Washington DC based M4TR (Music 4 The Revolution), the long running project from songwriter and producer AJ Solaris, returns with Love Is The Revolution, an album that feels like both a declaration and a balm. Known for blending dystopian themes with dancefloor sensibilities, M4TR has always used rhythm as a means of resistance. But this time, the firepower is emotional rather than political. Alongside the new album, Solaris also released a decade spanning retrospective on Bandcamp, positioning Love Is The Revolution not just as a standalone work but as a culmination of M4TR’s sonic evolution.

What struck me right away is how much more personal this record feels. Solaris has always worked in metaphor and critique, but here the gaze turns inward. The idea that love might be a revolutionary force isn’t new, but Solaris sells it with conviction. “We’re living in a time when everything feels like it could collapse at any moment,” he says, and that weight hangs over the record. The stakes are high, but the tone is never hopeless.

The album opens with “Let Love Turn This World Around,” a bright and propulsive track that feels almost utopian in spirit. The groove immediately reminded me of late era Talking Heads or Peter Gabriel in his So phase. It’s upbeat, sincere, and the vocals are pushed right up front, which gives the message nowhere to hide. It felt earnest without slipping into naivety.

“Hooks” leans into more melodic territory. I was especially drawn to the acoustic textures and the vocal phrasing, which felt more intimate than the opener. The energy ramps back up with “The Spektre,” which again echoes that Gabriel esque theatricality but with an electronic backbone that grounds it in the now.

One of my favorites was “No Tomorrow,” which delivers an infectious funk rhythm and a flurry of percussion. It’s relentlessly upbeat but doesn’t feel forced. “Just Out of Time” slows things down a bit, introducing a more introspective tone that reminded me of Pink Floyd at their more meditative moments. “Coup de Grace” stands out for its dynamics, moving effortlessly between restraint and release. I found myself replaying the softer sections just to sit in that stillness a little longer.

“Kill The Self” is one of the more chaotic tracks, layering synths, vocal effects, and rhythms that seem on the verge of collapse. “Fight The Good Fight” pulls the sound back into a more retro zone. It has a throwback warmth, not unlike a Beatles B side but filtered through modern production. The album closes with “Polaris,” an epic that feels both cinematic and tender, as if Solaris is looking up and out after everything that came before.

Love Is The Revolution is a dense and rich album. It’s not just trying to lift you up, it wants to shake you into believing something better is possible. The optimism can feel heavy at times, like it's working overtime to fend off despair, but I appreciated the effort. In a world wired for collapse, reaching for connection might be the most radical act.

On Addenda, vidpoet delivers a fragmented collection of eighteen tracks that feel more like vignettes. Each piece averages around one to two minutes, which makes the album feel less like a linear statement and more like flipping through a notebook of auditory sketches. As I listened, I found myself caught between curiosity and appreciation. 

The album opens with “Movement Alpha,” a dreamy, liminal swirl of sound that felt more improvised than composed. I liked the disoriented, half-awake atmosphere it created. It felt like the beginning of something, but before I could settle in, it was gone. “I Can Think,” the longest track on the album, clocks in at just over three minutes and stands out for its deflated mood as if a ballon was losing air. Everything about it felt slightly off, as if the instruments were on the verge of giving up. There was something deeply Southern and gothic about its lethargy, like a funeral procession for a thought that never quite formed. It was a highlight. 

From there, the album drifts in and out of ideas. “Who Is” intrigued me with its structure and tone, but just as it began to take shape, it faded into silence. “Dark and Pad Heavy” relies on looping textures with improvisational piano in the background. It felt more like a mood piece and it left me wondering if that was the point.

“Tourist Trap” introduces jazz elements and a brush of Latin rhythm. “Dude Like” moves at a glacial pace, weighed down by a palpable sadness. “Movement Gamma” sounded like it was made from stray notes of an improvised jam, while “Ipso Facto” gave the impression of a band finding the right notes to play.

I liked the upright bass and brushwork on “Credits.” It had a subtle groove that stood out from the murk. “Vox Memorandum” offered a surprise with what sounded like a sitar layered over soft keys, while “Sui Generis” returned to that familiar feeling of brevity.

