Alternative rock band Hollowed Sky of Annapolis, Maryland has an interesting sound that I decided was Metallica meets Geddy Lee, without realizing that lead singer Robyn Bingham is a woman! Quite unusual for hard metal, but it allows Hollowed Sky to share that cool high-low dynamic that makes Rush so distinctive. The band was formed in 2016 and saw a few personnel changes before dropping their newest collection, When We Collapse.

The band describes its music as being "infused with elements of progressive rock and metal. Cinematic and moody with dark lyrical themes, perfect for late-night drives and rainy afternoons."  The members are Robyn Bingham (vocals), Joseph Bradshaw (drums), Charles Rupertus (bass) and Stephen Berchielli (guitar). These songs were recorded at the band's home studios by guitarist Berchielli, with mixing and mastering by Jeremy Hayes. 

​The opening track "Hookworm" dates to 2023, shortly after Robyn Bingham joined as vocalist. Now that I know her gender, I can hear Bingham's vocals in the larger context of rockin' singers from Grace Slick (ask your parents) to Ann Wilson. This track is built on hair-trigger riffs atop which Bingham somehow finds a melodic center and nails it to the wall! The playing is stellar throughout and the quality of the home-studio mix matches any pro release. I love the dynamic where the track quiets and the bass, drums and lower guitar strings take a moment to fill the atmosphere. "Patchwork Beast" dates from 2024 and pulls back on the gas for a more contemplative, minor-key rocker at the start, but slowly adds power and volume. Imagine the hardest rocker by Heart fed through a chain of stomp boxes and you may have the idea! It seems as if there's not a riff on earth that Bingham can't ride with total confidence and swagger. A Medusa's head of trebly guitar riffs cap off this monster track. 

"Death by Paper" is a great title of a very recent single, and starts the band down more of a progressive metal path. Lots of pattern changes, fast inverted melodies and marching-soldier drums. The sudden infusion of wah-wah guitar totally grabbed my attention. "Feed the Clementines" is another track where it may take you a couple listens just to get past the constantly inventive math-rock arrangement to the soulful, wailing heart of the song, which even hints at Kate Bush toward the end. "Kill My Darlings" is a phrase well-known to writers of books and songs, and Bingham seems to take particular relish in the vocals here. Continuing the death theme, we come to the disturbing (for me) "Four Slow Minutes" which (without a lyric sheet) appears to be wishing a slow death on an enemy. Regardless, the music here clearly owes a debt to Metallica's "St. Anger" which is one of my favorite albums (I said what I said!).

"The Northern Lights" is a track I remember by thinking of the very first note, which sounds like the bass just awoke from a centuries-long nap. The song itself is a bit more accessible in classic metal fashion, with inventive but easily-followed riffs. "No Light" is the like the finale of an off-broadway horror revue, with lowered lights, stale tobacco and an almost Holy performance by Bingham that soon epically blasts the stratosphere. Don't you dare leave early!

Overall, Hollowed Sky may not be rewriting the prog-metal rulebook, but they've created a powerful document of killer sounds that gripped me with white-hot knuckles. Recommended for sure!

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This is the kind of project that warms my heart and takes me back to my earliest days in music. Right on Red is basically a LoFi recording trio, self-described as "Acoustic based rock with some liberal electric guitar for added flavor... just a dude trying to keep the muse alive while raising a family and working full time that knew another dude who had a bass and Logic Pro. We went from having song ideas and no recording experience to a full album in less than a year, all done in our spare time at home." They've titled their first album Adult Book & Video based on a grimy cover photo taken at one of these establishments. 

Though the guys have a very active Instagram packed with videos, face-to-face stories and lectures, they didn't provide me with much background. I can tell you their names are Rufus Chaffee (guitar/lead vocals), Rob Bean (bass), Chris Perna (drums) and Matthew Chaffee, Perry Spring and Benda Fortin (background vocals). They also say their music sounds like "Johnny Cash and Taylor Swift had a child, and that child’s third cousin had anger issues and an inferiority complex."

The new digital standard for LoFi Music is a fascinating world. I came up in quarter inch tape and cassettes, and there was no way to hide that your music had not been recorded at The Record Plant. Nowadays you can develop enough skill on a DAW to compete with some of the best pro studio work. Or, you can just hit record and have pristine digital recordings of goofy guys singing and playing guitars in suburban homes. Right on Red would be the latter. 

