THESPINNINGGAME’s Darian’s Dirge is brief but deeply affecting—a two-track EP that drifts between shoegaze haze and folk-driven introspection, held together by a sense of loss and reflection. Hailing from Savannah, the band crafts a release that feels like a quiet eulogy, heavy with emotion but never overplayed.
The title track, “Darian’s Dirge,” opens with a wash of fuzzy, detuned melodies, evoking shades of My Bloody Valentine or Yo La Tengo before peeling back to reveal a bare-bones arrangement of bass, drums, and vocals. The vocal delivery is restrained yet expressive, capturing a delicate, almost detached melancholy. The lyrics lean poetic and abstract, floating over the mix like half-remembered thoughts. As the song winds down, it dissipates into nothingness, ending with just guitar and voice—an intentional fade-out that feels like memory slipping away. “Curtains Close” shifts into a completely different register. Orchestral strings swell around acoustic instrumentation, giving the track a warmth and cinematic weight that contrasts sharply with the opener’s haze. There’s a clear folk and Americana influence here, landing somewhere between Fleet Foxes and Bon Iver, but the emotional core runs deeper. It’s a song about grief, addiction, and the impermanence of life, and it doesn’t take much for it to hit like a gut punch. The combination of raw lyricism and sweeping arrangements makes it the EP’s standout, capable of bringing a tear to your eye even if you don’t know the full story behind it. With just two songs, Darian’s Dirge covers a lot of ground—shoegaze dreamscapes on one side, stark folk elegy on the other. The contrast is striking, almost as if the tracks belong to different projects, but both work in their own right. “Curtains Close” leaves the strongest impression, but the EP as a whole carries a weight that’s hard to shake. Hopefully, this isn’t the last we hear from THESPINNINGGAME.
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Operating out of the quiet town of Sabattus, Maine—far from any thriving music scene—Hyporadar takes a wholly self-reliant approach to music-making. His debut EP, Frankie & Estelle, is a testament to that DIY ethic, a lo-fi collection of bass-driven tracks shaped by his dedication to carving out a signature sound. Inspired by Hey Cabbie, a memoir by Thaddeus Logan, the EP unfolds like a street-level narrative, with tracks like “Frankie Sullivan” and “Estelle” serving as character sketches set to groove-heavy minimalism.
The opener, “Cabbie,” sets the tone with an unembellished rhythm section—straightforward bass and drums forming the backbone as spoken-word-style vocals roll in. “Frankie Sullivan” follows suit, maintaining that raw, stripped-down approach, while “Grifter” doubles down on the bass-forward aesthetic, adding sparse pads but keeping the focus on the rhythmic interplay and vocal delivery. “Keep the Meter Running” introduces some subtle wah effects and offers one of the EP’s more memorable vocal melodies, hinting at a broader sonic palette. The production leans heavily into lo-fi textures, particularly in the drums, which feel intentionally unpolished. There’s an admirable consistency in Hyporadar’s approach—each song inhabits the same sonic world, making his vocal style and bass work instantly recognizable. Still, there are moments where the stark minimalism leaves you craving more dynamic shifts, more layers to push the songs beyond their foundational elements. That said, Frankie & Estelle feels like the start of something promising. It’s a rough-edged but distinctive debut, showcasing an artist still honing his craft but already locked into a sound that feels uniquely his. Hyporadar may be operating in isolation, but there’s a clear vision here—one that will be interesting to watch develop in future releases.
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Rooftop Screamers’ latest single, “My Sanity,” featuring Randy McStine, is a synth-driven rock anthem that unpacks the psychological weight of gaslighting and the moment of breaking free. It’s a song about reclaiming self-worth, stepping out from under someone’s control, and shaking off the manipulation that once dictated reality.
From the jump, “My Sanity” wears its ‘80s and ‘90s influences proudly. The structure is airtight—moody verses, a tension-building bridge, and a soaring chorus that feels like it was pulled straight from the golden age of radio rock. There’s a polish to the production, a slickness that leans into nostalgia without feeling overly derivative. It’s the kind of song that knows exactly what it’s doing: delivering an earworm hook, a driving pulse, and an emotional payoff that sticks. For all its sleekness, the track doesn’t lose its raw edge. McStine’s vocals add weight to the song’s introspection, making the moment of liberation feel all the more cathartic. The synth-heavy instrumentation keeps things dynamic, swelling at just the right moments to underline the song’s emotional highs. Even in its tight, radio-friendly runtime, “My Sanity” carries a sense of urgency, as if it’s not just a song about breaking free, but a sonic embodiment of the act itself. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most anthemic moments come from pushing through the wreckage.
