Classic rock once offered a language for distrusting authority, but that language has since become familiar enough to sell luxury cars and prescription drugs. Motihari Brigade understands the irony. On Problematic, the band uses the vocabulary of 1970s rock, funk, pop, disco, and extended jams to question a culture governed by algorithms, propaganda, artificial intelligence, and manufactured consensus. The music looks backward while Eric Winston’s lyrics remain preoccupied with the machinery gathering around us now.

The band describes its sound as “Rock-n-Roll Thoughtcrime,” drawing from Orwell, Aldous Huxley, and Socrates without turning the album into a reading list. Winston, the group’s guitarist, singer, and songwriter, writes with enough humor to offset the heavier ideas. Problematic wants its audience to resist easy answers, but it also acknowledges the absurdity of criticizing technological control through the digital platforms responsible for distributing the record. Motihari Brigade does not resolve that contradiction. The band operates directly inside it.

The brief “Cowboy Armageddon” serves as an introduction before the title track establishes the album’s musical center. “Problematic” reminded me of a very specific Led Zeppelin song, particularly in its smooth, circular groove. This is classic rock 101, delivered with an obvious affection for the form. “Chatbot Don’t Like It” shifts into 1970s funk, complete with a robotic voice that makes the song’s technological satire explicit. “Save Ourselves” returns to heavier classic rock, supported by the loose interplay of a jam band.

“Not What They Seem” is another strong rhythmic performance, and I especially liked the bongos and the melodic details surrounding them. As the album continued, I found a number of high points. The nearly 10-minute “Heedless of the Storm” gives the musicians room to stretch out, with the drumming providing much of its momentum. The length is purposeful, allowing the band to develop the track through performance instead of forcing it into a tighter structure.

​“Pleasure Craft” was my favorite song on the album. It is catchy, playful, and buoyant, moving away from the record’s heavier rock foundation toward 1970s pop and disco. That change in direction brings welcome color to the tracklist. “Someone’s Dream,” by contrast, recalls the comfort of an old ballad, built from recognizable gestures and melodies that quickly settle into place.

​Problematic is primarily a classic-rock record, though Motihari Brigade makes productive excursions into funk, jam music, pop, and disco. Its influences are overt, and each song declares its genre without much ambiguity. The production also favors period-specific textures, giving the album the character of a record assembled from a well-loved collection of 1970s LPs. Listeners drawn to that era should find plenty here to enjoy, along with a pointed reminder that yesterday’s sounds can still carry questions about the present.

When you hear the story of a recording band, it often starts with a couple musicians jamming at home, then slowly expands with new members performing live shows and making albums. Ghost of Panama did it backwards: they were formed in 2022 as a full band, releasing several singles and touring Central and West London to support them. Though still occasionally playing live, the band has been reborn as a duo and proudly present their debut full-length album, The Last Food on Earth.

The members are Keith Welham (instruments/voice) and Cristabel Liu (lead voice/instruments). They've attempted to "carve out a distinctive sonic identity that deliberately sidesteps easy comparisons. Their sound channels a 1980's vibe infused with punk and post-punk energy while remaining firmly planted in the 2020's contemporary landscape." When you've been a music fan as long as me, you hear echoes in post-punk that easily stretch back another 20 years to bands like The Byrds. Aside from the jangly guitars and pop sheen, Ghost of Panama seems intent on playing with vocal arrangements, freely intercutting singing with recitation and often throwing voices to the extreme left and right.

Thematically this album is meant to "ambitiously trace the anatomy and life-cycle of a relationship from entrapment through guilt, acceptance, indecision and ultimately resolution." Though mostly recorded in a small West London studio, the album also features "found sounds" recorded across the city, which neatly blurs the line between studio-exactitude and messy reality. 

"The Lift" literally starts with an elevator bell, then kicks in with very 60's-influenced guitar pop, with B-sections embracing a totally different, spooky vibe. Cristabel Liu has a beautiful mid-range singing voice, equal parts Chrissie Hynde and Kate Bush. "Stockholm Syndrome Reversed" is a great title and is the first track to really experiment Bush-style with unusual vocal placements, as Liu seems to be running back and forth between two mics. Less poppy, this song has a smooth, jazzy piano-based arrangement, also showcasing cool bass and lead guitar. Just three minutes, and though I was sorry it ended, "Half-Life" seems to begin as a middle section to "Stockholm" with spoken word by Keith Welham. Regarding found sounds, the drums here have been replaced with loops of heavy breathing and a Geiger counter. Basically the song ping-pongs between acoustic instruments (guitar, piano), Welham's recitations and different varieties of Liu vocals. Very cool that the Geiger counter plays like castanets!