Listening to Addenda was like walking through a fog with flashes of clarity. There is a sort of dissociative haze across the project, like the tail end of a bad acid trip. I loved some of these ideas but I kept wanting to hear more. Overall, there is a lot to appreciate about this release but am interested in hearing where he goes next.

Mike Melan’s “Those Were The Days” leans into nostalgia with open arms. From the moment it starts, I could feel the sense of youthful recklessness and emotional weight that the track is reaching for. There’s a surge of guitar and a sturdy rhythm section that recalls the best of heartland rock, echoing the kind of timeless Americana that artists like Tom Petty turned into emotional shorthand. It is not interested in subtlety or subversion. Instead, the song embraces the familiar and trusts its listeners to meet it in that space.

The groove is strong and immediate, setting a foundation for a lead guitar line that feels like it has something it needs to say. I heard the influence of both '90s alt-rock and '80s radio staples, with hints of springsteenian grandeur around the edges. The arrangement sticks to a reliable structure, with clear verses, a memorable hook, and a satisfying build. It does not try to surprise you, and that works in its favor. The simplicity creates space for the feeling to land.

Lyrically, it drifts between reflection and celebration, never going too deep but always keeping its emotional compass steady. The title tells you exactly what kind of song it wants to be, and the execution matches the intent. It is an ode to memory, filtered through the slightly distorted lens of rock and roll. There is a photo album quality to the songwriting. Listening felt like flipping through snapshots of moments that defined someone’s coming of age. I do not think it is aiming to be profound, but it does want to be felt.

There is no question that Melan is working within well-trodden territory. But I found myself drawn in by the sincerity and the clarity of purpose. It is a straightforward track, and while it may not push boundaries, it does not feel like it needs to. “Those Were The Days” is about resonance rather than revelation. It stays with you because it understands how to evoke a mood without overreaching. In a time where irony is often the default mode, it is refreshing to hear something that wants to feel big, bold, and unguarded.

Forrest Hill, the Oakland-based introspective singer-songwriter, offers a moment of calm reflection with "Flow Like a River," a track that sits at the emotional center of his upcoming ten-song album Beyond the Veil. The song meditates on the Buddhist idea of the Three Poisons: greed, hatred, and delusion. These internal forces slowly distort our perception, turning into patterns that strip away joy and cloud our sense of wonder. Hill does not just name these poisons. He illustrates how they settle in, changing the shape of our thoughts over time. Positioned in the middle of the record, "Flow Like a River" reads as a pivot, a clearing where disorientation gives way to stillness and clarity.

Musically, the song moves through familiar indie rock terrain. I heard shades of The Shins and A. C. Newman in the way it builds. The guitars are bright and straightforward, the rhythm section keeps a steady pace, and Hill’s vocal performance is clear and emotionally centered. Nothing about the song feels flashy or overdone. Instead, it leans into its structure with confidence. The mix is balanced and easy to sit with, giving Hill’s voice the space to carry the emotional weight without distraction.

It is not a song that pushes the boundaries of form or surprises with its arrangement. But that is part of what works. "Flow Like a River" is about moving forward through something. It is about a gentle current, not a tidal wave. There is something grounding in its predictability. The track moves with a steady grace. It is a song you can trust to take you somewhere subtle.

The lyrics are reflective without being cryptic. Hill seems more interested in honesty than mystery. He does not rely on grand metaphor or emotional theatrics. Instead, he lets the message unfold naturally, much like the song’s title suggests. There is intention behind every word, even in the moments that feel simple.

For listeners attuned to quiet revelations and songs that favor sincerity over spectacle, "Flow Like a River" delivers the goods. It does not need to shout to leave an impression. It simply speaks.

New York City trio Occurrence return with their sixth full-length album REAL PERSON, and it might be their most personal and insular work to date. Composed of Ken Urban on electronics, Cat Hollyer on vocals, and Johnny Hager also on vocals, the group dives into the terrain of memory, tribute, and identity. Each track is named after someone significant to the band, including friends, mentors, and collaborators, and functions as a kind of sonic portrait. The result is an album that is abstract and reflective, leaning heavily into ambient textures and the group’s early experimental instincts.