The opening track "Hit the Bigtime" sounds like it was recorded in a rowdy bar, at least up top. Once into the folky song, the instrumentation stays within a template that defines the whole album (regular guy vocals, strummed acoustic, pretty good electric lead and a live, roomy drum kit). As befits the topic, the song turns into a fun singalong with all those friends I listed above. At the end of the day I don't think this was a true live recording, as the crowd has swollen to stadium size by the end, but it's a fun conceit (and I've done it myself!)

"18+ (Adult Book & Video)" is the title track and a fun, wordy rocker with the vocals pinging from left to right and back again. The fact that this song hangs together by a thread without any kind of click track kept me riveted. The vocals are way too hot compared to the backing track, but that's a mixing skill that will be mastered with time. "Imposter" is a minor key rock dirge based on electric guitars and vocals all treated with phasing. A song like this does suggest somebody here is a potentially excellent songwriter, as the chord sequence and different sections are always unpredictable and satisfying. And again the laconic lead guitar adds a bit of magic. 

"Glass Half Full" is quite different, being more of a Dylan-type folk song as if sung by Norm McDonald (my wife does not agree, but I'm the reviewer!). This is exactly the kind of music I used to love getting on a homemade cassette in the mail. The lyrics are quite empowering: "But I'm gonna fight to the end/ Keep swimming as long as I can / I'm gonna think positive how my glass is half full / Yeah, not gonna drag me down." The best part is the lead guitar solo that's so tentative and off-rhythm that it could have been performed by The Shaggs. "In My Head" begins with a rich acoustic strumming sound and solid drums that sound closer to the mics than before, all framing a humorous ditty with vocals evoking your drunk pals singing around the table. "Terminal" is an interesting hybrid of Beefheartian verses and more traditional choruses plus a quite surprising C-section with painful but soaring vocals. (Spoiler alert: the guy dies at the end.) "Baby Boy" is a touching acoustic ode to a young child, and all loving fathers (and me) can relate.

Hopefully you know what to expect with these guys, which is nowhere near polished but goes way beyond fun into near-sublimity. Don't be afraid... go listen!

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I still have no idea what Ten New Toe-Tappers for Shoplifting & Self-Mutilation is supposed to signify, if anything at all. The title alone feels like a provocation disguised as a vaudeville punchline, and I admit I laughed the first time I read it. Whether Tom Minor intended humor or simply enjoys linguistic mischief is beside the point. Our audience at Pitch Perfect has likely crossed paths with him by now. His output over the past few years has been relentless, each release sharpening a voice that thrives on contradiction and theatrical excess.

Opener “Future Is an F Word” wastes no time establishing that sensibility. The arrangement leans into a kind of hyper-stylized pop pageantry, with sunlit harmonies that evoke mid-century studio craft while the structure veers into something more eccentric. It is an oddly infectious collision, familiar textures bent into new shapes. “Expanding Universe (feat. The Creatures Of Habit)” pivots toward off-kilter funk, its elastic groove interrupted by abrupt transitions and vocal exchanges that feel like arguments staged as choreography. The push and pull becomes the hook.

“Progressive or Punk” doubles down on the album’s refusal to sit still, threading organ stabs and piano flourishes through an avant-garde framework that remains strangely approachable. Minor seems less interested in genre than in testing how far a melody can stretch before it snaps. One of the album’s most immediate moments arrives with “Bring Back the Good Ol' Boys,” whose chorus lands with disarming clarity, while “Obsessive Compulsive” retreats into a softer register, pairing chiming guitars with reverb-smeared atmospherics that suggest vulnerability without abandoning the album’s eccentric core.

“Next Stop Brixton (feat. The Creatures Of Habit & Johnny Dalston)” channels a wiry, streetwise energy, its rhythmic insistence and vocal phrasing nodding toward classic British punk without settling into imitation. The momentum carries through highlights like “The Manic Phase” and “Outgoing Individual,” before the closer “Change It! (feat. Johnny Dalston)” ties the threads together in a finale that feels both unruly and deliberate.

