Steel Hulls and Soft Scars

ReeToxA’s HMAS CERBERUS arrives with the weight of lived experience and the raw pulse of ’90s Oz rock, sharpened by a modern edge. From the opening moments, the track feels weathered and restless, like salt-stained memories refusing to stay buried. There’s a familiar grunge grit here, but it’s not nostalgia for its own sake—it’s a vessel for something far more personal and confronting.

What makes HMAS CERBERUS stand out is its emotional honesty. The song moves through themes of alcohol abuse, mental strain, and the long shadows cast by life in the defence force without ever sounding preachy or staged. ReeToxA leans into brutal truth, letting the music carry the tension between survival and self-reckoning. The guitars are thick and driving, anchored by a rhythm section that keeps things grounded even as the emotional current pulls hard in every direction.

Despite its heavy subject, there’s an undeniable momentum running through the track. It manages that rare balancing act—deeply reflective yet strangely energising. You can feel the push and pull between darkness and release, introspection and motion. It’s the kind of song that invites you to move while your mind lingers on what’s being said beneath the surface.

HMAS CERBERUS doesn’t try to tidy up trauma or wrap it in neat conclusions. Instead, ReeToxA offers something braver: a clear-eyed look at how the past echoes into the present. It’s raw, poetic, and unflinchingly human—a powerful reminder that some stories are best told loud, distorted, and completely unfiltered.

Dancing at the Edge of the Fire

Asthma Kids don’t ease into Crumbs and Morsels (The Meek Are Getting Ready Pt IV)—they kick the door down and dare you to keep up. The track crackles with urgency, sounding less like a polished studio product and more like a live wire humming with intent. There’s a rawness here that feels deliberate, almost confrontational, as if the song is refusing to be cleaned up or made comfortable.

Sonically, the energy is relentless. The rhythm surges forward with a pulse that’s equal parts punk defiance and dance-floor propulsion, creating a strange but addictive tension. It’s the kind of track that makes your body move even while your mind is busy unpacking what’s being thrown at you. Asthma Kids balance chaos and control impressively—everything feels on the verge of unraveling, yet it never actually does.

What makes Crumbs and Morsels hit harder is its emotional weight. The song radiates frustration and clarity at the same time, channeling anger into something communal rather than isolating. There’s a sense of collective awakening woven into the sound, a feeling that this isn’t just personal expression but a call to shared awareness. Yet, it never sinks into heaviness for its own sake. There’s grit, yes—but also a sharp, almost mischievous spark that keeps things alive and kinetic.

Ultimately, this track feels like a manifesto you can move to. Asthma Kids prove that protest doesn’t have to be solemn—it can be loud, sweaty, and strangely joyful. Crumbs and Morsels (The Meek Are Getting Ready Pt IV) doesn’t just demand attention; it earns it.

When Rest Refuses to Come

Verticoli’s Sleep feels like a late-night confession whispered into the dark, heavy with thought yet strangely comforting in its honesty. Coming from a band shaped by isolation, wind-battered landscapes, and years of refining their sound, the track carries a sense of earned restraint. It doesn’t rush to impress. Instead, it settles in, letting weight and atmosphere do the talking.

From the opening moments, Sleep leans into tension rather than release. The guitars feel thick but controlled, creating a looming presence that mirrors the mental unrest at the heart of the song. There’s a slow-burning quality here—each section unfolding with patience, as if Verticoli are allowing space for unease to breathe. The rhythm section grounds the track, steady and deliberate, giving the song a pulse that feels human rather than mechanical.

What makes Sleep particularly compelling is its emotional balance. While there’s heaviness in the arrangement, it’s never oppressive. Melody cuts through the grit, offering brief flashes of warmth that hint at hope without overstating it. The vocal delivery sits perfectly in this space—raw, direct, and unpolished in a way that makes the song feel lived-in rather than performed.

Sleep captures that restless state where the body is tired, but the mind refuses to slow down. It’s introspective without being indulgent, heavy without being hollow. In doing so, Verticoli prove once again that their strength lies not just in big riffs, but in their ability to translate internal struggle into sound that feels both personal and universal.