“LOUISE PENNY” opens the album with a restless arpeggiated synth that twists and curls like smoke. The piece feels murky, like descending into a tunnel lit by flickering strobes. Beneath the surface, gritty distortion simmers in a way that reminded me of Ben Lukas Boysen’s more cinematic work. It’s immersive without being overwhelming, a strong introduction to the record’s tone.

“WAYNE FELDMAN” is a moodier offering, full of tension and shadows. It unfolds with ghostlike vocal samples and a rhythm that recalls a blend of Joy Division and early Nine Inch Nails. The track doesn’t ask for your attention as much as it quietly demands it. “ROMEO CASTELLUCCI” follows in that same atmospheric space, dense and cinematic with just the right amount of fog and drift. The sound design here is especially sharp.

“OLGA TOKARCZUK” takes a sharp turn into more fragmented, percussive territory. The track leans toward the glitchy abstraction of Aphex Twin, full of chopped-up vocals and rapid-fire rhythmic bursts. I found the contrast between the mechanical precision and the vocal snippets to be one of the more dynamic moments on the record. “JOHN CHARLES HAGER” is somber and brooding, filled with dark pads, delicate piano, and a pervasive sense of emotional distance. It felt like a memory in slow motion.

“MARK FISHER” is one of the standout tracks for me. It begins with warped drones that eventually recede into an unexpectedly serene passage. That moment of release was subtle but powerful. “CATHERINE VERVAET HOLLYER” might be the album’s emotional centerpiece. The hazy, layered synth work and distant textures reminded me of Fennesz. It felt weightless and aching all at once.

The closing track “MIEKO KAWAKAMI” reintroduces momentum with sharp beats and bold energy. After so much introspection, it hits with a sense of arrival, like stepping back into the world after a long internal drift.

​What I appreciated most about REAL PERSON was its commitment to emotional abstraction. They’re reflections, glimpses, and responses to real people. That being said I was a little surprised by the darker tendencies on these songs. The result is a disorienting but deeply intimate collection that rewards close listening. Fans of ambient and experimental music will likely find this a welcome addition to their rotation.

Shara Strand’s Love Forever is a big-hearted pop album that wears its intentions proudly. From the opening track to the final piano chords, every song seems to reach for the rafters, brimming with emotion, self-empowerment, and cinematic ambition. The production is glossy and highly structured, and there is a clarity of purpose running through the album that feels both earnest and unapologetically polished.

The album kicks off with “I Will Be Here,” which could easily score the closing credits of a feel-good family movie. It has that perfect blend of optimism and gentle reassurance, with lyrics that lean into the kind of emotional uplift listeners often seek when they’re trying to pull themselves back together. It’s sentimental, sure, but it also feels like it was made to help someone through something. That counts for something.

“My Green Light” shifts gears slightly, introducing a funkier bassline and a bounce that flirts with '90s R&B. I was surprised by how well that element sat inside the broader pop structure. It gave the song a bit of character. Then “Always Your Baby” leans into a classic synth-pop vibe, crisp and calculated in its arrangement, almost like a memory of a song you’ve heard before. It does not rewrite the genre’s rulebook, but it does not have to. It knows exactly what it wants to be.

“I Will Follow” was a standout for me, mostly because of how tightly it’s built around the hook. It’s a tailored pop single in the most traditional sense, and I mean that in a good way. It hits all the marks. “Anthem,” as the name suggests, goes wide. Acoustic instrumentation builds into a sort of folk-pop crescendo that reminded me a little of the heyday of Mumford and Sons. It is grand and sweeping, though perhaps not entirely unexpected.

“Happy Ending” tries to live up to its name, upbeat and full of major chords, while “Desperado” pulls things back, giving us a moment of relative stillness. That said, even its intimacy is laced with cinematic flourish. Strand rarely lets a quiet moment stay quiet. “Second Chances” and “Lioness” keep the tempo high, with “Lioness” being one of the catchiest tracks here. “Soul Dad” offers a more emotional turn, feeling like a true ballad, and “Ascended” closes the album in fitting fashion, aiming for something spiritual and final.

