The alarm went off at nine as usual this morning, but apparently I didn’t budge. Lee woke me up an hour later, which was generous of him. The last day of the festival is always harder to be present for. In your head, you’re half on your way home, thinking about the travel, checking in for the flight, timing departure, all of this. Even before you get to blurbs at the 013 office and such, it would not be a day without looming distraction. It’s part of the thing.

But Sunday is also the annual Q&A with Walter Hoeijmakers, the creative director of the festival, hosted by Becky Laverty, who books bands and much more, down to the band writeups in the TMSQR app. Showing up is the way to go.

Discussions of money and the rising costs of production and tickets alike, the secret shows, the construction at the Koepelhal, band clashes, the lines, commissioned projects, a Thou secret show (which has become a tradition) happening later in the day, etc. There was a little box being passed around for people to ask questions — like an awkward microphone, but it made sense as one attendee tossed it to another for the next question — and I asked them both to talk a bit about the community aspect of Roadburn and how they’ve seen it manifest this year. Kind of a softball, granted, compared to, “Why is it so expensive to be here?,” but the truth was that I think it’s important to emphasize the passion at heart behind this fest and the human element of its execution year after year, and the community of artists, fans, professionals and others is a huge part of what distinguishes Roadburn even beyond the production value on the many stages. Rest assured, when it comes to it, it’s the community that will save us.

Past experience with Insect Ark — not to mention last year’s Raw Blood (review here) made the set at Next Stage an early must-see, so I got there good and early and found a balcony spot, more or less beginning the last day of Roadburn how I did the pre-show on Wednesday. Worked out then for sure, and it was positive results — different styles, of course, but just in terms of standing in front of something cool — this time as well, so thanks balcony. Dana Schecter, whose band it is, was on bass/vocals and with Tim Wyskida (who was here in 2024 with Khanate) on drums and a lap steel/reg’lar old guitarist named Lynn Wright, I’m pretty sure it was the first incarnation of Insect Ark as a three-piece that I’ve seen, though presumably they’ve played with that construction before. You never know at Roadburn.

Dark and dense in tone, Insect Ark were preceding Swans founder Michael Gira on Next Stage, which must’ve been a trip since Schecter has been part of the Swans oeuvre as well. But Insect Ark’s post-doom stands on its own, and I don’t mean post- like ‘it has floaty guitar parts,’ because for the most part it doesn’t, but in the sense of a new thing extracted from an old one, which in this case is doom, sludge, art rock and a strong undercurrent of intention behind the experimentalism of their songwriting. It’s early to call Schecter a legend in the field of avant heavy, but not by much, and her command over Insect Ark’s delivery felt complete as the trio lurched through the set to the hard beat of Wyskida’s drums. It’s not my place to pitch candidates for residencies, but among artists with genuine creative reach, who not only have the back catalog behind them but the forward-thinking approach to come up with something truly special, Schecter would be a candidate in my mind for sometime in the next few years.

An encore showing of Costin Chioreanu’s short film ‘The Hunter’ played before Frente Abierto’s set. The Andalusian outfit are steeped in Spanish culture and music, with flamenco vocals over heavy riffs and dark-edged groove. I’d been given a heads up to check them out, so I did. Some of it came across as more angular, but rhythmic intricacy in something flamenco-influenced shouldn’t be a surprise, and I’m not sure what I can say about it except it was something I’d never seen before.

The Andalusian region has an incredible history of psychedelia and progressive music drawing on styles within the rock paradigm as well as influences from Spanish and North African culture. Think of a band like Atavismo, Viaje a 800 and any number of others. Frente Abierto’s sound was born out of this, and so it’s not at all something out of nowhere that a band would have such convergent interests, but even in that context, the flamenco vocals trading off between two singers, the ease with which they changed between electric and acoustic sounds, the synth component mixed with standup bass, it all carried a strong sense of reverence for what it was doing, was resonant for that in a way that was its own and engaged Heavy, as a musical element, in a way that was its own. Certainly in heavy music, probably also in flamenco as well, though again, the influence has been incorporated into rock music for decades where they’re from. Ask Spinda Records about it some time. I’m glad I did.

The projections behind added to the atmosphere, and at their heaviest, they were almost sludgy, even as the vocals soared. And as they would almost have to they brought both singers out for the finale, with bassist Marco Serrato (Orthodox and others) getting on mic before hand to thank the crowd and the fest for having them. This was my first exposure to the project, obviously, and realistically, I may never run into them again, but they were spellbinding right up to that last and most affecting build, and I appreciate the chance to have seen them all the more.

Couple secret shows got announced for the Skate Park with a couple young Dutch hardcore bands (and Thou), but I was set where I was at the 013, thanks. I felt like, especially this being the last day I wanted to cram as much of this place into my brain as possible. Nothing against Koepelhal, Hall of Fame, the park, any of it, but Sumac into Bo Ningen — made imperative through hard suggestion after their secret show, was how I would bring it all down. Early ride to the airport ahead of me, a long flight and then what I expected would be a healthy few days of having my ass kicked by The Pecan for making her feel feelings at my absence were to be had (somehow I feel compelled to add, “if I was lucky” there; parenting is weird and dumb), and even if not, I wanted to get my rest while I could.

Not the most rock and roll of attitudes, but unless you’re either 20, on cocaine, or both, you have to eventually find a way to do this that’s sustainable, and I did a lot of back and forth over Thursday, Friday and Saturday, so with fewer stages going, I was happy to take a mellower route to close out my Roadburn 2025.

Another quick dinner downstairs — I ate at least one meal and snack every day at Roadburn, which felt both strange and healthy as a practice — and I could hear Michael Gira on the Next Stage though three door as I walked back to the big room for Sumac, with whom I’ve never quite fully been able to get on board in terms of my own listening habits, but have seen here before and enjoyed and who were doing their 2024 album, The Healer, in its entirety. The three-piece of guitarist/vocalist Aaron Turner, bassist Brian Cook and drummer Nick Yacyshyn — of Isis, Russian Circles and Baptists, respectively (also a ton of others between them) — have done enough as Sumac at this point that their pedigree is secondary, Nd as they went through album/set, they were the heaviest thing I’d heard since Ontaard and Throwing Bricks, a heft they seemed to bring down on you while they played. I could feel the floor vibrating, as well as the plugs in my ears.

They’re a known commodity at Roadburn, so the room was packed out. I’d been given a bunch of drink tokens on Wednesday, and since I don’t drink and was set for water, I handed a bunch out to people as I went up to the balcony to watch the rest of Sumac after taking pictures, and mostly that was well if confusedly received. Sumac, meanwhile, were hypnotizing with feedback and noise before launching into a monster of a chug march, Yacyshyn punctuating with a brutal thud while Turner death-rasped and the flashing lights went off. Those weren’t especially fast — none of it was, some solo shred notwithstanding — but hit me kind of abrasive anyway, so I kind of just put my head down and let it wash over, which is just what it did.

An hour between Sumac and Bo Ningen gave me a bit of downtime to sit, watch people come and go, listen to tunes on the P.A. and text my wife for the 500th time before the Japanese psych troupe hit stage. There’s always the urge to do as much as you can, a kind of oh-no-Roadburn’s-ending panic, but I’ll tell you honestly I was knackered, as your friend and mine Shaman Lee likes to say. Total nonsequitor, but here’s a fun moment in the life of two blog types sharing a room: while discussion about the Oxford comma earlier. Like a real conversation about it. He said he used it but didn’t always feel like he should, and I said that was the answer; that sometimes it worked in a sentence and sometimes it didn’t and a rule either way didn’t make sense. That was where we left it. I love grammar chat.

And I love it here. I have been so incredibly, stupidly lucky over the last decade and a half to have Roadburn as a part of my life. This festival wins awards. They get government grants. Roadburn does not now nor has it ever needed me for anything, least of all these reviews. But to have been back this weekend was so special, seeing my friends and remembering that I’m even a teeny-tiny part of the community I’d asked Walter and Becky about in their Q&A. It is humbling to call Walter a friend because of the respect I have for what he has done and does, but I will tell you honestly that while I’ve had life-changing experiences by the dozen at Roadburns since 2009 when I first came over, that friendship means more to me than every one of them put together. You can tell him I said that. I should, but he gets embarrassed by that kind of thing.

People started coming in about 20 minutes before Bo Ningen. My head was three-quarters out the door and back at the room sorting photos by the time they went on, but there was no mistaking the blowout upon its arrival. The set was comprised of 2012’s Line the Wall, which I didn’t know before they went on and now have a record to buy, so thanks, if not from my wallet. But some cosmic push, heavy space rock, psych twists and a few points of full on wash — plus riffs — was a very welcome but of madness. I resolved to hold out as long as I could, and they made that easier to be sure. Bassy groove and likewise thick fuzz, echo reachout and an energy behind it that put the Main Stage in its place. I have to think (hope?) that if I’d been at Roadburn 2022, I might have caught them then, but if I’m late to the party — and Line the Wall was their second album and it came out 13 years ago, it’s definitely arguable I am — so be it. Not like the songs got stale in the meantime.

I stayed put as long as I could but still beat the rain getting back to the hotel room. Tried to check in for my flight, couldn’t, but did find out I’m on a different flight to New York than I thought and instead of Newark, which is like 25 minutes from my house, I’m going through LaGuardia, which very much is not. That and being in a middle seat in a row of three for a seven-and-a-half-hour flight would not give me much to look forward to about leaving in the morning, beyond getting home at the end of a day that was harder than I thought it was going to be.

Thanks for reading. Thank you to Roadburn, Walter, Becky, Jaimy, Miranda, Koos, and the entire crew who make the festival happen. Thank you to The Patient Mrs., The Pecan, and my mother and sister. Thanks to Lee for putting up with me while sharing the room. Sorry for the 6AM alarm.