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Itef’s latest album, Character Assassination, sprawls across seventeen tracks, sitting somewhere between rock, pop, and singer-songwriter terrain. It’s an ambitious record—sometimes intimate, sometimes theatrical, always intent on delivering sharp melodies and emotional weight.
The title track, “Character Assassination,” sets the tone with a mix of melancholy and quiet resilience, its hook was quite catchy and stayed with me. “Spark of Joy” follows, an acoustic-driven piece laced with bells and a lush, inviting atmosphere. There’s a warmth to its arrangement, and the vocal performance carries a sincerity that elevates it beyond standard folk-pop fare. One of the album’s most infectious moments comes with “Charlie, The Plastic Boy!”—a song that bursts with playful energy, a sharp melodic hook, and a guest vocalist who adds a welcome contrast. The album’s tonal shifts keep things fresh: “Prince of Wales” drapes its funk-inflected groove in rich instrumentation, while “Cold Blue Christmas” is ironically warm and inviting. “Heart-Shaped Diamond” leans into Americana, at times brushing against Tom Petty’s easygoing spirit. Further in, “Silver Lining” stands out as a clear high point, its harmonies brimming with a sense of unshakable optimism. “Rain Check” follows with a quieter beauty, offering a reflective pause before the album’s strongest moment: “Snow Angel.” The interplay between vocals and banjo gives it a rustic, cinematic feel, and the guest feature only strengthens its impact. “Love Song” closes things out on a similarly high note, rounding out a tracklist full of peaks and unexpected textures. At its best, Character Assassination thrives on variety, balancing its pop instincts with depth and nuance. It’s an album of thoughtful lyrics, dynamic performances, and carefully considered production—a long listen, but one that rewards the time spent.
Evan Ryan Canady spent over a decade away from music, his last notes ringing out with Shrapnel’s final show in 2012. But in the spring of 2024, what started as a casual attempt to teach himself piano quickly became something more—a compulsion to write, a flood of new songs that culminated in A Day in the Life. Canady insists there’s no grand comeback in the works, no dreams of a return to the stage, just an album shaped by personal moments and a newfound connection to songwriting.
That personal touch is felt immediately in “A Day in the Life,” a bright, piano-driven opener that carries a bit of Billy Joel’s signature energy. There’s a warmth in Canady’s delivery, an optimism that lingers even in the more contemplative stretches of the album. “The Dream” leans into orchestral synths for a more cinematic feel, while “Dirge of the Fallen” swells with choral harmonies, its drama unfolding like a requiem. Then there are moments of unexpected theatricality. “Stand Before the King” pivots into rock opera territory, a grand, anthemic shift that feels miles away from the album’s quieter pieces. A guest vocalist adds depth to “Together We Pray,” while “Score in D Minor” doubles down on the operatic grandeur, proving that Canady’s songwriting instincts haven’t dulled in his time away. A Day in the Life is an eclectic listen, threading together earnest balladry, cinematic swells, and bursts of rock-opera theatrics. I thought there was a lot to appreciate and repeat listens will certainly be rewarding. It’s a well-crafted, well-produced collection from an artist rediscovering his creative spark—not as a return to the scene, but as an expression of something purely for himself.
For over two decades, Violet Masks has been operating as a spectral presence in the underground, quietly amassing a staggering 50 albums that slip between ambient, noise, industrial, and the more liminal edges of psychedelia. The New York-based solo project thrives in the self-contained realm of DIY releases, unspooling work that feels as much like transmissions from an abandoned radio tower as traditional albums. One of its latest, The Charm of March, is a sprawling, dread-laced soundscape that twists between beauty and unease, tapping into a kind of cosmic horror lurking just beyond the veil.
The title track, “The Charm of March,” opens with a calm, almost meditative pulse, but there’s something subtly alien beneath the surface—a texture reminiscent of Boards of Canada’s hazy nostalgia, as if the sound is corroding in real time. As the album progresses, the descent becomes more palpable, more immersive. “Old Masks (In Boxes)” stands as the record’s uneasy centerpiece, layering tension-drenched spoken word over a surprisingly rhythmic passage that verges on post-rock. It’s one of those rare moments where Violet Masks feels like it's gesturing toward structure before dissolving back into the fog. Elsewhere, “The Cold Closet” submerges the listener in a muffled, liquid world, while “Afternoon Glow” plays like a fading memory, its warmth dissolving at the edges. There’s something deeply cinematic about the way “Zombie in the Yard” conjures horror-film tension, or how “Superstitions” unspools in hushed whispers from the shadows. Even in its more delicate moments—like the soft glimmers of “Thick Carpet” or “Stairwell”—the album never fully shakes its sense of quiet apprehension. But nothing looms larger than “Becoming Phantoms,” an almost twenty-minute closer that feels like stepping into a haunted house where the walls breathe. The sheer length of The Charm of March makes it a difficult album to take in one sitting, but within its sprawl is a meticulous balance of light and dread, decay and beauty. Fans of Tim Hecker, The Caretaker, or Xiu Xiu will find much to lose themselves in—if they’re willing to sit with the ghosts.
