a chorus of ten family members and friends whose voices give the song its communal, congregational weight.

“Writing ‘The Choice’ was a bold experiment,” Oledude says. “I had written parodies before, but I had never attempted to expand the meaning of a well-known song. Doing this sort of cemented my commitment to using every means at my disposal to make music meaningful and powerful to people.”

The story behind “The Choice” cannot be separated from the story of the man who made it. Chris Owens — known to the world as Chris Oledude — is a Black, white-Jewish, and Puerto Rican-born New York artist whose entire life has been shaped by the intersection of music, politics, and moral urgency. He grew up in a household where classical, folk, pop, funk, and protest music all had a place, harmonising with his brothers — including actor Geoffrey Owens — under the influence of his mother, the late Ethel Werfel Owens, his first music teacher, and his father, the late Major R. Owens, a librarian turned elected official.

In the 1980s, he performed on the streets of New York City, in dance bands, and recorded Anyone’s Revolution (1984), a cassette album that voiced sharp frustration with the Reagan era and caught the attention of folk legend Pete Seeger himself — who encouraged Chris to keep writing music for peace and social justice and to collaborate with like-minded artists. He went on to join the People’s Music Network for Songs of Freedom and Struggle.

For the next three and a half decades, life pulled him more toward civic and political activism than music. It was grief that brought him back. The death of his father stirred him to perform again alongside his brothers. The death of his wife, Sandra Dixon, led to a deeper reckoning — a decision to reconnect with music in a wholly new way. In 2020, reborn as Chris Oledude, he re-emerged with a renewed mission: to fuse the “old school” genres he loves — pop, funk, R&B, folk — with the urgency of the present moment.

⇒ Have you missed our review for “The Choice”? Read here.

The results have been remarkable. His song-video tribute George Floyd: Say Their Names, directed by Alyssa Dann, earned over 150 film festival accolades worldwide. His blues jam Orange Blues 24, accompanied by a stop-motion video crafted from 2,000 photographs over the course of a year, has won numerous festival awards. His 2025 release No Crowns For Clowns brought a blistering political critique to the airwaves. And his debut album Preacher Man — Vol. 1 took listeners on a journey, as he puts it, “from disturbing troubles to eternal hope,” with tracks including Rainbow Soul, Turning Tables, and We Will Get Through This winning fans across the world.

“The Choice” is the next chapter. And given everything happening in the world right now, its timing could not be more deliberate.

“At a time when war and other conflicts dominate our thinking,” Oledude says, “we cannot forget that the health of our planet and its atmosphere is the most critical issue confronting our future as human beings.”