Taking today off writing for travel, so I’ll be back at it properly with posts on Wednesday.

More pics after the jump.

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What day is it? What day was it? I feel like my days are almost as screwed up as my tenses in these posts, so at least I’m being accurate to an experience outside of normal spacetime. Years ago it was Planet Roadburn. I feel like nowadays it’s more its own dimension.

My day started at V39. I knew Witch Club Satan were up at Koepelhal ripping to shreds the patriarchal paradigms in and beyond black metal — and that’s an effort worth supporting — but after seeing videos, I kind of felt like it would be too much on a sensory level, so I decided to hit a panel discussion: ‘Keeping it Creative: How to foster creativity and authenticity in a content demanding world.’ Relevant to my interests, to be sure.

Today, Walter’s annual Q&A will be in the same space, and that always draws a crowd, but this did too. I sat up in the back as the room filled in, curious to hear thoughts on the new economics of attention as regards algorithmic capitulation/manipulation, and I have my own opinions on the subject as well, which is surely no surprise.

The panel had professionals from management, labels like Century Media and The Flenser and Evil Greed, the band Uniform and the solo artist Denisa, both of whom who’d be playing later. Discussions of keeping a true sense of self amid commodification, “playing with the monster” in terms of spreading content, and it was a fascinating array of perspectives. It was not only esoterics, either. They were taking about posting tshirts and such, too. Real life, and especially interesting to hear from Denisa, who noted that she grew up with social media as part of her life, native to it, and how it was always a part of her process as well as her shift from poppier fare to the less-accessible heavy sounds she makes now. Mike from Uniform, on the other hand, had the older punker’s take: “I’d rather be dead than have to play a fucking character.”

Fair. It was a good conversation, and in the Q&A when the topic turned to AI, it was takes from never-never-never to if-you-can’t-beat-em-find-your-own-way and the very real answer that human artists will keep making art regardless of what computers do. It’s a complex question, and I agree that it’s not a thing worth debating when it’s already happening. If you wanted to stop it, you’re at least a decade late. Needless to say, everything on this site, most especially my favorite Quarterly Review banner, was composed in ChatGPT. I’ve never been a real person. There is no me there.

Nonetheless, I did feel a little more human when the panel was done and the thing I most wanted to do was go back to the hotel room and brush my teeth again. Too much coffee in the 013 office while blurbing in the morning, which I’ll just call a hazard of the trade, had my mouth feeling particularly nasty, so I hoofed back over instead of taking a more direct route to see Steve Von Till on the Main Stage. The former Neurosis guitarist/vocalist has his new solo album, Alone in a World of Wounds, out next month of course on Neurot, and has brought LPs with him in addition to doing a Harvestman set Friday with songs from the three records he released last year with that project. And he and Thomas Hooper have a show at the art gallery as well. A genuine residency.

The very definition of a Roadburn veteran — the first Roadburn I ever came to was 2009, the year Neurosis curated; if I’m honest, I’m still not done grieving how that band ended — I think it might also have been Von Till’s first time solo on the Main Stage, unless he was there in my lost years, 2022-’23. I’d have to check the Archiving Heaviness wall. Or, you know, the internet.

Von Till got on mic before the set, thanked the room, the crowd, Walter and Becky, the crew, the bar staff, and so on. He introduced Dave French (now also of YOB) on drums/synth and cellist Brent Arnold, who’s done string arrangements for Von Till’s solo records since 2020’s No Wilderness Deep Enough (review here), and said they were going to get lost in their version of soul music for the next hour and anyone who wanted to do the same was welcome. Paraphrasing. With a fullness of rumble from the drone beneath him, of the cello and synth both, sitting at a grand piano or standing with a guitar, Von Till opened himself up and bled songs for that hour. Raw, contemplative and thoroughly his own sound, expanded greatly from the days when his arrangements were mostly voice and acoustic, but very much rooted in the same craft and intimacy. And making a show personal with 2,500 or however many people were in the room is a rare gift that Von Till has carved for himself out of whatever kind of rare and ancient wood it was, not cynically, but as an artist committed to their purpose.

I don’t know how long it had been since I saw him last, but there was something reassuring about it in addition to the resonance of the melancholy. After doing about a song and a half of photos — I’ve been limiting myself to roughly that per act; the house rule is three songs — I went up to the balcony to watch more before shifting my wobbly physicality to the a Next Stage for Welsh folk expansionists Tristwch Y Fenwod. Despite being in the room half an hour before they went on, I was too late to get a spot in the front, but I put myself where I could and was like two people back.

However, by the time they went on (their scheduled time, mind you; it’s not like they were late), I was done standing there. The room had filled in significantly — when I left, the line snaked past the far entrance to the Main Stage — and it was uncomfortable. Nothing anyone did, just me being out of place in my body, which at 43 feels a little extra sad, but there you go. They were super-cool, with the dulcimer, electric drums, and bass, and laptop running other noises and such, but I couldn’t take the crowd press. My head started to hurt and I left. It was still their first song.

I ended up on the line for Temple Fang’s secret show at the skate park, which had been announced through the TMSQR app. I wasn’t the first one hanging out by the entrance to the Hall of Fame, out the back door there, but I was early enough to be toward the front of the queue. That meant sitting next to the garbage can, which was less preferential as regards smell, but so it goes. The door opened at about 5:30, and by then the line was long since around the corner farther than I could see.

The weather was beautiful, which made sitting outside not so terrible — cool but sunny; perfect for a flannel and so perfect for me — but I was anxious to get in and could hear them soundchecking outside with parts of “Once” and “The River.” Those two songs would comprised the entirety of the set — that’s like 40 minutes, just so you know — and it was the second spiritual realignment Temple Fang handed my ass this weekend.

The door opened and I went and parked myself in front of the stage. Jevin de Groot came through just before they went on and thumbed third eyes on me and the four or five other people sitting on the same skate-block. Thus was I blessed. And I’m not going to say I’ll never wash my forehead again, because I will, but the urge to have it tattooed is there. It was a big one too. Way open.

Admittedly, this is not the most third-eye-open time through which I’ve lived — in fact, it’s hands-down the stupidest year of my existence if you want to look at the full context of it — but it didn’t matter. I wrote not one word while Temple Fang played, which was a first for the weekend I realized after the fact, and did my best to put the camera down after like five minutes. For my reasoning, I’ll quote “Once”: “Once you feel the sadness/You become the sadness/Once you let it go/It finds another home/Shackles will explode.” While Temple Fang played, I let it go and found what I came here for. Open third eye or not, I was in it.

Understand this: I’m not looking to escape my life. My life is fucking incredible. To wit, I’m at my 13th Roadburn. I have everything and everyone I could ever want and the dog besides. I’m not trying to escape that. I’m trying to escape me.

For just a little while, Temple Fang gave me peace in my head, and when they were done I teared up. There’s a Midwife shirt in the merch that says on the back, “I cried at a Midwife show.” I get that. But I sat there at the skate park with my thumbprinted forehead and breathed in the basslines, felt the snare pops in my head, and I promise you that whatever portion of my remaining hearing I sacrificed taking my earplugs out (also a weekend first), it was worth it. I can’t promise you I haven’t said that before about Temple Fang either. I could go on for hours, days, but healthy emotional processing would have to wait because ØXN would soon be on the Main Stage.

They were, in fact, spread across it with a four-piece lineup with Radie Peat from Lankum, who were here last year, and Percolator, about whom I know nothing beyond the association. The electro-folk blend worked to make “Down in the Greenwood Valley” a dance number, and they opened with an synth-ambient take on “O’Death,” but while some (not all) of the material was traditional, the aesthetic was modern while still highlighting the human element through harmonized voice, keys and live drums.

I took a few pictures and ran downstairs for a quick dinner, which I guess is a thing I do now? I had breakfast this morning — scrambled eggs and cheese, a couple pieces of coldcut chicken breast, which I’m pretty sure isn’t poisonous here like it is at home — but missed lunch. So in about six minutes I did to a plate of chicken, salad and meatballs what Throwing Bricks and Ontaard did to The Engine Room on Friday afternoon as far as destroying it with max efficiency. After that, it was back upstairs to ØXN for a while, then I decided to hop over to Next Stage where Japan’s Kuunatic would soon go on. I wouldn’t get there in time to shoot it, and sure enough the room was on its way to full with about 15 minutes to go before the set, but I was more than content to hang out up in the back for a while as the Japanese folk-informed psych rockers got going.

Playing it by ear is a particular kind of Roadburn ideal. The notion that one would be so willing to take the ride as far as discovery goes and step outside their comfort zone, whatever that might be; it’s the Enlightened Roadburn. To be at peace with the clashes on the timetable and wander like a monk (or a shaman if you’re Lee) from one venue to another. To know that it’s okay if you don’t see everything because no one does, and to realize that the place you want to be is wherever you are, or if not, that you can change that. I don’t know if it’s something to aspire to since it feels like maybe aspiration is some of what you’re shucking off, but it’s a way. I’ve been trying to have less of a plan, take fewer pictures, smile more. I still run away from socializing, but I’m trying.

It was a whim that took me to ØXN and a whim that took me to Kuunatic, so no regrets. The oft-harmonized three-piece found life in bringing together heavy rock basslines and rhythmic tension with more traditional Japanese instruments in the surrounding arrangements as well as the vocals. Yes, not the first meeting of then and now, stylistically, and it wouldn’t be the last, but their melodies and punchy drums and bass were immersively full, which was already more than one might ask.