Love Forever is not trying to be coy or ironic. It is an album of emotional declarations, built for big feelings and big moments. Sometimes that kind of sincerity can feel refreshing.

Northern Ireland’s Joe Hodgson doesn’t just play the guitar. He speaks through it, wrestles with it, and sometimes lets it unravel into something unexpected. On Fields of Redemption, his second solo release since 2020’s Apparitions, the Ballymagorry-born guitarist expands his hybrid of rock, blues, jazz, and Irish folk into a dynamic and emotionally textured collection. Even with fifteen tracks, the album feels concise. It clocks in just over forty minutes and never loses its grip.

“Shapeshifting” comes out swinging. The speed of the guitar work is dizzying, but what caught me off guard was how often Hodgson pivots his tone and structure. There are flickers of bluegrass that dissolve into something closer to a rock opera. It doesn’t feel showy.

​It feels intentional. “Stick or Twist” is chaotic in the best way. At first it sounded like Primus colliding with AC/DC, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. But on repeat listens, I started to enjoy the erratic transitions. They give the song a kind of restless charm.

“You I Think Of” settles into a dreamy haze, capturing that weightless early feeling of falling for someone. It’s tender without being sentimental. Then “Give Her What She Wants” brings the energy back up, playful and loose. I especially loved the way percussion drives “Woman,” adding shape and tension in just the right places.

“Since You Had A Hold On Me” features vocals from Glen Harkin and lands firmly in classic blues territory. It’s familiar but well executed. “Blocking It Out” nearly overwhelms with sound in some sections, while “Digging For Dirt” taps into a rockabilly edge with some of the tightest transitions on the album. One of my favorites was “Ducking and Diving.” It blends rock, country, bluegrass, and Americana in a way that feels surprisingly effortless.

​Fields of Redemption is more than a technical showcase. Hodgson taps into a range of moods and textures, building an album that feels purposeful and alive. His playing is expressive without ever needing words, and the emotional throughline never gets lost in the flourishes. This record stuck with me. It has grit, clarity, and a sense of conviction that feels rare.

San Francisco songwriter E.G. Phillips has always written like someone who reads more than he sleeps. On Tricks of the Light, his new six-track EP, that literary bent expands into a lush soundscape shaped by chamber folk, modern classical textures, and a touch of old-world theatricality. Produced by Grammy winners Nahuel Bronzini and Felipe Ubeda, the record features a full ensemble and draws from film scores, mythology, and Phillips' distinct blend of humor and melancholic insight. The comparisons to Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen make sense, but Phillips also plays in his own sandbox.

The opening track, “From the Corner of My Eye,” caught me off guard with how gorgeous the string arrangements are. There is an upright bass that moves like a slow dance, and while Phillips’ vocals aren't flawless, they hit a sweet spot in their vulnerability.

“The Light You Reflect” follows and instantly became a favorite. The strings feel mournful in a way that is oddly comforting. The acoustic guitar speeds things up just enough, and Phillips’ vocal phrasing, which leans toward spoken word, feels measured and intentional. I understood the Cohen comparisons more clearly here.

With “The Albatross Song (Mellow Like),” things shift into something more theatrical. The structure and pacing feel like they belong in a stage production. The lyrics work well in that context, almost like they're made to be seen as much as heard. “The Flesh of Birds” stood out too, partly because of its guitar work, which reminded me of Portuguese folk group Madredeus. The strings continue to carry emotional weight, and the composition feels carefully sculpted.

“The Place Where Tomorrow Shines the Brightest” leans into the idea of storytelling as performance, while “When It Gets Dark” adds a bit of grit. That song moves closer to the terrain of Tom Waits with its hushed drama and worn edges.

​This EP is at its strongest when the full ensemble is allowed to breathe. The arrangements feel thoughtful, the production is crisp, and the emotional intent comes through clearly. Phillips' voice may not be for everyone, but he writes with purpose, and there is something deeply human about these songs that kept me coming back.