"Damage" re-embraces jangly guitar pop with rapidly-sung lyrics that evoke the duo of Garfunkel and Oates (minus the explicit imagery). Welham speaks again, and I'm wondering if one of his roles is to occasionally walk-on like a guest lecturer or poet. "The Ultimate Maybe" is a beautiful, folky love song with Liu's amazing voice totally commanding centerstage, bathed in picked acoustic and keys. Toward the end there's "laughter" that's probably some kind of pheasant. "Island" has a cool Pete Townshend-like tremolo guitar (Welham also talks like Peter, come to think of it) leading into a spiky, space rock ditty with Edge-like echoes.

"Siberia" has what sounds like Siberian cold winds mixed with teutonic chants, introducing electric keys for a jazz-rock groove along with Kate Bush-like audio experimentation. "Afterlife" has a twangy, bouncy riff, roiling bass and gospel-like keys setting the stage for an authoritative, take-no-prisoners vocal by Lui.

There's enough traditional sound here that the experimentation only increases the overall enjoyment of the songs, so I have no qualms about recommending!

On ÊMOONÀ, LAOR treats singing as a communal practice, using the voice to carry prayer, gratitude, and a desire for connection. The 11-track album moves between private reflection and collective expression, supported by classical guitar, hand percussion, horns, and vocal arrangements that often suggest ceremonial participation. Released seven years after her 2019 debut, Agradeço, it combines original compositions with interpretations of traditional medicine songs, drawing from Indigenous traditions, Mediterranean culture, Brazilian music, and LAOR’s Jewish heritage.

The title combines emunah, the Hebrew word for faith, with the moon as a symbol of guidance. It is an appropriate name for an album devoted to finding direction through music during periods of uncertainty. LAOR’s approach is openly spiritual, and the record rarely separates performance from intention. These songs are presented as prayers, affirmations, and expressions of appreciation.

“Great Eagle,” featuring Abuela Maria Valdivia Wakantitlan, begins with acoustic guitar and singing arranged in a reverent, ceremonial manner. There is a seriousness to the performance that establishes the album’s devotional character. “Minha Estrela Guia” introduces greater vocal variation, moving between a lead singer and what sounds like a group. The classical guitar is excellent here, and I also liked the addition of the horns, which broaden the arrangement without overwhelming its intimate center.

“I AM” enters warmer new age territory, with lush instrumentation and affirmational lyrics. It is among the album’s most relaxing selections. “Cainã” is more dynamic while retaining the mystical tone found throughout the record. The title track, featuring Sagiv Cohen, brings in another strong vocalist and grows increasingly sentimental toward its conclusion. In spirit, it reminded me of “We Are the World,” particularly in its emphasis on unity and collective hope.

“Indio Mensageiro” provides a welcome shift in energy. Its playful rhythms and festive character interrupt the album’s sustained seriousness, and it became my personal favorite. “Ay Aguita” contains more impressive guitar work, while “Breath” returns to the record’s meditative side.

“Niftach” stands out for its rhythms and detailed instrumental textures. “HoduLeyah” centers on appreciation and gratitude, two themes that run through much of ÊMOONÀ. The brief closing track, “Eu Peço A Meu Pai,” reduces the music to a quieter passage of voice and accompaniment, ending the album in contemplation.

Much of ÊMOONÀ belongs to the broad new age tradition, though Brazilian, Latin, Mediterranean, and other global influences continually reshape its character. I was especially drawn to the songs with overt Brazilian rhythms. The classical guitar playing is consistently strong, and the occasional use of group vocals gives the album a welcome sense of scale. There is plenty to appreciate here. Take a listen.

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Martyrs understand that melancholy and movement are not opposing forces. “Drowning Days” is constructed for the moment when private sadness enters a crowded club and becomes briefly communal, carried by repetition, volume, and the physical pressure of the beat. Welsh duo Jon Howells and Michael Hall draw from post-punk and early techno, giving the song enough melodic definition to support its emotional weight while keeping the rhythm direct and functional.

The opening beat immediately takes me back to Chicago clubs in the 1990s, when this sort of oversized drum-machine sound was becoming increasingly common. The kick hits with blunt, mechanical force, suggesting an 808 pushed well beyond its natural limits. It establishes the song’s identity within seconds and remains nearly constant from that point forward.

Electronic drums occupy much of the available space in the mix, with the four-to-the-floor kick serving as both foundation and driving force. Clean guitars treated with reverb add color around the rhythm without interrupting it, while the bass provides a simple, effective hook. Hall sings primarily within a comfortable register, giving the verses an understated delivery before occasionally reaching upward to heighten the tension. His performance is accessible and catchy without competing against the density of the percussion.