I started to get itchy and was on my way back to the Main Stage and stopped long enough to see the publicist Ilka Pardiñas, whom I’ve known for over 20 years at this point. She was standing in a group with the writer Jamie Ludwig, who is a fellow Weirdo Canyon Dispatch veteran, and former Goatsnake bassist Guy Pinhas, who I’m pretty sure still works at Southern Lord Europe, and who took time out of his day to call me a fascist for going to the social media panel this morning and using social media at all.

Save me from dudes and their opinions. Surely I had that coming, somehow? Surprisingly unhelpful to anything more than making me think someone whose work I’ve respected and written about favorably in the past is a jerk. He so clearly had been waiting all day to show off that Opinion™ of his about a thing. Yawn. Guy Pinhas thinks I’m a fascist. What an honor. I should get a tshirt made. Nice to know even Roadburn can have an oldschool bully or two hanging around. Here’s my review of when he played with Victor Griffin in 2013. Here’s my review of when he was here with Wino as part of The Obsessed in 2012.

I said, “Cool,” and walked away a short time later. Nice to see you, Ilka. It had been a while.

There was little time to be insulted by someone who doesn’t know me in the slightest but was happy to presume all kinds of bullshit about me and then namedrop Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent to complete the Gen-X-punker-with-useless-and-14-year-old-level-insight cliché, because Dutch-Turkish psych rockers Altın Gün were soon to take the Main Stage. I refused to let that downer experience get me down, and sure enough, rejuvenation was had in a succession of slick grooves and mellow Turkish-psych vibes. They were one of the first announcements for this year, and not knowing the band previously, it was a “huh, bet that’ll be cool” kind of prospect. Turned out very much that way. I guess there’s an element of trust involved with a lot of festivals, but not everybody pushes those boundaries like Roadburn, and the reward for that is the people dancing as Altın Gün played under the strobing reds and blues. Badass.

And like much of what I’d taken in throughout the day, it was a mixture of forms. Turkish and Mediterranean psych are traditions unto themselves, and for sure they were in line with that, but again, a modern take. Roadburn’s whole thing these last years has been respecting the past, moving forward. I don’t know how many times that line occurred to me across the different performances. All you have to do is stand in front of a stage to see it. I don’t want to generalize in describing Altın Gün’s sound, because I recognize they put their show together specifically for Roadburn, but even if this is only a partial representation of what they do, they obviously knew what they were doing when they picked the songs. Even on the balcony, dancing and clapping. Not everybody, but not nobody either.

I’m not sure whether you’d call Altın Gün the headliner — kind of felt like a headlining set for whatever that’s worth — but they were neck deep in a percussion solo as the hour passed 10 and they only pushed the party from there to the extra-funky, extra-bassy finish. Chat Pile closed the Main Stage though, following up on their skate park show Friday. They just this week released a live album recorded at Roadburn 2023, and are supporting that as well as their 2024 album, Cool World (review here), which has continued to earn rare hype in the months since its release for remaking noise rock in its image and having something to say about the world around it. I’m not arguing. This was my first time seeing them. Apart from Steve Von Till, today was once again all firsts, and I didn’t even make it to pg.99.

Chat Pile’s line check had been the loudest thing I heard all day, so naturally their set followed suit. I have to wonder how they’re not called Americana, the Oklahomans sure reminded me of the country of my birth in their resonant disaffection as much as the sludgiest of their riffs, but that’s been the thing all along, right? That intangible thing that separates Chat Pile from the hordes, actively noticed by people like me only long after they’ve already taken off in the hopes of saying something new about a band everybody’s talking about. I’ll say I got more of the nü metal live than from the records, but it’s not like they were doing Korn slappa-bass — next record, maybe — just purposefully dissonant while being thick in tone. The volume level stayed high except for between songs when frontman Raygun Busch — the band is Busch, guitarist Luther Manhole, bassist Stin, and drummer Cap’n Ron — regaled the main hall with some choice ad-libbed banter before the next round of agonized harsh-throat barks and/or spoken word in the songs.

I’m still not sure I like Chat Pile, as in being a fan, but they flattened a room with like 3,000 people in it and sounded ready to take on more, so maybe they’re the band that now needs somehow. Maybe primal is the thing.

That was where I left it. Somebody clearly trying to make it outside who perhaps was not in the best capacity to judge their ability to do so had puked on the stairs, and I was glad to use the other side as I made my way down and out to wrap the night.

Today is Roadburn Sunday, the last day of what’s been an incredible and surprisingly quick time. Thank you if you’ve kept up so far. I know it’s a lot. It’s a lot when you’re here, too, but mostly a life-affirming lot. Thanks for reading. More pics after the jump.

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By virtue of the most solid eight hours of sleep I’ve had in the last six months, I was reborn. My first thought this morning when Lee’s alarm went off at nine was “now we’re talking.” Okay, Roadburn. I’m here.

That was a fortunate position to be in, because as will happen in Tilburg each Spring, today was packed. Showered, coffee, a couple crucial changes made, like my pants. Went to the 013 office with Lee for blurbing for the app and such, back to the room, ate an apple that I’d grabbed from the breakfast downstairs, got myself together and ready to jump back into it.

The sun came out as I waited on the line outside The Engine Room. I was glad to have traded purple hoodie for wizard flannel back at the room. 1PM would be an early start to the day with the Throwing Bricks and Ontaard commissioned piece ‘Something to Lose.’ I knew/know precious little about either band, but had heard exciting things, and when you’re here, the commissioned pieces are part of why. An ongoing series of maybe-once-in-a-lifetime performances and collaborations — among the ‘special sets’ that I’ve seen at Roadburns over the years, they’ve been some of the most special — and word was that the two young Utrecht bands, had gone all-in on the project. Something I’d never seen and something, two bands I’d never heard and I’d probably never be able to see otherwise. I don’t take it for granted how par-for-course that is at is at Roadburn.

Barring disaster between now and the end, Thursday will have been the hardest day for me at Roadburn 2025. Usually Friday is pretty rough because I’m through the initial adrenaline of getting here and have to sort of coast on momentum, but that sleep and some food did me good. Lesson learned? Probably not. With the busier schedule of today, though, I was happy for how it worked out.

Even more after Ontaard and Throwing Bricks went on, because the moisture level in the room shot up immediately and it was all snuggles in the tight photo pit. It was too early in the day for me to smell that bad, so I grabbed the shots I could and ended up making my way around the entire room (apologizing to everyone crunched in in the space as I passed excuse me I’m sorry excuse me I’m sorry excuse me I’m sorry I was born, etc.) to get my camera bag from the other side of the photo pit. In hindsight, this was a dumbass move, but I underestimated how many people there would be, despite having waited on line with them outside. I don’t have an excuse. Just a moron. Sorry.

I do hope somebody had the good sense to record ‘Something to Lose,’ though, because it struck me as an effort worth preserving, and it would be cool to hear the depth of the atmospherics against all that bashing away, blast and plod and nod, but if it’s a one-shot and that’s it, take it as a reminder to be present the moment as much as you can. Genre lines rendered as meaningless as they ultimately are, they were cohesive and purposeful as players came and went from the stage, vocalists trading out, spoken word over drones, all leading to a grand finale of upwards of 14 of them on the stage. Quite a thing to behold. Then you get to the music, which was likewise divergent and devastating. I watched from the back, stank but out of the way, and if you believe in Roadburn’s vision of ‘underground futurism,’ in terms of being forward thinking about things to come in heavy anything, it was right there on stage. Consuming.

There was a box of tapes for me at the backstage entrance — not at all aberrant; for years I’ve had all my mail forwarded through the 013 office (not true) — and I had walked down toward the Hall of Fame and seen no end to the line for Midwife, so I booked it up grab that box, dropped it off at the room, drank water and ate a protein cookie, washed up a bit — didn’t shower for a second time, but the thought occurred to me — and changed the now-smelly tshirt I had on for a fresh one. Wouldn’t save me the rest of the day as it was sunny and warmer than Thursday, but one does what one can. I popped in somewhat casually to check out a few minutes of De Mannen Broeders, which is Colin H. van Eeckhout from Amenra and Broeder Dieleman, both also performing solo at some point in the weekend, I believe. Well, Eeckhout definitely was, since his double-duty solo set was next after De Mannen Broeders finished, in the same room.

Before either Dieleman or van Eeckhout came out, a choir sang. I stuck around long enough to see them depart and the two principals, as well as a piano player on a baby grand, take up the vocal duties. It was moody and introverted, but still ‘folk’ in the way of folk music as human expression of humanity. Accordingly, somebody farted. All told, I was there for maybe 15 minutes, and then I realized Messa was on in a few over at the Main Stage, about to bring their new album, The Spin (review here), to life before an anxious throng of an audience.

In the interest of honesty, it was the photo pit of the weekend I was most dreading and I was right. But that’s why I’ve been carrying around the big lens this whole time. Messa came out after their intro and dove into the record with poise and flow, and as it was my first time seeing them — not the fault of any lack of touring on their part, mind you — to witness the charisma and performance first-hand, never mind the stylistic innovation of the songs themselves, they left no question as to how Metal Blade Records got on board for the release. They sounded like an idea whose time had come. It was heavy, lovely, sad and bold in kind, and though The Spin had only been out for a week, the room was ready for it.

Standing in the hallway, I ran into Lee. We had a quick debate about whether Messa were metal or not — I’m in the ‘pro’ camp — and eventually landed on a kind of goth metal. I might throw the word progressive in there, if only to account for the stupid amount of talent in the band. I went in the back downstairs for the end of Messa and had a little break before I needed to be anywhere, which I used to sit on ass and look at the rest of the day. I knew I wanted to finish out with Gnod and White Hills up the road at Koepelhal, so I decided to make my way there and settle in. I’d been back and forth already, but was in no rush. Found a sun-adjacent shady spot and parked for a few to watch the world go by.

