Teeth of the Sea’s 2023 record, Hive, is one of my favourite records of the year. It’s a tightly produced alt-psych rock record. It’s low on lyrics, high on sonic exploration. And it manages to occupy this fairly unique space without sounding like a prog record (thank goodness). 

I have yet to hear an underwhelming Thou record. A decade after Heathen, Thou’s 2024 release, Umbilical, is just as fantastic a representation of Thou’s brand of sludgy doom. Or is it doomy sludge?

Post-punk has made a strong resurgence of late. On some other occasion, I’ll list out some of the great post-punk records from the last few years here so I can better commit them to memory: Squid’s Bright Green World and the song Houseplants, Wet Leg’s self-titled records, Dry Cleaning’s New Long Leg and particularly the album opener Scratchcard Lanyard, others. 

Nourished by Time’s Erotic Probiotic 2 is – far and away – my favourite record made in 2023. I love its simplicity, a feature it shares with Sleaford Mods’ UK GRIM, another favourite from 2023. However, it shares its vocabulary with synth-based R&B unlike UK GRIM’s post-punk.

In this piece, I navigate the intricate soundscapes of Pinegrove's Audiotree performance, set against the backdrop of the bustling city and its ubiquitous cafes. My exploration of indie studio sounds, alongside an introspective study of key indie bands, unravels a tale of life, hope, rejection, and the unending rhythm of the urban existence.

I don’t believe I’m in a position to share any facts about the band Basement except that, in the 2010s, they played lightly distorted mildly noisy alternative rock. And that in 2012, they recorded an album called Colourmeinkindness, which has a sound that serves as a great backing track for the part of one’s life that’s punctuated by deeply introspective walks in the blistering heat.

12 RODS sit high on the list of all-time favourites I never expected to hear from again; in fact, until a week ago, they perhaps sat atop that list. A week ago, that is, when they released their latest single, My Year (This Is Going To Be), and announced an album to be released later this year, their first since 2002’s Lost Time.

The hypermodel before me sticks her arm out a couple feet to take what must be an immaculately captured self-portrait that’d put Van Gogh’s to shame. In doing so, she reveals her pronounced wristbones, bony arms, pale and sunken pits, textbook indicators of poor nourishment.

The one thing that kept her going through a set was the promise of a beer, some fries, and a big burger on the other end. As she breezed through one lounge cover after another – from a smouldering rendition of Love Will Tear Us Apart through an absent-minded interpretation of Making Plans For Nigel to a non-punk version Teenage Kicks – all she would visualise was that meal: bar food on bar china.

You’re in mainland Europe – somewhere in the continent’s northwest. Alone in an English pub run by the English, frequented by the English. Most brownfolk with a sense of history would likely find much of the imagery here discomforting, but most would overlook it. The pub’s been playing the Bends, all the way from Planet Telex on; this is a strange sort of place.

Sitting in the world’s most absurd café after completing the world’s most meandering walk, your phone suggests you listen to Nothing’s Famine Asylum off of their 2020 album, The Great Dismal. You’re reminded of an earlier album by the same band as a beskirted post-Soviet NFT scamster asks a vaguely Mediterranean dad-bodied man wearing a deep blue TOMMY JEANS tee to take a photo.

Not all sadness is the same dad, he was trying to explain to his ageing father. Pa had spent much of the mid-seventies damming one of India’s major rivers with other ‘sons and daughters of the newly independent nation’. Come rain, come sleet, they bored through terrain, mixed concrete, fixed slabs, built barricades against portented landslides.

The thing nobody seems to ask about the boy who cried wolf is why Bubby would do such a thing. What would prompt an otherwise standard-issue ten-year-old – likely even-tempered and straight-laced – to, on seemingly unconnected days, run through his village screaming about a wolf he’s seen? Aesop blames it on boredom and naughtiness but eventually faults the kid.

Of course it isn’t fair that if you were to split the world’s population in two halves, you would find 4 billion people, on the one hand, who give more than they’re given in return, and 4 billion, on the other, who are given more than they give. Of course it isn’t fair that there’s no real reason for this except the inherent unfairness of the world, what it means to be.

Inch by inch, then mile by mile, they corrode the core of you. Eating away at what some say is a soul while others disagree; who’s to say whose story adds up? Your dreams are set in concrete and glass, towering all around you. You – dwarfed, hunched over, lurking in the shadows – become one with them. All in or nothing, depending on which side of the bed you last graced.

On an often-wobbly bicycle she would trudge up a hill to attend course codes 105, 214, etc. from eight o’ something to one o’ something else; at about one forty-five, she’d speed back on that jittery hunkajunk to her matchbox room for a lunch of boiled peas and an afternoon spent reading. Math school has always had its share of storytellers: among integrals, divs and curls.

Your calves age you: each muscle, each sinew, a record of every mile you’ve walked, every minute you’ve milled about, every kilogram of excess weight you’ve carried. Lately I’ve been thinking about how the human body serves as a map of one person’s journey through time and space. I've also been listening to Dry Cleaning's New Long Leg, 2021's best post-punk album.

Listening to Angel Olsen’s Aisles has me thinking about the stories we tell ourselves and each other. Something about these slow-burning covers of 80s hits like Safety Dance and Forever Young makes me jostle with the why-are-we-here and why-do-we-do-the-things-we-do variety of questions. Or maybe I was contemplative to begin with and just happen to be listening to Aisles.

At some point in the history of the now-old internet, the late night drive entered the collective consciousness. Its soundtrack: a long list of waves including chillwave, retrowave, vaporwave and simpsonswave. Why are our daydreams filled with ill-defined late night drives? And why do albums like Magdalena Bay’s Mercurial World remind us of these drives we’ve never had?