Additional instrumentation enters during the chorus, widening the arrangement while leaving the central pulse untouched. Hall’s lyrics look back at places once associated with happiness, only to find that those surroundings have changed after the people connected to them are no longer present. That sense of absence gives the chorus a bittersweet charge: the music encourages release, but the words never suggest that dancing has solved anything.

​After returning to the verse, Martyrs approach the next chorus with a slight variation in the buildup, adding enough movement to prevent the structure from becoming overly rigid. Rhythmically, “Drowning Days” remains straightforward. There are no odd meters or disruptive turns, but neither would serve the song’s purpose. Its success depends on the persistence of that thump and the presence of a melody people can grab when the chorus returns. The result is a clean hybrid of post-punk guitar music and early techno, shaped for listeners who would rather move through their sadness than sit motionless inside it. Take a listen.

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Kinsley’s Humans turns personal history into three loud, concentrated songs about the cost of growing older. Christopher Jones and Adam Staley address loss, betrayal, mental health, fatherhood, duty, and redemption without treating any of them as separate concerns. Each subject becomes part of the same attempt to understand how childhood friendships, private failures, and adult responsibilities shape a person over time. The music gives that inquiry physical force, surrounding autobiographical writing with distorted guitars, forceful drums, and vocals that become increasingly urgent.

The EP takes its title and track names from Carl Jung’s autobiography Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Kinsley does not attempt to translate Jung’s ideas into a formal psychological exercise. Instead, the book provides a loose framework for Jones and Staley to examine their own lives. The two have been making music together for 14 years, beginning when they met as elementary school students in Raleigh, North Carolina. Jones handles the compositions, lyrics, guitars, and lead vocals, while Staley contributes drums, auxiliary instrumentation, backing vocals, engineering, mixing, and mastering. Their long history is evident in the precision of the performances and the consistency of the production.

“Memories” begins quickly with thick distortion and a heavy attack that recalls Deafheaven. Jones initially sings in a restrained monotone, placing the words above a fuzzy and fairly direct rock arrangement. His delivery gradually opens into a wider dynamic range as the song grows louder. Staley’s drums are less predictable, occasionally disrupting the otherwise straightforward structure with accents that give the performance additional movement. The vocals ultimately carry the song, with Jones increasing the pressure until the final section reaches its most intense point.

“Dreams” continues with an equally heavy hard-rock foundation. The structure remains direct, and the guitars preserve the dense fuzz introduced on the opening track. Like “Memories,” the song builds its intensity gradually rather than relying on abrupt changes. “Reflections” introduces one of the EP’s most distinctive rhythmic choices. Its metronomic drums sounded like an organic/electronic to my ears, especially the kick, while the guitar adds melodic detail around the rigid pulse. Jones also delivers some of the record’s catchiest vocal lines here, closing the EP with another solid performance.

​The similar aesthetic between these songs is one of Humans’ greatest assets. Kinsley works within a limited instrumental palette, allowing the three tracks to function as related chapters rather than isolated statements. I tend to gravitate toward that level of cohesion. Humans is loud, distorted, and emotionally direct, with strong vocals guiding each escalation. Fans of post-hardcore and heavy alternative rock should appreciate its focused construction and autobiographical weight.

Digital culture has made absurdity part of the daily routine. We click through warnings we do not read, surrender personal information to machines we barely understand, and accept every new disruption as the price of staying current. Co.LeGa’s “Digitally Modified” enters that confusion with a crooked smile. Rather than issue another grave warning about technology’s influence, the track turns our dependence on it into theater. Its electronic textures, repeated phrases, and exaggerated vocal exchanges present modern life as a system that is both sophisticated and completely ridiculous.

Co.LeGa builds the song from dark electro-pop, post-punk, trip-hop, and industrial production. Synthesizers and programmed drums provide its foundation, surrounding the vocals with an arrangement that remains busy without becoming disorganized. The conceptual influence of Radiohead and Björk is apparent in the song’s interest in technology, alienation, and altered identity, while the sharper rhythmic elements recall Depeche Mode and Portishead. Those reference points help locate the track, though its comic attitude gives it a personality of its own.

The song is loose and knowingly tongue-in-cheek. Multiple vocalists exchange lines through a playful call-and-response structure, adding a conversational quality to the performance. Their delivery carries some of the irreverence of LCD Soundsystem, particularly when the voices begin piling up and treating strange declarations with complete seriousness. Co.LeGa does not attempt to present every statement as profound. Some lines are funny because they hover between social commentary and nonsense, allowing the listener to decide where one ends and the other begins.