I brought my sunglasses on this trip, but the trouble is I like them and I don’t think I’ve ever worn a pair at a festival anywhere on the planet and had that pair make it from beginning to end. To live in the now, or to squint. That was the (dumb) question.

The tradeoff for being awake was antsiness. I had a really good spot, but after about 10 minutes, I started getting itchy, got up and left. Where was I headed? To food, it turned out. I had thought I was going to go the photo pit for Envy on the 013 Main Stage, but my body took me downstairs for some chicken instead. Pounded that in all of three minutes, downed and refilled my water bottle, and by then Envy were on. The photo pit was going, but on a whim I decided to revert to my original intention, which was to see Pygmy Lush at The Engine Room, back up the block at the Koepelhal. So I got my back and forth in, but also food, which was solid strategy because I missed lunch. There was still a lot of day to go.

I didn’t know Pygmy Lush at all, either personally or musically, but the Virginian outfit are friends of a friend and I think mostly if not entirely comprised of members from pg.99, who were also on the bill, so on a day where nothing I’d thus far seen I’d ever seen before — that’s Ontaard and Throwing Bricks, De Mannen Broeders, Messa and Envy — it made sense to keep the thread going. Not even one of them I’d seen. I’m not trying to paint myself like generally I’m Mr. Watchedeverybandever, because I’m not and I haven’t, but such days for me are rarer than not at a festival.

Not lost on me that that thread occurred to me while I stopped for the first time today to really take a purposeful break, as I did sitting and waiting for Pygmy Lush l. It gave me a frame in which to place the day, and even though my one remaining must for Roadburn Friday — Gnod and White Hills — was comprised of two acts I’d seen individually, their ‘Drop Out’ collaboration would give me a chance to appreciate their work in a new way, and was something that had never happened on stage before. So, close enough for me. A whole day of musical first exposures. What a gift to get.

Pygmy Lush were not without tonal presence, but we’re coming from a mellow place in terms of spirit, and with three guitarists, two with vocals, the songs had texture and melody and were thoughtful in the delivery of both. Not uptempo, but affirming in a fragile way. They had no merch and said so, warned the crowd when there were two songs left, and were laid back on the stage, which made it all the more human as they unfurled contemplative Americana with intermittent fuller breakouts that filled the space otherwise purposely left open in the sound. A little shuffle, a little push, but I’m the era of vibes, they were one, and I was glad to have made the walk back to Koepelhal. They finished about as loud as they got and the place went off. I watched the whole set.

This morning, back at the office of the 013, we put a headline on the blurbs that went out with the day’s picks. I had a few, Lee, the esteemed José Carlos Santos, whose bibliography is intimidating but who is decidedly not a dick, Walter, and Dan Pietersen, who writes for Lee. Too many dudes by any measure, but it was sort of a last-minute thing anyway. The headline we ended up going with was, ‘The Sonic Journey Continues,’ and absolutely that’s kind of corny. We knew that when we went with it, but being here, especially the way my Friday had panned out, the cliché feels pretty well earned, and I’m not sure I would want to say it another way. Because there is a certain amount of buying in you have to do as an audience member. If you’re going to stand there cross-armed and cynical, you’ve already missed the point of coming to Roadburn. Shit yeah, be on that sonic journey. At the end of this weekend we’re all going to go back to lives, jobs, families and/or situations that involve various combinations of all of the above. This time is precious and scant. Why let yourself miss it?

Yeah, said the guy who had eight real-life hours of sleep last night. I know. But let part of my holding onto the moment be appreciating that as well as part of what’s made my experience of the day possible. Surely I wouldn’t have the energy for all this navelgazing if I was poorly rested.

In the years since Roadburn started putting bands at the Koepelhal — there is a part of me for whom it’s still a novelty, but it’s been a while by now — you’ve been able to cross from the Engine Room to The Terminal without leaving the building, and the merch was set up between. This year it’s under construction. Merch is elsewhere right down the sidewalk, and you walk outside and around the corner of the building to get to The Terminal. I have to think that makes lines easier to manage, but it can be surprising to walk out into bright daylight. I guess my inner goth was shocked after Pygmy Lush. Spoiler though: there is no inner goth.

Said the robot voice: “Thank you. It is time to take you to paradise. It is a cold, black paradise. Thank you.” This was how Zombie Zombie introduced the penultimate song they would play. They were killer. Total switch in spirit from Pygmy Lush into krautrocking weirdo psychedelic techno with live drums — sometimes two of the three members would be playing them on opposite sides of the stage, and a bit of cosmic sax early, but an unrepentant danciness at the heart of it all. You could tag them as experimental in form, since that’s almost certainly part of what they do, but their songs, though largely instrumental but for the what came through the robo-effect mic, and that was fine, because while space is dark and endless, it’s also constantly in motion in all directions at once according to the math.

Zombie Zombie weren’t quite ‘dark energy’-level powernerds, but the movement was essential just the same. The earlier dance party gave way to more of a build as they moved through their 50-minute set — loaded with temporal distortions as it was — and I went to stand next to the soundboard to take it all in, the throb of bass in wub wub wub thud thud thud, the video behind them raining code like The Matrix used to do. With a higher synth drone and low pulsing beat, a pickup on the drums and strong notion of being all-in for the far-out, and they had people dancing the entire time. It wasn’t aggressive and it wasn’t threatening unless you’re the genre status quo, but they were heavy in a different way than anything I’ve seen this weekend if not ever, and no less so for all that fun.

There was any half an hour before Human Impact went on, and I did find a way between the two rooms from the back of The Terminal. Easy enough. Sat in the photo pit for a quiet few, fell down a hole on my phone and wrote while the band did a line check. They’ve been around at least since the pandemic — I’m not a huge noise rock guy, but I don’t know if you get to be into underground heavy anything in the New York metro area (where I live) and not respect the shit out of Unsane, and Chris Spencer’s involvement in Human Impact was what first grabbed my attention about the band. I haven’t covered everything they’ve done, but with Eric Cooper from Made Out of Babies on bass, who I remember going to see play in Brooklyn the better part of 20 years ago, Cop Shoot Cop’s Jim Coleman on keyboard and Jon Syverson from Daughters on drums, I don’t think I’d be the first to call them super in the group sense, but onstage the impression was far different from the egotism that designation implies.

A bleak, not-inaccurate portrayal of now in music, Human Impact fused noise rock and industrial sounds and atmospheres, were vivid in message and heft, sometimes raging but not all the time, and when the keys and riffs diverged, they seemed to hit that much harder upon coming back together. Cooper mostly backed Spencer’s vocals, but with some input from Coleman as they pushed toward the dark noise apocalypse that was promised but never materialized in the ’90s when some of the same formula was put to much worse use by far too many bands. In Human Impact, the clash of organic and inorganic was resonant, and the aggression seethe was palpable on stage, in no small part because they threw it at you from there and it would be hard to miss. The finish — I didn’t know the title but did recognize the crush — was like grim concrete.

My night would close as planned, with Gnod and White Hills at The Terminal. At a fest this broad, you can make your own way, find your sound and your people. Ideally, anyhow. Gnod Drop Out With White Hills was the official billing, with the ‘Drop Out’ in reference to the collaborative album NYC’s preeminent psych freaks and Gnod, from Salford, UK, who surely are keeping themselves busy these days saying no to the psycho right-wing capitalist fascist industrial death machine, as they once put it. I was there for the line check and even that was hypnotic. Chat Pile were about to go on for a secret show I saw in the TMSQR app, but nah.

With Ego Sensation’s persistent tom and snare as the beating heart of the proceedings, Gnod and White Hills didn’t so much drop out as they did force one to question whether they were ever in to begin with. I did my best with the camera in the lights and fog early in the set — photographic evidence of alien life would be quite a coup for a middle-aged blogger — but whatever. I was honestly more concerned with watching them than taking pictures. Crazy, I know.

Builds of synth along with the guitars of Dave W. and Gnod’s Paddy Shine gave a sense of expanse with the bass crying the groove alongside the drums, and by the time vocals came in, it was a genuine churn, with a depth of mix that came through even by the side of the stage, let alone over in back. Entrancing heavy psych from masters of the form, in a collab that goes back at least a decade, tearing holes in the universe together on stage for the first time. Something special. I don’t know how many times I even said that today, but start to finish, that’s what it was. Careening and cascading, the joint project rode my day out on a chariot with a wizard painted on the side, and scorched the ground beneath them like rockets at takeoff. I’ve done a lot of really stupid shit in my life. I’m not a particularly good person. I’m not kind. But I had to look around me as the one where they kept going “unified…” hit its comedown and understand that whatever I’ve made worse about the planet during my time on it, I’d done something right if I was standing there.

I went back to the room to finish out the night, sort photos, etc. I had done more back and forth than I’d intended throughout the day and was exhausted with work to do, but no regrets whatsoever for how Friday panned out. Hard to believe there are two more days of Roadburn left.

Thanks for reading. More pics after the jump.

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Not too much wandering for today, but I did check out the Archiving Heaviness showcase downstairs at the 013 full of the cultural detritus of past editions. There were even a couple old Weirdo Canyon Dispatch issues in there. It’s nice to think of that as being a part of this whole thing when it was. It was a ‘zine in the truest sense of being a labor of love, and apart from the fact that it was about the fest, I think that’s what tied it most into the fold of Roadburn.