The album is experimental without drifting into self-satisfaction, playful without sacrificing craft. I hear echoes of art-pop maximalism and satirical rock theater, yet Minor’s instincts keep the songs grounded in hooks and momentum. It is strange, catchy, and self-aware in equal measure, the kind of record that rewards both curiosity and repeat listens. Highly Recommended. 

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Cam Narimanian’s “Who Was Wrong” operates on a deceptively simple framework, the kind of acoustic-driven construction that can either fade into the background or reveal its craft through repetition. Here, the strummed shifts between minor and major chords feel purposeful and strong, anchored by a steady 4/4 pulse that keeps the song moving with an easy, unforced momentum.

The vocal melody carries a natural lift, landing somewhere between folk-pop earnestness and jam-adjacent buoyancy, giving the track a communal, open-air quality. I kept coming back to the harmonica, which slips in like a gust of fresh air and briefly reframes the arrangement, adding a touch of grit that cuts through the polish.

The lead vocal sits comfortably at the center, clear without feeling overly treated, but it is the instrumental passages that supply the song’s emotional crest. Around the two-minute mark, the breakdown opens a pocket of space that lets the rhythm section breathe, turning restraint into a kind of quiet payoff.

The recording leans toward a lo-fi sensibility that I find increasingly appealing, trading sheen for immediacy. It sounds lived-in, as if the performance was captured in a single, unguarded take rather than assembled piece by piece. That rawness reinforces the song’s themes of reflection and accountability, suggesting a conversation still unfolding rather than a verdict already reached.

At just over three minutes, “Who Was Wrong” resists excess. There is no ornamental sprawl, no unnecessary detours, only a compact surge of melody and rhythm that arrives, does its work, and leaves. I hear it as a small but effective jolt of energy, the musical equivalent of that first sip of coffee that sharpens the morning without overwhelming it. It's a great tune, check it out!

Rather than offering escapism, Arsenal of Democracy stares directly at the machinery shaping contemporary life. Musically, the album threads multiple styles but mostly electronic from what I heard into a tense architecture where dancefloor momentum coexists with stripped passages that leave unease fully exposed. Rooted in a DIY New York ethos they are documenting a cultural moment in which clarity itself feels confrontational.

The record opens with “Hey Hey Hate!,” its percussion recalling the stark, utilitarian grooves of early Aphex Twin to some degree at least in palette. I was struck by the interchanging vocals and the slightly funky yet mechanical pulse, a friction that gives the track its character. The transitions feel deliberate, and the auto-tuned vocals integrate into the circuitry rather than floating above it. As an opener, it establishes both tone and method. It's also arguable the best song on the album.

“Arsenal of Democracy” follows with a brisk, synth-saturated charge, its programmed beats and tightly seated vocals reinforcing the album’s grid-locked aesthetic. As the sequence continues, certain textures begin to blur together, though “Pretty Sparkly Things” maintains interest with its metronomic insistence, and “Mach9ne” deepens the palette with a darker tonal weight. The hyperkinetic “Bunker Man” contrasts with the more emotive “Two Minutes to Midnight,” where the appearance of piano offers a rare organic contour.

Later tracks extend the template with varying degrees of success but I found it all enjoyable. “Little Pill” sharpens the melodic focus, while “ElectricFriends” builds a convincing atmosphere from its synthetic haze. “Speedo Boy Dance” and “King Orange” introduce flashes of playfulness within the album’s rigid framework.

The overall feel is mechanical and grid-bound, which suits the electronic palette and may well be the point. Despite the absence of swing, I found many of the hooks effective and unexpectedly fun. The robotic vocal treatments align with the album’s circuitry, reinforcing its themes without diluting its immediacy. Overall, I was impressed and think you will be too. Check it out!

Corpse Sonata, Vol. II stretches across 39 tracks and nearly two hours, a horrorcore monolith built on female vocals riding brutal trap phonk, dubstep-weight bass, and distorted 808s that glide and rupture across boom bap frameworks pushed to curbstomp extremes. It plays as a single sealed environment rather than a compilation, unified by a fixed aesthetic logic and a relentless technical focus. The writing leans on forensic and surgical imagery, yet the fascination feels mechanical rather than grotesque. Dense double-time runs, triplet cadences, and tightly stacked consonants dominate the performances, often colliding within the same verse.