My Satellite have been quietly crafting intricate, heady soundscapes since 2009, evolving from Bryan Stage’s solo project into a fully realized psychedelic indie outfit. Based in Los Angeles, their debut album, Lift, arrived in 2014 as a polished introduction to their blend of ethereal textures and rock-solid rhythms. Over the years, they’ve meticulously shaped their sound, refining their vision in the studio rather than flooding the market with releases. Now, after an arduous eight-year creative process, they return with Person, an album that unfolds like a time-lapse of a relationship’s ebb and flow, mirroring the emotional weight of its subject matter in lush, kaleidoscopic detail.
The band cites Stevie Wonder, Radiohead, and Tame Impala as guiding lights, and those influences pulse through Person like a lifeline—there’s an appreciation for deep, locked-in grooves, a fearlessness in maximalism, and an instinct for melody that balances complexity with accessibility. The opener, "My Satellite," wastes no time getting into experimental territory and is a clear highlight, with upright bass and an arrangement that straddles the experimentalism of Kid A-era Radiohead and the icy elegance of Björk’s Homogenic. It twists and swells, its falsetto-laced vocals and deep low-end groove making for a captivating entry point. There’s an exploratory looseness here, yet every element feels deliberate, as if the band spent years refining each moment to maximize its impact. "Deep Into" shifts gears, leaning into an R&B-tinged aesthetic reminiscent of Local Natives, while "Denial" injects some Daft Punk-indebted synth-funk into the mix, a club-ready jam that pulses with sleek, late-night energy. Elsewhere, tracks like "You," "Sing Your Sorrows," and "Farewell to Fantasy" weave through shimmering psych-pop and expansive rock, never settling into one predictable lane. The more time spent with the album, the clearer its affinity with Tame Impala becomes—there’s a bright, exuberance throughout, and a sense of constant reinvention. The production is immersive, layering ethereal pads and atmospheric flourishes over tight, intricate rhythms, making every listen feel like a deeper descent into the band’s sound. "Strange Business" stands out as an instant earworm, its hook carving deep into memory, buoyed by lyrics that capture an existential resignation: “We insinuate, fill the space. We complicate, but we can lie here and let all that melt away. We melt away.” There’s a weight to the words, but the music counterbalances it with a lightness that keeps the song from sinking into melancholy. "Tangles & Virtues" dials things down to a Bon Iver-like hush, all warm pads and delicate atmosphere, while "See Me Off" and the closing track "Morning" provide a fitting, emotionally resonant conclusion. There’s an undeniable craft to Person—its intricate layering, its ebb and flow, its meticulous attention to texture and rhythm. My Satellite have taken their time, and it shows. This is an album that rewards close listening, revealing new textures and subtleties with every spin. Eight years is a long time to spend on a single record, but for an album this immersive, the patience has paid off.
Dave Luv’s latest release, "Sagealina (feat. Walk Through)," unfolds like a late-night conversation set to a smoky jazz backdrop. From the first notes of its classic piano progression, the track settles into a laid-back but instantly gripping groove, its downbeat grounding the mood in something intimate yet effortless. There’s a warmth here, a lived-in quality that recalls Mac Miller’s more introspective moments—unrushed, reflective, and subtly hypnotic.
Luv’s delivery feels personal, almost stream-of-consciousness, but it’s not just talk—it’s melody, dynamics, and phrasing that shape the message. Vulnerability seeps through the verses, giving the track a weight that feels both introspective and universal. The hook, carried by ethereal female vocals, adds a necessary contrast, a soft counterpoint to the verse’s conversational flow. It’s the kind of balance that makes the song stick—the interplay between rap and melody, between confidence and restraint. The accompanying video is just as polished. The production value is sleek, every detail intentional, every frame reinforcing the song’s mood. It moves with the same effortless cool as the track itself, never feeling overproduced but instead leaning into its natural aesthetic. There’s an authenticity to it that reflects Luv’s artistic approach—refined but never forced, deeply personal but widely accessible.