I missed the opening of the art gallery by minutes, but got to see Walter say a few words to the first-timers meeting, welcoming them to the festival and encouraging them to interact with each other, go off schedule and wander, and so on. I also signed the guestbook. The meeting was downstairs at the 013 at the bar near the Archiving Heaviness displays. Walter’s right, of course, about all of it, and it’s the most Roadburn thing ever that the guy who started the fest would take time 25-plus years later to greet the people who’ve never been here before. Roadburn is a lot. It can be overwhelming. Walter radiates a warmth and kindness few people know. When he welcomes you, you stay welcomed.

Xiu Xiu were going on up at the Koepelhal, on the The Terminal stage, but I hadn’t had endnote half a meal since Tuesday, so I grabbed a few slices of kaas and some greens for nutritional reconciliation. Lee and I had come to the office this morning to put some shortb text in the TMSQ app that has the schedule and all that info, and that went quickly enough that I’d gone back to the hotel to sit quietly for a bit, nod off, answer email, etc. I was dragging before food. Headache, a little nauseous. But the thing about Roadburn is no matter how crowded it gets, there are always pockets and places where you can be. If it feels like the whole world is in one place and the line’s out the door and it feels like too much, all you ever have to do is step back, realize that, and find a corner, or a chair, or a bench, whatever it is, and take the minute you need.

For me, that’s usually up on the balcony of the 013, though of course there are times where that’s packed as well. You make it work.

In the main hall, Costin Chioreanu’s animated film ‘The Hunter’ screened to open the day. Oranssi Pazuzu were soon to go on to perform last Fall’s Muuntautuja in its entirety. The one led very well into the other. I remember when Oranssi Pazuzu were here last, circa 2012 or thereabouts — Archiving Heaviness has a wall outside Koepelhal with all the years’ lineups printed on it; I should check that — they were at Het Patronaat, and it was a very big deal. Line down the block. Good to know the ensuing decade-plus hasn’t dulled the reception. I took one song’s worth of pictures in the photo pit, and made my way up to the balcony, because when engaging with intermittently furious groundbreaking cosmic experimentalist black metal, I’ll take the bird’s eye view anytime.

No doubt I was in the minority among the room for not knowing the album, but I was fine hearing a thing for the first time and appreciating the unexpected twists that have helped the band become a generational presence, like the intro to the first song sounding like Nine Inch Nails’ “Mr. Self-Destruct,” or how prone they were to locking in a bigger groove when not channeling dissonance or shred, or, more likely both. I don’t know that they’ll ever be my ‘thing’ as far as that goes, but that didn’t keep it from being awesome.

Spent a few minutes in my own head sitting upstairs on the balcony. Shit self-talk, just tearing myself down because I worry about THINGS and it’s a terrifying moment. Thinking of seeing Dool on the big stage last year, feeling that empowerment resonating, was restorative. Oranssi Pazuzu are on a different trip entirely, and I didn’t expect the same experience twice because I’ve been to Roadburn before and I know better, but there was a sense of freedom conveyed alongside so much catharsis, and I tried my best to home in on that. Also this weird thing had been happening where every time I sat in a place for more than five minutes, no matter what else was going on or its volume level related to human tolerances, I started to fall asleep. I assure you that’s not a dig on the set.

Oranssi Pazuzu finished droned out and fair enough. I thought about popping over to the Next Stage for Toby Driver’s new trio, Alora Crucible, but there was a line outside the room by the time I got there, so I broke off downstairs for a water and then was back up to the Main Stage for the coming of Kylesa. I don’t know how many times I saw them during their ‘original run’ in various lineups and constructions of the band, mostly because I was drunk and it was a long time ago (having a archive of nearly every show I’ve seen in the last 16 years has its advantages in not relying on my memory; Kylesa and my affection for their work pre-date this site), but with Phillip Cope and Laura Pleasants reigniting the band now completed by journeyman metaller Roy Mayorga (Ministry, Stone Sour, Soulfly, etc.), who hits hard enough to remind you Kylesa once had two drummers, and NY-based artist John John Jesse (Nausea) on bass, they were a must-see for me. Something of a silly feeling, being nostalgic for the aughts, but it was 20 years ago. Brains are ridiculous.

Kylesa were last at Roadburn in 2010, but I missed them because volcano. One assumes the irony of “Keep moving/Don’t look back” as a signature hook at a reunion show isn’t lost on Kylesa, but never mind that shit, here comes Mongo, and in this case, Mongo is the guitar tones of Pleasants and Cope at the forefront of this band. And hey, sometimes a path brings you somewhere you’ve been before. With punk in their metallic hearts as it always was, Kylesa renewed their individual blend of elements, influences and craft, dug into some of the rawer ends of their catalog as well as the later and proggier fare, and though it was their first Euro show in more than a decade, I don’t think it took long for them to remind the room who they were and what they were about. That space was packed and rightly so. Kylesa was always just a little different than everybody else, sound-wise. Cope and Pleasants sharing vocals was always part of it, for sure, but for me it goes to the shape of their riffing and their ability to take what seem like straightforward ideas like “here’s a fuggin’ thrash riff in your face,” and beat them into more complex shapes.

As to what their going-forward plans might be, I haven’t a clue, but there’s life in them, and where I can think of an act like Jesus and Mary Chain, who were here for a reunion last year — different band and context, but still — and it felt pretty hollow. Kylesa, on the other hand, were always about the soul and the charge put into their songs, and they remain so. And the lineup, in the parlance of 2023, is fire. But of course it is. Nodding heads front to back. A mosh opened up. Dudes were dancing on the balcony. Hail hail.

They closed with “Running Red,” which, yes. I lurched my sad physicality up to Koepelhal when they were done to catch Faetooth at The Terminal. The Los Angeles three-piece self-tag as ‘Fairy Doom,’ and I wouldn’t argue if I could. Bringing together doomed nod, sludge nod and, indeed, some more nod, their dual-vocal approach moved between harsh and cleans, and the songs didn’t want for dynamic, but the overarching impression was heavy and dug-in. I think this is their first time in Europe? I don’t know that, so don’t quote it, but yes I just checked and it’s true. Quote away, I guess. In any case, they drew a massive crowd to bask in the largesse of fuzz, and the darker shoegaze side of what they were doing was balanced by both the screams and the tonal heft. They didn’t look like a band to fuck with. Someone yelled out they were beautiful before they played and I was embarrassed to be a dude. Cringe shit.

Speaking of, walking back to the 013 after Faetooth, there was a street preacher in a tshirt with a cross on it yelling about god in Dutch. He started in on me and I let him go a few seconds before I told him I didn’t even speak his language and to fuck off. He switched to English to thank me and say god bless you, to which my shouted reply was “only if he gives me a handjob first — again, fuck you.” I could live a thousand years and there would be no time in my life for that fucking garbage. I was completely lucid. I didn’t hit him.

An abrasive noise wash after that kind of adrenaline spike turned out to be just the thing, and after breaking a kick drum pedal right off the bat, like, with the first kick, The Body and Dis Fig tapped electronic and organic malevolence. I knew it would be heavy. But feeling the bass wub in my chest was nonetheless affecting. There was a big part of me that was ready to call it a night — arguably it was still evening — but I was scared to go back to the hotel and crash too hard, lest I sleep then instead of overnight. I had screwed up Wednesday so much in how I did and didn’t sleep that I’d been feeling it all day, but the lonely conscious fragment of my mind knew the room was a trap. Brutal noise, drone, thud and melodic-vocal cutthrough it is. Roadburn means I’m lucky to be alive. I can sleep later. I hope.

I hid my face in my arms at one point to get away from the strobe. They were droning at the time and yeah, I kinda nodded off. That’s how it was today. Adrenaline and lots of coffee were a help, likewise good music, but at no point in the day did I feel like I was at my best or even functioning beyond the basics and yelling at that jeezaroo. I know that’s not rock and roll. It’s not cool. It’s not positive. It’s not hey I’m here and let’s be an influencer and here’s some content isn’t it contenty? It’s real life. If you’re going to be a lifer at this shit or anything else, including just life itself, some days are going to be easier than others. Did not the Ben Ward sayeth, “Some you win, some you lose?” Well I won today outright, even if I had to pull myself by my collar to do it.

Back at the room afterward, I put in a video call to home, got to talk to The Patient Mrs. and The Pecan, which was a treat, I’d gotten myself one more espresso from the machine in the lobby of the hotel, of which I drank about half in a single sip and poured out the rest. Yes, absolutely for all my Nespresso homies. You know who you are, you classy bastards.

Sorting photos and finishing the writing were precursors to screwing off and going to bed, so that was the order of it. Tomorrow and Saturday nights are more packed for me, so resting while I can while my body gave me fewer and fewer choices in the matter anyway made sense. In the end, I slept like a bastard for like nine hours, which I very much hope brings me closer to whatever vision of ‘caught up’ might apply.

Thanks for reading. A couple more pics after the jump.

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Before Show

Made it to Tilburg, which always feels good to say. The flight was a flight. In the seat next to me, an older gentleman boasting a particular odor accompanied (in the aisle seat) by either his much younger domestic partner of whatever sort or his home health aide, I’m not sure which. He was Dutch. Do they have home health aides here? Occurs to me I don’t even know how these things happen in countries where healthcare is seen as a human right.

In any case, seven bumpy hours of playing Zelda, not sleeping and having my dude’s smell imprinting itself on my olfactories and we landed. A car brought me to Tilburg. I’m at the Hotel Mercure, which continues to be nicer than anything I have any right to enjoy, and am once again sharing the room with Lee Edwards from The Sleeping Shaman, who apparently got in this afternoon and is already over at the 013, I assume being a useful and all around wonderful human being as I try to recover from the travel enough to get from ‘cave troll’ at least to ‘bridge troll’ before I hoof it down the block to the pre-show in about an hour and a half. A third espresso may or may not help, but I can only think of one sure way to find out.