The booth becomes a morgue, beats cadavers, the mix an autopsy, though the clinical language ultimately serves dexterity and patterning more than shock. A recurring split-personality device, calm voice sparring with manic voice in clipped exchanges, functions as structural punctuation, as if the album keeps discovering new rooms inside an already overbuilt structure.

The rapping style remains strikingly consistent across the runtime, lending cohesion to the sprawl. “Madness Divine” leans into cavernous low end and unconventional flourishes, while “Dissected Their Sound” offers flashes of rhythmic inventiveness. As the sequence progresses, the cadences and structural choices generate a persistent sense of déjà vu.

I kept thinking I had heard this delivery before, its tonal qualities echoing multiple established approaches at once. The effect lands in an uncanny zone, where familiar stylistic markers are compressed into a single, highly controlled voice. Additional vocal textures surface deeper into the tracklist, broadening the palette without disrupting the album’s core identity. There are multiple vocalists but I couldn't find any information as to who these people were.

​There is an overwhelming amount of material here, easily the equivalent of three conventional albums. The sheer density reinforces the project’s immersive intent, inviting listeners to engage with its patterns, flows, and sonic architecture on their own terms.

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Atlanta-based artist Matare treats Brevity as a solitary exercise in control, a self-written, self-produced, and self-performed EP that resists the diffuse polish of committee-built releases. Every element appears placed with care, from the gauzy guitar tones to the low end that moves with quiet intention. The songs glow with a sense of recollection that doesn't quite slip into pure revivalism, as if Matare is chasing the emotional afterimage of past eras instead of recreating them outright. Recorded in his home studio, the EP carries the intimacy of a private workspace, where experimentation feels less like risk and more like routine, and that closeness translates into a sound that feels both deliberate and personal.

To my ears, the record settles into a meeting point between post-punk restraint and shoegaze atmosphere. The grooves occasionally echo Joy Division’s stark momentum, while long hall reverb trails cling to nearly every surface, giving the songs a blurred perimeter. That haze becomes part of the architecture, softening edges while preserving the skeletal pulse underneath. Matare seems comfortable letting repetition do the emotional heavy lifting, allowing subtle shifts in tone and texture to register as meaningful gestures rather than dramatic turns.

The opener “Brevity” lays out the template with a steady 4/4 pulse, bass lines that hold to the root, and reverb-laden guitars that supply the air around the structure. If you have a soft spot for The Jesus and Mary Chain or early shoegaze, it lands with a familiar warmth that feels more restorative than nostalgic. “When Alone” keeps its feet closer to the ground but still moves through the same vaporous space. The rhythm section avoids flash in favor of feel, letting mood carry the weight while the guitars stretch outward like contrails.

“Do You Think They’ll Talk About Us?” shifts toward ballad territory, and without the cavernous reverb it could pass for an intimate piano piece. The production keeps it suspended, as though the song is remembering itself in real time. “When The Sun Falls” ended up being my personal favorite. There is a kinetic lift in its rhythm and a vocal melody that lingers long after the track fades, providing one of the EP’s most immediate moments of connection.

Brevity works as a throwback for listeners who hold these sounds close, embracing a set of aesthetics forged decades ago while presenting them with care and clarity. It does not attempt to reinvent the form. Instead, it refines a familiar language and speaks it with sincerity, inviting listeners to settle into its atmosphere and stay there for a while.

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Vladyslav Ustiuhov’s debut album Beethoven: Sonatas Ops. 53, 57, 111 positions Beethoven’s late piano sonatas as both personal testimony and artistic threshold. Forged through conservatory discipline and shaped by Ukrainian and Russian roots, the recording was captured during his graduate studies at the Boston Conservatory and the Frost School of Music. The performances of the “Waldstein” (Op. 53), “Appassionata” (Op. 57), and Op. 111 refuse to treat Beethoven as a distant monument. Instead, his volatility and tenderness move through the music as a living force, filtered through the perspective of an immigrant musician negotiating identity, displacement, and renewal. These canonical works become sites of encounter where technical command and emotional exposure must occupy the same space.