What started as a pandemic-era side project for Undying Mynd has since mutated into something stranger and more audacious. Originally released in 2023, Personal Dystopia was a raw and emotionally turbulent collision of Aggrotech and Industrial Pop, angry, scrappy, and deeply personal. Now re-emerging as Our Dystopia in 2025, the project feels like it has stepped into its final form, heavier, messier, and more committed to the chaos.

The opener “Into The Now” sets the tone with a piano loop and a brooding spoken word passage that feels like it’s begging to be taken seriously. Words like “perpetuity” and “evolution” are delivered with such solemnity that I wasn’t sure whether to nod in agreement or crack a grin.

The title track “Our Dystopia” doubles down on that energy, weaving chopped-up vocal samples into a patchwork of synthetic dread. It’s theatrical in a way that reminded me of Nine Inch Nails at their most operatic, though less refined. “Divine Roleplay” practically short circuits itself trying to hold everything together, flinging distortion and synth chaos in all directions. When I got to “The Gods We Wear,” I felt like I was listening to five different tracks stitched into one. Ambient techno bleeds into industrial glitch with a cyber gospel finale. It’s confusing, occasionally grating, but never dull.

There’s something oddly compelling about tracks like “The Capital Divine” and “Do It For Content.” They teeter between satire and sincerity, poking at digital life and our hollow need for validation. I couldn’t always tell when I was supposed to laugh, but that ambiguity became part of the experience. “The Storm Within” keeps that tension alive, sounding like a lost transmission from some future nightclub that only plays corrupted data.

Listening to Our Dystopia is like watching someone throw themselves at the wall just to see what sticks. It’s messy, emotionally naked, and completely uninterested in genre boundaries. There are moments that feel unpolished or overreaching, but that’s also what gives it its edge. The sincerity is undeniable, and sometimes that’s enough to make the noise worth hearing.

Post Death Soundtrack, the Calgary-based project from Stephen Moore, doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. In All My Nightmares I Am Alone is ambitious, occasionally exhausting, and unconcerned with conventional structure. It spills over with distortion, sharp turns, and emotional extremes. Moore builds his world piece by piece, often leaning into abstraction rather than cohesion, making the album feel like a descent into a fractured psyche rather than a clean narrative.

The opener “Tremens” feels more like a transmission than a song. Whispers, fragmented vocals, and murky textures dominate, creating a mood that’s eerie and unsettled. There’s no real melody here, just unease. Things start to take shape with “Good Time Slow Jam (In All My Nightmares I Am Alone),” which introduces a slow, menacing beat and a shadowy mood that recalls the darker corners of industrial rock. I immediately thought of early Nine Inch Nails, not in sound exactly, but in tone.

“A Monolith of Alarms” is one of the more approachable tracks. The vocals are washed in delay, the guitars cut through cleanly, and when Moore lets the intensity build, it delivers. His cover of “Venus in Furs” keeps the spirit of the original intact but drags it deeper into the void. “When the World is Burning Bright” stood out for its clarity. The structure is more refined, and the vocal performance lands in a way that feels earned. “Fast Approaching Radiant Light” rides one of the best grooves on the album. It’s angular and strange, blending jazzy rhythms with mechanical energy. It felt both foreign and inviting.

Then things shift. “Start This Over” breaks away from the industrial and electronic elements and heads into acoustic territory. It feels like a different artist entirely, but somehow it still works. From that point forward, the album becomes harder to pin down. Styles change rapidly, and while it can feel scattered, I found myself appreciating Moore’s restlessness. He’s not chasing trends or algorithms. He’s following impulse.

“Hypnotizer” was another track that pulled me in. It doesn’t force itself on you. It just lingers, drifting in and out like a half-remembered dream. That’s the tension at the heart of this record. It wants to disorient you, but not push you away.

​This is not an album for casual listening. At thirty tracks, it challenges attention spans and expectations. But when taken as a full body of work, it reveals something more than just experimentation. In All My Nightmares I Am Alone is messy, overwhelming, and occasionally brilliant. Moore isn’t trying to be everything to everyone. He’s trying to figure something out in real time, and I was glad to be along for the ride.