The Spark is the Roadburn-branded name for the pre-show, and the lineup for the night puts Temple Fang first, followed by Rattenburcht and Thou. Unless adrenaline kicks in and I’m suddenly much closer to alive in four hours than I am now, I’ll probably abscond when the Amsterdam longform psych rockers are done. If there’s a vibe I’m ready for this evening, it’s them. Tell me it’s okay. Let me out of my brain for an hour. Let me drift for a little. And shit I hope they play new songs.

As for Rattenburcht, they struck me as more battle-vest, and Thou are always a good time on stage if you want consuming extreme sludge, as I often do, but they’re playing again this weekend and will probably do six secret shows at the skate park besides, so the opportunity will likely be there. If not, well, Roadburn has always meant hard choices. My daughter was hanging onto my luggage in the car at the airport to keep me from going away. That’s a new kind of hard choices, but pretty in-keeping with my experience of parenting up to this point in that I felt like garbage.

Maybe I’ll try to close my eyes again for an hour or so and see if that doesn’t get me right, though once the music starts it’ll all be fine. It always is. The rest is just anxiety.

—

Temple Fang

Doors at 7PM, or 19h if you want to do the 24-hour thing. In the venue — security pointedly NOT dicks about either the bag or the camera in it — and up to the balcony. Mellow prog, psych, boogie on the P.A. Roadburn DJs always on point. The Next Stage, which is kind of still the Green Room in my head, slowly filled up as the hour went on. I did some socializing earlier — enough to know I don’t have it in me — and ducked out. I had decided to leave the hotel early to find food beyond the almond butter I brought with me, but alas, I couldn’t get in the building in time and my dinner ticket went unused. So it goes.

Seeing Temple Fang was among my most urgent sets at Roadburn 2025. That is, the whole thing. This is because of their brilliant new album, Lifted From the Wind (review here), which is out next week on Stickman. I’ve seen Temple Fang before, including twice at Roadburn 2019 (review here and here), but the record is simply another level.

It’s also 71 minutes long, so no, they didn’t have time to do the whole thing in an hour-long set, but with incense burning on the stage, they came out and gradually made their way into “The River” before unfurling “Once,” “Josephine” and “Harvest Angel” from the album. That left out “The Radiant,” for which they premiered a video two weeks ago, but again, Roadburn means hard choices, and the big finish opportunity that “Harvest Angel” gave them wasn’t to be missed.

But it was the journey to get there that made it such a special set, and the power and heart poured into this material. I haven’t been so struck watching a heavy psychedelic rock band commune with the Beautiful since YOB, and if you think that’s hyperbole I’m tossing around, you haven’t heard the record. You didn’t need “The Radiant” because the shimmer was all around. At the same time, it’s incredible to think that these sprawling, massive compositions still align themselves around verses, choruses, repetition — that there’s structure to it and a plan unfolding.

That’s more evident in Lifted From the Wind than it’s yet been for Temple Fang, and whether it’s lines like, “Let it all come in,” from “The River,” or “We’ll keep believing in the beauty at last,” delivered in three-part harmony in “Josephine” from bassist Dennis Duijnhouwer, and guitarists Jevin de Groot and Ivy van der Veer, which they nailed, there, in the other emphasized lines at the ends of verses, and in the later non-lyric melody, its complex meld of rhythm and melody held together by Daan Woperweis on drums, or in “Harvest Angel,” which Duijnhouwer and de Groot incited the crowd to, “Follow the rainbow,” and didn’t the least ridiculous in the context of the song. For that accomplishment alone, it was a special set. Never mind the rest of the 60 minutes you just spent getting a spa treatment with your own soul.

I didn’t stay when they were finished. I didn’t need to. I’m going to see some amazing things at Roadburn this weekend, but on a certain level, it’s all gravy after Temple Fang. I consider myself fortunate now to have watched that band play these songs in that space. With all respect to Rattenburcht and Thou, both of whom I’ll almost certainly regret not seeing in the morning, that’s a problem for the morning.

Went back to the room, ate a protein cookie, wrote. I’m actively trying not to have a plan for the weekend. Someone told me to see pg.99, so I’ll do that. I’ll watch Kylesa. Beyond that, like last year, I’m content to let myself take the day as it comes, do a bit of wandering, and hopefully find some new sounds that way if I’m lucky and keep my mind open. Here’s hoping.

If you’re here, have a great Roadburn. It was slammed, line out the door. If you’re not and you’re keeping up, thank you all the more. “Once you feel this way, then you surrender.”

There’s a couple more Temple Fang pics after the jump if you’re interested. Thanks if so.

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Twenty-two years ago last month, I sat at an aughts-era version of this same airport gate in order to fly to Austin, Texas, for my first-ever South by Southwest. I was still doing college radio. On that trip, I’d meet the guitarist and bassist I’d be in a band with from 2005-2010, and it was the trip where I met the crew of Small Stone Records, made friends I still have and, arguably, helped solidify me on the heavy path I’ve been walking since. I usually pass by it on my way to the further-ass-end of Newark Liberty Terminal C and smile a little. Today it’s where I’m supposed to be.

My flight leaves at 5:45 and it’s 3PM now. I’ll get into Amsterdam at 7AM tomorrow, make my way to the baggage claim, then on to the car meetup, catch my ride to Tilburg where a good friend I can’t wait to see has very kindly offered his couch to crash on for the morning. I am lucky to be going to Roadburn.

Sitting at the airport to write a post on the way out is something of a tradition. I remember last year I was nervous because it had been half a decade and I wasn’t sure if my friends would still be my friends. This year, the country I live in is eating itself like Saturn’s children, and I’m curious how re-entry into this ongoing shitshow will be. By curious, I mean terrified.

But that’s Next-Monday-Me’s terror. This-Tuesday-Me is stoked to be on my way. The lineup for Roadburn 2025 is of course three fests’ worth of epic. Here are the timetables:

Thursday:

Friday:

Saturday:

Sunday:

So that’s where I’ll be. It’ll be a good trip, and in the back of my head I know that as itchy as I’ve been the last three days with this looming and as itchy as I am to get on the plane and “get this show on the road,” as my dear wife might say, as soon as the music starts, it’ll all be okay. A couple days living NOT entirely in my own head will be welcome, and as much as that’s ever possible anyplace — to be fair, I have a pretty big head and there’s lots of open space in there for me to dwell (and dwell… and dwell…) — it’s possible at Roadburn.

Thinking about that trip when I was barely 21, it’s no wonder it changed my life. It was a magical world where everyone was an adult, but still drunk like sloppy teenagers. Myself included. I don’t drink anymore, and the ensuing two decades have pushed through any number of other attitude changes that I hope have made me a better human being than I was then — failure assumed — so while the gate is the same, I’m not expecting Roadburn to set me on a lifepath in 2025 or anything. I’m 43. I had a whole career there for a while. Mostly now I just take the kid to and from school.

But what I do expect Roadburn to do is reset my trajectory, make sure I’m not bumping into walls I just built in front of myself for no fucking reason whatsoever. I will be exhausted when it’s done, but I’ll have seen friends and had I’m sure more than my fill of good music and good times, and that is sustaining for me in ways I consider integral. In Austin 22 years ago, I took notes with a hotel pen by hand and struggled to read my addled handwriting after the fact. Now I’ll probably just write as I go on my phone, but the idea is the same: to try and capture some element of the experience, of my experience, and convey it in probably-typo-laden run-on sentences that no one will ever read.

I need a bottle of water for the flight. I’m in the window seat, row 41, which is nowhere special. Weather is good, and the flight should be seven and a half hours. I have a chance for an empty seat next to me and I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

If you’re going to Roadburn, please say hi if you see me in the back and forth. I’ll be there, going from the 013 to Koepelhal and back. I’m sorry I’m a big weirdo, but I do appreciate human communication, so hi.

What unfolds from here is my 13th Roadburn. I don’t have a plan, beyond seeing Kylesa and a few other musts, but tomorrow night at the 013, Temple Fang are playing the pre-show, and that’s very much a thing I want to see. The rest will work itself out.

Thanks for reading and keeping up if you do. Let’s go RB25.

I won’t keep you long here. Today is the last day of this Quarterly Review. It’ll return in July, if all goes according to my plans. I hope in the last seven days of posts you’ve been able to find a release, a band, a song, that’s hit you hard and made your day better. Ultimately that’s why we’re here.

No grand reflections — this is business-as-usual by now for me — but I’ll say that most of this QR was a pleasure to mine through and I’ve added a few releases to my notes for the Best of 2025 come December. If you have too, awesome. If not, there’s still one more chance.

Quarterly Review #61-70:

Daevar, Sub Rosa

While Sub Rosa still basks in the murky sound with which Köln-based doomers Daevar set forth not actually all that long ago — they’re barely an earth-year removed from their second LP, Amber Eyes (review here), and just two from their debut, 2023’s Delirious Rites (review here) — there’s an unquestionable sense of refinement to its procession. “Wishing Well” moves but isn’t rushed. Opener “Catcher in the Rye” feels expansive but is four minutes long. It goes like this. Through most of the 31-minute seven-songer, including the “Hey Bacchus” strum at the start of “Siren Song,” Daevar seem to be working to strip their approach to its most crucial elements, and when they arrive at the seven-minute finale “FDSMD,” there’s a purposeful shift to a more patient roll. But the flow within and between tracks is still very much an asset for Daevar as they take full ownership of their sound. This is not a minor moment for this band, and feels indicative of future direction. Something tells me it won’t be that long before we find out if it is.