This is the kind of album that demands an appreciation for technical playing. I’ve listened to many piano virtuosos, and the spectacle of mastery never loses its impact. The truest measure of this repertoire often reveals itself in a live setting, where the physicality of performance adds a dimension that recordings can only approximate. Even so, the immediacy here gestures toward that experience, capturing both the percussive force of attack and the fragile decay of a single tone.

As a musician for over thirty years, I find it difficult not to dwell on the technical feats. The playing is astonishing, the sort of command that leaves the rest of us in quiet awe. Across these sonatas, a vast range of approaches emerges, from luminous propulsion to clenched intensity to suspended stillness. It is a reminder of how much terrain a single piano can cover in the right hands.

​This repertoire remains a niche pursuit. If solo classical piano has never spoken to you, this recording is unlikely to change your mind. Yet for listeners willing to meet it on its own terms, setting aside time with Vladyslav Ustiuhov’s performances offers a chance to experience both the enduring architecture of Beethoven’s writing and the remarkable depth a single interpreter can bring to it.

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Oggy positions “Help Me Find a Reason” as a document of solitary authorship and unguarded reflection. Written and composed entirely by the London artist, the track leans on pop rock’s melodic lift to hold questions about purpose, belief, and momentum without smoothing over their uncertainty.

Bright guitar lines and an upbeat pulse carry a narrative that starts in doubt and pushes toward conviction, giving the song an emotional directness that feels intentional rather than decorative. There is a sense that the song’s core was discovered in private, then carefully shaped into something meant for shared space, where personal searching can double as communal reassurance.

At its foundation, the song follows a straightforward pop architecture built on a steady 4/4 beat and a familiar verse-chorus framework. That structural clarity works in its favor. It allows the melodic hooks to land cleanly and gives the chorus room to expand into something anthemic without feeling overworked.

I hear traces of late-’80s and ’90s radio pop in the chord progressions and polished textures, a familiarity that makes the track immediately accessible while reinforcing its hopeful tone. The guitars carry a bright, ringing quality, and the rhythm section stays locked into a dependable groove that keeps the momentum moving forward.

Oggy delivers the vocal with confidence, balancing introspection with a sense of uplift that never tips into excess. The arrangement gradually widens, adding weight and atmosphere as the song progresses, until it reaches a grand, open-armed chorus that feels designed for collective singalongs. If you are looking for a pop ballad that blends reflective lyricism with a rock-leaning sense of scale, “Help Me Find a Reason” offers a clear and inviting entry point into Oggy’s emerging voice.

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There is no shortage of apps, playlists, and softly pulsing frequencies that promise to escort you into sleep. “Precious” by Frances Yonge seems to hover in that same wellness-adjacent space, though I kept wondering whether it wanted my attention or my unconsciousness. The lyrics literally instruct me to “go to sleep,” yet the vocals refuse to dissolve into pure ambience. They surface from the haze with clear melodic contours, tugging me back into active listening because my mind will latch onto a pattern no matter how subtle. 

The piece rests on a repeating piano arpeggio that cycles for most of its seventeen-minute runtime. Around it, ghostly whispers and vapor-thin harmonies appear and recede, sometimes blending into the texture, sometimes stepping forward as a discernible lead. The restraint is notable. Nothing rushes. Nothing insists. The music seems content to exist as a slowly breathing environment rather than a song chasing resolution.

At roughly the ten-minute mark, the piano shifts register, introducing an octave change that subtly reframes the harmonic space. The move feels structural, even if the overall atmosphere remains largely unchanged. The effect registers as a subtle intensification of the existing mood, a slight shift that reinforces the atmosphere without altering its core character.

I spent years dealing with insomnia, so I approach anything marketed as a form of a sleep aid with skepticism. “Precious” does not feel like a cure, but it does create a carefully padded sonic space which in my opinion is the best thing this type of music can do. The palette leans toward warm, enveloping tones with a faint new age glow, all soft edges and diffused light. As an engineer, I notice the care in the mix. The warmth is intentional, the dynamics controlled, the textures given room to breathe without ever becoming stark.

In the end, the piece works best when I stop asking it to perform a function. Audio is just audio. If the song happens to lull you to sleep, that is wonderful, but simply taking pleasure in listening to it feels just as rewarding. If nothing else, it offers a gentle place to rest your attention for a while, which might be its own kind of quiet mercy.

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