UK indie folk artist Ryan Davies fronts a band with a Beefheart-sounding name, Man With A Corduroy Heart. After releasing its debut album in 2024, the group has just dropped a follow-up album titled Weirdos.
Davies calls him music “old school: a whimsical mix of modern indie folk and 70s rock & roll influences delivering quirky, relatable stories though witty and heartfelt lyrics.” Thematically the songs deal with the travails of life and love, absurd yet deeply bittersweet. The absurdity comes with Davies’ interest in the rhythms of standup comedy: “Not that the songs are strictly comedic, but I love the idea of writing stories with punchlines or unexpected turns at the end of verses.” Ultimately Davies is aiming to create a celebration of the human condition in all its imperfect glory. Davies recorded and produced by himself, which he acknowledges is quite common nowadays, but in fact his day job is professionally mixing music for other acts, and his expertise shines through! “House To Myself” gets me right on Davies’ side with a country ditty about “having the house to myself this weekend” which he much prefers to parties or trips abroad. Though our narrator considers calling his wife to come back home, ultimately he goes with “taking off all my clothes… and finally watch The Sopranos.” Truly a man after my own heart! The music is crisp and upbeat, with Davies’ voice a friendly, accessible midrange. Next up, “I’m A Little Bit Short” is not an answer to Randy Newman’s “Short People” but is actually about being broke (another relatable tune, with quite witty lyrics). Davies calls it garage rock but I’m getting more of a Rickie Lee Jones “Chuck E’s In Love” vibe, crossed with “She’s Got The Devil In Her Heart”. The arrangement flowers with Beatle-like harmonies and a virtual orchestra of chiming guitars. There’s a famous hit song titled “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore” but Davies take is a bit more lighthearted, musing that perhaps his loved one is avoiding him because he’s got holes in his underwear. Ultimately Davies concludes that relationships are better off “being grateful for what we have… I don’t want to be my Mom and Dad.” This track has the gloss of a classic 10cc tune. The title track “Weirdos” delves deeper into the arcana of long-term relationships with that amiable tongue-in-cheek humor we’re now familiar with. Some of the production recalls Jeff Lynne. When I first saw the song title “Mrs Mariana” I thought it said “Mrs Marinara” (as in spaghetti sauce) but I wasn’t far off: his girlfriend’s Mom is Hispanic, but the song celebrates all the great cooking that may be the secret ingredient in their relationship. Great, twangy roots-rock riffs in this one. Another song I can relate to is “LIfe’s Just A Little More Breezy” about how hard life is when you’re bald (I have long hair but am bald where it counts most!). I love the weight Davies throws behind this tune with its dramatically building arrangement, Dylan-like acoustics and celebratory dueling leads at the end. Pure comedy music has never been my thing, but when a folksinger can blend humor with insight (think Loudon Wainwright) I quickly become a fan. That’s Davies’ thing too, and he does it amazingly well. Spin a sample track and see!
Ruibetsu’s latest track, "Dawn Threshold," unfolds like a slow exhale, stretching across time with patient, glacial movement. The Japanese artist cites Sigur Rós and Múm as influences, and their fingerprints are all over this piece—celestial ambience, delicate textures, and a sense of vast, unhurried expanse. It’s the kind of song that feels less composed than sculpted, each element introduced with careful restraint.
It begins in near stillness, with delicate bells, sustained pads, and a soft, pulsing kick drum that evokes the quiet inevitability of sunrise. There’s a fragile beauty to its opening moments, a meditative weightlessness that doesn’t take long to gather momentum. Soon, denser layers emerge—glistening synths, walls of distortion, and guitar swells that recall the sweeping grandeur of M83 at their most cinematic. The post-rock undercurrents become more pronounced as the track unfolds, the guitars shifting forward in the mix, channeling the widescreen sprawl of Godspeed You! Black Emperor. The song operates on a steady incline, layering and expanding until it reaches a point where there’s nowhere left to go. It’s an effective build, even if it might have benefitted from a lateral shift—something to break its upward trajectory before the inevitable crest. Still, the craftsmanship is undeniable, each texture carefully woven into the whole. Ruibetsu isn’t reinventing anything here, but "Dawn Threshold" is a testament to how well this formula still works. Fans of the aforementioned artists will feel right at home, and for those seeking a moment of immersive, slow-burning catharsis, this delivers.
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