Daevar on Bandcamp

The Lasting Dose Records on Bandcamp

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Rainbows Are Free, Silver and Gold

The follow-up to Rainbows Are Free‘s impressive 2023 outing, Heavy Petal Music (review here), Silver and Gold is the Norman, Oklahoma, six-piece’s fifth album since 2010 and second through Ripple Music. With nine songs that foster psychedelic breadth and tonal largesse alike, the album still has room for frontman Brandon Kistler to lend due persona, and in pairing sharp-cornered progressive lead work on guitar with lower-frequency grooves, Rainbows Are Free feel ‘classic’ in a very modern way. They remain capable of being very, very heavy, as crescendos like “Sleep” and “Hide” reaffirm near the record’s middle, but emphasize aural diversity whether it’s the garage march of “Fadeaway,” the barer thrust of “Dirty” or “Runnin’ With a Friend of the Devil” earlier on, of which the reference is only part of the charm being displayed. Rarely does a band so obviously mature in their craft still sound so hungry to find new ideas in their music.

Rainbows Are Free website

Ripple Music website

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Minerall, Strömung

The pedigreed spacefaring trio Minerall — guitarist Marcel Cultrera (Speck), bassist/synthesist Dave “Sula Bassana” Schmidt (Sula Bassana, Zone Six, etc.), and drummer Tommy Handschick (Kombynat Robotron, Earthbong) — return with two more side-long jams on Strömung, captured at the same two-day 2023 session that produced their early-2024 debut, Bügeln (review here). If you find yourself clenching your stomach in the first half of “Strömung” (19:35) on side A, don’t forget to breathe, and don’t worry, opportunity to do so is coming as the three-piece deconstruct and rebuild the jam toward a fuzzy payoff, only to raise “Welle” (20:24) from its minimalist outset to what seems like the apex at the midpoint only to blow it out the airlock in the song’s back half. That must have been one hell of a 48 hours.

Minerall on Bandcamp

Sulatron Records website

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Deathbird Earth, Mission

By the time its five minutes are up, “Resources 2.0” has taken its title word and turned it into an insistent, chunky, noise-rocking sneer, still adjacent to the chicanery-laced psych of the song’s earlier going, but a definite fuck-you to modernity, evoking ideas of exploitation of people, places and everything. Philadelphia duo Deathbird Earth — first names only: BJ (Dangerbird, Hulk Smash) and Dave (Psychic Teens, etc.) — offer three songs on Mission, which has the honesty to bill itself as a demo, and from “Resources 2.0” they move into the sub-two-minute “Mission 1.0,” more ambient and laced with samples. The only song without a version number in its title, “Dead Hands” finds the duo likewise indebted to Chrome and Nirvana for a burst-prone, keyboardier vision of gritty spacepunk, vocal bite and all, but honestly, Mission feels like the tip of an experimentalism only beginning to reveal its destructive tendencies. Looking forward to more.

Deathbird Earth on Bandcamp

Deathbird Earth at SRA Records

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Thinning the Herd, Cull

Approaching the 20th anniversary of the band next year, now-more-upstate New York heavy rockers Thinning the Herd return after 12 years with Cull, their third album. Guitarist/vocalist Gavin Spielman in 2023 recruited drummer Rob Sefcik (Begotten, Kings Destroy, Electric Frankenstein, etc.), and as a trio-sounding duo with Spielman adding bass, they dig into 11 raw, DIY rockers that, as one makes their way through the opening title-track, “Monopolist” and “Heady Yeti” and “Burn Ban” — themes from not-in-the-city-anymore prevalent throughout, alongside weed, beer, life, getting screwed over, and so on — play out in fuzzbuzz-grooving succession. Two late instrumentals, “Electric Lizard of Gloom” and the lush, unplugged “Acustank,” provide a breather from the riffs and gruff vibes, the latter with a pickin’-on-doom kind of feel, but across the whole it’s striking how atmospheric Cull is while presenting itself as straightforward as possible.

Thinning the Herd website

Thinning the Herd on Bandcamp

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Phantom Druid, The Edge of Oblivion

Let The Edge of Oblivion stand for the righteousness of anti-trend doom. You know what I’m talking about. Not the friendly doom that’s out there weed-worshiping and making friends, but the crunching doom metal proffered by the likes of Cathedral and Saint Vitus. Doom that wore is Sabbathianism as a badge of honor all the more for the fact that, at the time they were doing it, it was so much against the status quo of cool. Phantom Druid‘s fourth album is similarly strident and sure of its approach, and yeah, if you want to say some of the chug in “The 5th Mystical Assignment” sounds like Sleep, I won’t argue. Sleep liked Sabbath too. But the crawl in “Realms of the Unreal” and the dirge in instrumental “The Silent Observer” tell it. This is doom that knows and believes in this form, and is strident and reverential in its making. That “Admiration of the Abyss” caps could hardly be more appropriate. Hail the new truth.

Phantom Druid on Bandcamp

Off the Record Label store

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The Grey, Kodok

Some context may apply. Kodok is the third long-player from adventurous Cambridge, UK, heavy post-rock/metallers The Grey, as well as their first outing through Majestic Mountain Records, and though much of what the band has done to this point is instrumental and that’s still a big part of who they are as 11:45 opener/longest track (immediate points) “Painted Lady” readily demonstrates, there’s a clear-eyed partial divergence from the norm as guitarist Charlie Gration, bassist Andy Price and drummer Steve Moore welcome guests throughout like Grady Avenell, who adds post-hardcore scathe to “Sharpen the Knife” ahead of the crushing “CHVRCH,” also released as a single, or fattybassman and Ace Skunk Anasie, who appear on the duly textural “AFG,” which also rounds out with a dARKMODE remix. Not a typical release, maybe, but not not either as the band do more than haphazardly insert these guests into their songs; there is a full-length album flow from front to back here, and while they purposefully push limits, the underlying three-piece serve as the unifying factor for the material as perhaps they inevitably would.

The Grey on Bandcamp

Majestic Mountain Records store

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Sun Below, Mammoth’s Tundra

With a forward lumber marked by rigorous crash and suitably dense tone, Sun Below‘s apparently-standalone 12-minute single Mammoth’s Tundra tells the story of a wooly mammoth being reborn — I think not through techbro genetic dickery, unlike that dire-wolf story that was going around last week — and laying waste to the ecosystem of the tundra, remaking the food change in its aggro image. Fair enough. The Toronto trio likely recorded “Mammoth’s Tundra” at the same Jan. 2023 sessions that produced their Sept. 2023 split, Inter Terra Solis (review here), and whether you’re here for the immersive groove that rises from the gradual outset, the shred emerging in the second half, or that last meme-ready return of the riff at the end, complete with final slowdown — what? you thought they’d leave you hanging? — they leave the Gods of Stone and Riff smiling. Worship via volume, distortion, and nod.

Sun Below on Bandcamp

Sun Below’s Linktr.ee

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Tumbleweed Dealer, Dark Green

It’s been nine years since Montreal’s Tumbleweed Dealer released their third album, but as the fourth, Dark Green offers instrumentalist narrative and a range of outside contributions to expand the sound and maybe make up for lost time. Across 10 tracks and 39 minutes, bassist/guitarist Seb Painchaud, synthesist/producer Jean-Baptiste Joubaud and drummer Angelo Fata broaden their arrangements to include Mellotron, Hammond, Wurlitzer, Rhodes and other keys as well as what basically amounts to a horn section on several tracks, the first blares in “Becoming One with the Bayou” somewhat jarring but coming to make their own kind of sense there and in the subsequent “Dragged Across the Wetlands,” the sax in “Body of the Bog,” and so on. These elements seem to be built around the core performances of the trio, but the going is remarkably fluid despite the range, and though it seems counterintuitive to think of a band who might end a record with a song called “A Soul Made of Sludge” as being progressive and considered in their craft, that’s very clearly what’s happening here.

Tumbleweed Dealer on Bandcamp

Tumbleweed Dealer on Instagram

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NYTE VYPR, Plutonic

Electronic dub, pop, death metal, glitchy electronics, krautrock synth, malevolent distortion, some far-off falsetto and some throatgurgling crust — it can only be the always-busy anti-genre activist Collyn McCoy (Unida, High Priestess, Circle of Sighs, etc.) mashing together ideas and making it work. To wit, “Alkahest” (17:36) and “Witchchrist” (16:03) both engage in sound design and worldmaking, take on pop, industrial and metallic aspects, and are an album unto themselves, hypnotic and experimental, the latter marked by a darker underlying drone that lasts until the whole song dissipates. “Necrotic Prayer” (7:28) feels more like collage by the time it gets to its surprise-here’s-a-ripper-guitar-solo-over-that-circa-’92-industrial-beat, but it still has a groove, and “Plutonic” (8:30) moves through static drone and seen-on-TV sampling through death-techno (god I love death techno) to croon, churn out with a sci-fi overlord, and finish with piano and voice; a misdirected contemplative turn worthy of Sleepytime Gorilla Museum. McCoy is a genius and the world will never be ready for these sounds. That’s as plain as I can say it.

NYTE VYPR on Bandcamp

Owlripper Recordings on Bandcamp

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A lot going on today, not the least of which is the Spring 2025 Quarterly Review passing the halfway mark. Normally this would’ve happened yesterday, but half of 70 records is 35 and unless I’ve got the math wrong that’s where we’re at here. It’s a decent time to check and see if there’s anything you’ve missed over the last couple days. You never know how something will hit you the next time.

