When the Tree Bears Fruit is the very impressive debut full length from Australian quartet Parsnip who combine eccentricity and a wide-eyed innocence with agitating and crashing garage pop. The quartet prove themselves quite adept at ramshackle melodies indebted to the late 60’s psych scene via early Flying Nun bands.
Across the albums eight songs, Drab Majesty reinforce and build on their claim as one of the best at what they do. These dark tinged synth pop anthems are infectious, re-listenable, and relatable. “Does anybody understand these times?” Deb sings on “Out of Sequence.” Modern Mirror leads one to think that Drab Majesty just might.
That thick low end, the cymbals hissing like a blown speaker, the guitars cranked as high as they can go with every squelch and squeal blasted right into your ear. This record looks and sounds excellent. Fuming Mouth’s sound is punishing. Mixing elements of death metal and hardcore, there are few chances to catch your breath.
From the first seconds of opening track's solitary and close-feeling percussion, Horoscope's third album feels like an immediate and intimate exploration of Rene J. Nunes-Cabrera's Cuban roots. There's no shortage of identity-focused work these days but Horoscope's work on Carne. has a more complex and interrogative tone.
There are few groups currently making music that can capture the feeling of absolute insanity of living in the current moment and watching the final stages of pretty much everything—Tropical Fuck Storm is absolutely one of those groups, and with the experience of an album under their belt, they are back more confident than before.
Blazar, a relatively new band, are no strangers to the punk scene. Vocalist Jack Vermillion was once a member of stalwart Tallahassee group Ex-Breathers, while the band’s Nick Derella also shreds in Night Witch. Reach Out is noisy, fast-paced, and thrilling -- a record that grips you from the first chord until finally spitting you out at the last.
Undercurrent, their second LP, is the product of an entirely separate cast of evil doctrine. Its compositions leap from the speakers to place a hand around your throat like vengeful oni manifesting from folds of a recently translated and cursed scroll. The chord progressions are more muscular. The production is cleaner.
Emily Alone is a Florist record through and through, despite being a solo effort. It’s also something more: it’s like a refined, evolved iteration of Sprague’s prior work, feeling more like a memoir than a diary entry. That sense of evolution comes through in the high production quality and a lyrical grounding in the present.