I especially liked the groove near the end, when the vocalists begin singing about “turning knobs.” The production seems to act out the phrase in real time, with the electronics becoming part of the joke. It is an inventive collision between language and arrangement, as if the song is demonstrating its own construction while commenting on the machinery behind it. 

​For all its references to digital processes, “Digitally Modified” does not sound cold or impersonal. The vocalists give the track humor and character, while the steady pulse keeps its abstract ideas connected to something physical. Co.LeGa has written a song about technological interference that understands the value of a strong groove. It is strange, funny, intelligent, and carefully assembled. I can recommend it.

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Country music has always depended on repetition. The same instruments, chord changes, roadside bars, broken promises, and hard-earned consolations have passed between generations, with each group searching for a personal variation within the form. On their self-titled album, Todd Adelman and the Woodsmen make no attempt to disguise their debt to that history. Instead, they concentrate on sturdy melodies, economical storytelling, and the chemistry of four veteran musicians who understand how much can be accomplished with familiar materials.

Adelman handles vocals and guitar alongside guitarist Danny Blume, bassist Jeff Hill, and drummer John Valesio. Steel guitar, organ, accordion, and fiddle broaden the arrangements as the record moves through country rock, folk, blues, honky-tonk, and bluegrass. Recorded at Adelman’s analog studio outside Woodstock, the album possesses the directness of musicians responding to one another in the room. The performances are polished, but enough looseness remains to keep the songs moving.


“This Rounds on Me” opens with a timeless folk-country construction and a melody that I could sing along with almost immediately. Its warm barroom camaraderie provides a natural entrance into the record. “Kind of Woman (Who Makes the Morning Look Good)” raises the energy through an appealing hook, while “A Little Too Close” works from the established vocabulary of classic country rock. Its moves are recognizable, but the execution is strong.

“Ordinary People” returns the focus to storytelling before album highlight “Hot as the Hinges” supplies one of the album’s liveliest and most danceable performances. “All the Hippie Bluegrass” reaches further back into traditional country and bluegrass while adding some humor to the sequence. I also enjoyed the relaxed attitude of “Lucky So Far.” On “The Devil Will Not Haunt Me Anymore,” Adelman enters darker territory. Its ominous Americana atmosphere reminded me of something that could have opened an episode from the first season of True Detective. “Mini-Bar Blues” picks the tempo back up, and “Front Porch Livin’” closes the album by joining fond recollection with domestic warmth.

​The Woodsmen clearly love country music and spend these ten songs moving among its neighboring forms. Wilco’s early alt-country records provide an obvious reference point, along with the older country-rock tradition that informed them. There are few surprises in the band’s instrumental palette or songwriting approach, and listeners familiar with the genre will recognize many of these choices. The distinction comes through craft rather than reinvention. The production is clean, the hooks are dependable, and the musicians consistently serve the songs. Todd Adelman and the Woodsmen is a well-made record by players who know the tradition from the inside and remain devoted to its possibilities.

Ryan Kotler’s “Untitled/Nameless (Ramona)” traces the distance between two people whose lives remain emotionally intertwined even after geography and circumstance have separated them. Kotler provides enough detail to make their world tangible, but leaves the central rupture unexplained. We do not know whether these characters divorced, abandoned one another, or simply failed to build the life they once imagined. That missing information gives the song much of its power. It is not concerned with the event that separated them as much as the private routines that continue afterward.

The arrangement begins with strummed guitar and vocals, placing the lyrics at the center. Bass gradually fills out the recording, and a later harmonica adds another shade of melancholy without crowding the narrative. The melody is excellent, carrying a natural rhythm that had me singing along even as the story grew heavier. Kotler understands that a narrative song still needs musical movement, and the vocal phrasing keeps the extensive verses from becoming static.

The opening image finds a woman on a brown leather sofa in southern Arizona, drinking burgundy wine while her children sleep. Flickering light from neighboring rooms and a damaged streetlamp briefly animate her surroundings before the desert morning wipes them away. Thousands of miles away, a man wakes beside the ocean and confronts the same memories from the opposite coast. Arizona and the eastern seaboard become emotional poles. She is surrounded by red rock, cacti, heat, and domestic responsibility. He stands before an enormous body of water, still unable to escape the “chains in his mind.”

Kotler repeatedly connects them through their son. When the boy comes downstairs, his face recalls his absent father and produces a smile “drawn only from memory.” It is a devastating line because the child is both a source of immediate affection and a living reminder of what has been lost. Meanwhile, the man watches the water and considers “the best laid of plans,” suggesting that the family they once imagined remains the standard against which he measures his present life.