The adventure continues…

Quarterly Review #31-40:

Messa, The Spin

Now signed to Metal Blade — which is about as weighty as endorsements get for anything heavy these days — Italy’s Messa emerge from the pack as cross-genre songwriters working at a level of mastery across their fourth album, The Spin, elevating riff-led songs with vocal melodicism and aesthetic flexibility. “Fire on the Roof” is a hook ready to tattoo itself to your brain, while “The Dress” dwells in its ambience before getting intense and deceptively technical — just because a band dooms out doesn’t mean they can’t play — ahead of the Iommi-circa-’80 solo’s payoff. It’s all very grand, very sweeping, very encompassing, very talented and expensive-sounding. “At Races” and “Reveal” postulate a single ‘Messa sound’ that someone more important than me will come up with a clever name for, and the band’s ascent of the last nine years will continue unabated as they’re heralded among the foremost stylistic innovators of their generation. You won’t be able to say they didn’t earn it.

Messa on Bandcamp

Metal Blade Records website

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After Nations, Surface | Essence

Kansas-based heavy djent instrumentalists After Nations offer their fifth full-length, Surface | Essence, with a similar format to 2023’s The Endless Mountain (review here), and, fortunately, a similarly crushing ethic. Where the prior album explored Buddhist concepts, the band seem to have traded that for Hinduist themes, but the core approach remains in a mix of sounds churning and progressive. Meshuggah are a defining influence in the heavier material, but each ‘regular’ song (about four minutes) is offset by a shorter (about a minute) ambient piece of one sort or another, and so while Surface | Essence gives a familiar core impression, what the band add to that — including in short, Between the Buried and Me-ish quiet breaks like in “Yāti” and “Vīrya” — is their own. Not to harp on it, but the last record played out the same way and it worked there too. Eventually, one assumes, the two sides will bleed together and they’ll lay waste with that all their mathy interconnected atmospheric assault. As-is, the gigantism of their heaviest parts serves them well.

After Nations website

After Nations’ Linktr.ee

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Lost Moon, The Complicated Path to the Multiverse

Taking its chiaroscuro thematic to a meta level, The Complicate Path to the Multiverse breaks its eight-song procession in half, with four heavy rockers up front followed by four acoustic-based cuts thereafter. It’s not a hard and fast rule — there’s still some funky wah in the penultimate “When it’s All Over,” for example — but it lets the Roman troupe give a sense of build as they make their way to “Cradle of Madness” in drawing the two sides of light and dark together. The lyrics do much of the heavier lifting in terms of the theme — that is, the heavier material isn’t overwhelmingly grim despite being the ‘darker’ side — but they let tonal crunch have its say in that regard as well, and side A brings to mind heavy rockers with a sense of progressivism like Astrosoniq while side B pays that off with a creative turn. If you don’t know what you’re getting going into it, the songwriting carries the day anyhow, and as laid back as the groove gets, there’s an urgency of expression underlying the delivery.

Lost Moon on Bandcamp

Pink Tank Records website

Karma Conspiracy Records website

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Bident, Blink

Likely no coincidence that London instrumentalist guitar/drum duo Bident — get it, bi-dent? two teeth? there are two of them in the band? ah forget it — launch their debut album, Blink, with “Psychological Raking.” That opener lives up to its billing in its movement between parts and sets up the overarching quirk and delight-in-throwing-a-twist that the subsequent eight tracks provide, shenanigans abound in “Calorina Leaper,” “Thhinking With a Moshcap On” and “Blink,” which renews the drum gallop at the end. With a noteworthy character of fuzz, Blink can accommodate the push of “Two-Note Pony” — which sure sounds like there’s bass on it — the nod in “Bovine Joni” and the sprint that takes hold in the second half of “That Sad,” and their use of the negative space where other instruments or vocals might be is likewise purposeful, but they don’t sound like they’re lacking in terms of arrangements thanks to the malleability of tone and tempo throughout. They operate in a familiar sphere, but there’s persona here that will come to fruition as they proceed.

Bident on Instagram

Bident on Bandcamp

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Harvest of Ash, Castaway

Death-sludge and post-metallic lumber ooze forth from the five songs of Harvest of Ash‘s second full-length, Castaway, which keeps its atmospheric impulses in check through grounded riffing and basslines as the whole band takes straightforward nod and extreme metal methodologies and smashes them together in a grueling course like that of “Embracing.” Remember in like 1996 when a band like Skinlab or Pissing Razors could just make you feel like you needed to take a shower? There’s a bit of that happening on Castaway as well in the opening title-track or the nine-minute “Constellation” later on, what with its second-half murk and strident riff, but a turn to quieter contemplations or a flash of brighter tone, whatever it is that offsets the churn in a given song, gives breadth to all that misanthropic plodding and throaty gurgle. Accordingly, Harvest of Ash end up both aggressive and hypnotic. I’m not sure it is, at least entirely, but Castaway positions itself as post-metal, and if it is, it is its own interpretation of the style’s tropes.

Harvest of Ash on Bandcamp

Harvest of Ash’s Linktr.ee

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Vlimmer, Diskomfort EP

Berlin’s Vlimmer — the solo-project of multi-instrumentalist, vocalist, label head and producer Alexander Leonard Donat — return on a not-surprising quick turnaround from late-’24’s full-length, Bodenhex (review here) with six new tracks that include a Super Furry Animals cover of “It’s Not the End of the World?” and quickly establish a goth-meets-new-wave electro dance melancholy in “Firmament” that gives over to the German-language “Ungleichgewicht,” residing stylistically somewhere between The Cure and krautrock experimentalism. Guitar comes forward in “Friedhofen,” but Donat keeps the mood consistent on Diskomfort where the album ranged more freely, and even as the title-track moves into its finishing wash, the bumout remains. And I don’t know if that’s an actual harpsichord on “Nachleben,” but it’s a reminder that the open arrangements are part of what keeps me coming back to Vlimmer, along with the fact that they don’t sound like anything else out there that I’ve heard, the music is unpredictable, and they take risks in craft.

Vlimmer on Instagram

Blackjack Illuminist Records on Bandcamp

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Duskhead, The Messenger EP

When Duskhead posted “Two Heads” in December from their The Messenger four-songer EP, it was the first new music from the Netherlands-based rockers in a decade. Fair enough to call it a return, then, as the band — which features members culled from Tank86 and The Grand Astoria — unfurl a somewhat humble in everything but the music 15 minutes of new material. “My Guitar Will Save the Day” answers the Elder-ish vocal melody with a fervent Brant Bjork-style roll, while “Kill the Messenger” cuts the tempo for a more declarative feel and “Searchlights” takes that stomp and makes it swing to round out, some layering at the end feeling like it’s dropping hints of things to come, though one hesitates to predict momentum for a band who just got back after 11 years of silence. Still, if they’re going for it, there’s life in this material and ground to be explored from here. Concept proven. Back to work.

Duskhead website

Duskhead on Bandcamp

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The Watcher, Out of the Dark

Plenty to hear in The Watcher‘s Cruz Del Sur-issued late-2024 debut Out of the Dark as the Boston unit — not to be confused with San Fran rockers The Watchers — unfurl the Trouble-and-Pentagram-informed take on traditionalist metal. The title-track opens and makes an energetic push while calling to mind ’80s metal in the hook, where “Strike Back” and the lead-heavy “Burning World” emphasize the metal running alongside the doom in their sound. Time for a big slowdown? You guessed it. They fall off the edge the world with “Exiled,” but rather than delve into epic Sabbathianism right then, they break into to the thrashier “The Revelator,” which only gets grittier as it goes. “Kill or Be Killed” and “The Final Hour” build on this vitality before the capper “Thy Blade, Thy Blood” saves its charge for the expected but still satisfying crescendo. Fans of Crypt Sermon and Early Moods will want to take particular note.

The Watcher on Bandcamp

Cruz Del Sur Music website

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Weed Demon, The Doom Scroll

Each of the six inclusions on Weed Demon‘s cleverly-titled third long-player, The Doom Scroll, adds something to the mix, so while one might look at the front cover, the Columbus, Ohio, band’s moniker and general presentation and think they’re only basking in weed-worshipping dirt-riffed sludge, that’s not actually the case. Instead, “Acid Dungeon” starts off with dungeon synth foreboding before the instrumental “Tower of Smoke” lulls you into sludgenosis before “Coma Dose” brings deathlier vibes and, somewhere, a guest appearance from Shy Kennedy (ex-Horehound), “Roasting the Sacred Bones” strips back to Midwestern pummel circa 2002 in its stoned Rustbelt disaffection, “Dead Planet Blues” diverges for acoustics and the vinyl-only secret track “Willy the Pimp,” a Frank Zappa cover, closes. By the end of the record, Weed Demon are revealed as decidedly more complex than they seem to want to let on, but I suppose if you’re numbed out on whichever chemical derivative of THC it is that actually does anything, it’s all riffs one way or the other. You want THC-P, by the way. THC-A, the ‘a’ stands for “ain’t about shit.” I’m gonna guess Weed Demon know the difference.

Weed Demon on Bandcamp

Electric Valley Records website

Daily Grind Records on Facebook

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Nuclear Dudes, Compression Crimes 1

The one-man solo-project of Jon Weisnewski (also of Sandrider, formerly of Akimbo), Nuclear Dudes released the rampaging full-length Boss Blades (review here) in 2023, glorious in both its extremity-fueled catharsis and its anti-genre fuckery. Weisnewski described the seven-song EP Compression Crimes 1 as “a synthwave album, probably,” and he might be right about that, but it’s definitely not just that. “Death at Burning Man” brings unruly techno until it lands in Mindless Self Indulgence pulsations, where “Tomb Crawler” surges near its end with metallic lashing. “Skyship” is so good at being electro-prog it’s almost obnoxious, and that too feels like the point as Weisnewski sees through creative impulses that are so much his own. Sleeper outfit, maybe. Never gonna be huge. But if you can find someone else making this kind of noise, you’re better at the internet than I am.

Nuclear Dudes on Instagram

Nuclear Dudes on Bandcamp

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