Into the Static Within

Highroad No. 28’s C.Esp feels like a slow-burning reckoning, the kind of track that doesn’t rush to impress but quietly pulls you under. From the first moments, there’s a sense of weight in the air — cinematic guitars stretch wide, the bass hums with a brooding patience, and everything feels carefully held back, as if the song is gathering strength before speaking its truth.

What stands out most is the emotional core. C.Esp explores inner conflict with a restraint that makes it more powerful. Rather than dramatizing pain, Highroad No. 28 lets it simmer, creating a tension that mirrors the push-and-pull between doubt and survival. The vocals feel exposed yet controlled, carrying a raw sincerity that gives the song its grounding force. There’s no excess here; every note feels deliberate, every shift in tone meaningful.

Musically, the track leans into atmosphere without losing its melodic grip. The guitars are expansive and shadowy, wrapping around the rhythm section in a way that feels both isolating and strangely comforting. As the song progresses, subtle changes in intensity keep it engaging, rewarding listeners who sit with it rather than skim the surface.

C.Esp marks a confident step into darker, more introspective territory for Highroad No. 28. It’s a song that lingers after it ends, not because it demands attention, but because it earns it. Quietly intense and emotionally honest, this release suggests a band unafraid to face its own shadows — and invite listeners to do the same.

When Romance Meets the Feed

Madeline Rosene’s Love and Algorhythms feels like a quiet ache dressed up in playful colors. On the surface, it’s an indie-pop track with a clever hook and an inviting soundscape, but just beneath that charm lies something far more uneasy and human. Rosene captures a very modern tension—the feeling of slowly losing emotional ground to screens, feeds, and invisible systems that demand our attention with uncanny precision.

The song opens with a sense of curiosity that quickly turns reflective. Acoustic textures blend effortlessly with digital flourishes, creating a contrast that mirrors the heart of the track: warmth versus automation, intimacy versus distraction. There’s a subtle nostalgia in the production, yet it never feels retro for the sake of it. Instead, the music feels suspended between eras, as if unsure whether to lean into the past or surrender to the future.

What makes Love and Algorhythms especially compelling is its emotional honesty. Rosene doesn’t sound angry or preachy; she sounds thoughtful, slightly wounded, and aware of the strange sadness that comes with being “known” by technology in ways that feel impersonal yet invasive. Her vocal delivery carries that vulnerability beautifully, staying restrained where it matters and expressive where it counts.

Rather than offering answers, the song leaves space for reflection. It gently asks listeners to notice how easily connection slips into consumption. In doing so, Madeline Rosene delivers a track that feels timely, intimate, and quietly unsettling—a song that lingers long after the last note fades.

Between Orbits and Open Ground

“Seven Twelve” feels like a quiet but decisive step forward for Arcas and the Bear. Known for immersive ambient and meditative soundscapes, this release gently breaks from that orbit without abandoning the project’s core fascination with space, motion, and inner reflection. Instead of drifting endlessly, the track now moves with intention, pulling the listener into a more structured yet still expansive sonic journey.

Built through a sample-led approach, “Seven Twelve” carries a sense of immediacy that’s refreshing. The textures feel carefully chosen rather than overworked, allowing rhythms and pulses to emerge naturally. There’s a subtle propulsion here—less about floating, more about traveling. It’s the sound of forward momentum, as if the music itself has found its trajectory after a period of silence. The production remains clean and atmospheric, but there’s an added edge, a sense of arrival that marks this as a turning point rather than a detour.

What makes the track especially compelling is its emotional undercurrent. You can hear a quiet joy in the act of creation itself, a return to sound after stillness. That feeling translates into the listening experience, making “Seven Twelve” feel both personal and expansive. It doesn’t overwhelm; it invites. It doesn’t rush; it carries you.

Arcas and the Bear proves that growth doesn’t have to be loud to be meaningful—it just has to be honest, focused, and willing to move forward.