​The final verse avoids confrontation or reconciliation. She retrieves a letter that she has repeatedly tried to send, its unfinished lines blurred by tears, then returns it to the drawer. Her decision preserves the silence between them. “Untitled/Nameless (Ramona)” is ultimately about suspended communication, regret that has hardened into routine, and two people carrying the same history without knowing how to reach across it. Kotler wisely leaves the letter unread. Everything that matters is already contained in the fact that she cannot finish it.

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Some songs spend their opening moments establishing an atmosphere. “Big Talk, Little Thought” skips that stage entirely. TJ Wagoner begins with distorted guitar chords and a straight drumbeat, placing the central ingredients in front of the listener within seconds. The immediate entrance suits the title, which suggests confidence delivered faster than reflection. Wagoner does not crowd the arrangement with unnecessary layers, instead relying on repetition, guitar texture, and quick structural movement to carry the song.

Based in Phoenix, Wagoner writes, performs, and produces his music independently. That level of control gives “Big Talk, Little Thought” a unified character. Every instrument supports the same basic intention, and the recording retains some roughness without sounding careless. The production is clear enough for each part to register, but it does not sanitize the guitars or remove the friction from the performance. His interest in alternative rock is apparent, particularly in the contrast between abrasive tones and a recognizable melodic center. The influence of the Pixies is present in the economical arrangement and the willingness to move quickly between sections, but Wagoner does not depend on imitation.

The drumming remains steady for most of the track. There are few major rhythmic changes, though the consistency works in the song’s favor by allowing the guitar parts to create most of the variation. Another guitar melody enters over the main progression, providing a counterpoint to the thicker chords and expanding the arrangement without disrupting its simplicity. Wagoner makes these changes quickly, rarely allowing a section to continue longer than necessary.

His vocal performance stays within a comfortable octave range. Rather than pushing toward dramatic peaks, he concentrates on maintaining the melody and keeping the words intelligible against the distorted instrumentation. The vocal line is one of the song’s strongest elements, giving the track a solid melodic foundation while the guitars supply its sharper edges.

​Near the end, the instrumental work briefly takes priority, with the guitars becoming the main source of movement. The song then returns to the vocals for one final passage, creating a clear conclusion without adding an oversized finale. “Big Talk, Little Thought” succeeds through its restraint. Wagoner understands the value of a direct melody, a firm rhythmic base, and an arrangement that knows when to move forward.

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Cat TV is a punk-alternative band based in Lowell, Massachusetts with their debut EP titled Fun in the Ghost Town. They're four guys backing a female lead singer named Caitlin Malcuit, and her vocals took me all over the map from the B-52's to Belly, Bikini Kill and The Runaways. The other players are Steve Herdegen (drums), Quinn Lawrence (bass/lap steel), Jesse Buday (bass/guitar/keyboards) and Dino (bass/guitar/weird name!). As the band confirms: "Nearly everyone plays bass."

The group describes this EP as "six tracks of raw, original, fist-pumping energy; the arrival statement of a band that has spent years earning it." Malcuit and Herdegen began writing songs in 2019 and jammed with Buday just before the Covid lockdown. They used the isolation to their advantage, making demos with GarageBand through a MIDI keyboard and a podcast microphone. The band's goal is to "occupy a specific and welcome space: music that has bite, atmosphere and a wicked sense of humor."

"Spiders" almost clears the room before the band has even started, with a jagged guitar-string scrape down the neck bathed in echo. The song itself is one of the more B-52's-like tracks (especially "There's a Moon In The Sky") with single-string riffs, retro-sci-fi keys and vocals that nicely recall Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson. "Girl" is more straight-ahead alternative pop with a simple, catchy and somewhat sneering chorus of  "Girl, girl!" with some early Debbie Harry attitude. 

"Baby I'm Down" is a Beatles-like title that the band describes as "pure attitude: a punky anthem about ditching the grind and embracing freedom, driven by relentless drumming and collective noise." Truth be told, pretty much all the songs have some serious attitude, and that's part of the charm. As they sing here: "Fuck them all, you're still with me!"

​The next track "Imposter!" has a sophisticated arrangement with the vocals and guitars running along parallel tracks, sometimes intersecting and other times diverging. The harmonies reminded me of Belly's "Witch." Apparently there's a whole back-story to  "JAG U R" where Herdegen was stuck behind a luxury car at a maddening crawl, but the song itself is an amusing imitation of a stuck-up socialite: "I'm guaranteed a thrill in my Jaguar!" This track is a crowd favorite, as the most basic but relatable tracks can often be. 

Though just six songs, this EP turned out to be almost as satisfying as a full album and it got better each time I played it!

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