Where the Wild Hearts Lead Us

Weak Trees’ “Animal” feels like cracking open a memory sealed in frost—a song that hums with the warmth of companionship against the bite of a winter night. From the first pulse, you can almost feel the weight of snow underfoot and hear the muted hush of a forest swallowing sound. The band builds that atmosphere with a steady, earthy groove that grows warmer and more inviting with every passing second, as if you’re watching a campfire finally catch flame.

What makes the track so striking is how it channels raw experience without ever slipping into melodrama. There’s an honesty here—an affection that runs deep, born from nights when you’re half-frozen, half-dizzy, and fully alive with the people (and animals) who know you best. The instrumentation mirrors that emotional arc: a blend of grit and glow, like cold air meeting heat. Guitars carry a rugged shimmer, the rhythm moves with an almost animalistic steadiness, and the vocals guide the whole thing like a storyteller leaning in closer.

And then there’s that heartbeat beneath the music—the ode to loyal companions who’ve guided us through snowstorms both real and metaphorical. You can feel the love, the mischief, the gratitude for those furry souls who show up exactly when we need them.

“Animal” isn’t just a song. It’s a flicker of firelight in the dark, a reminder of the trust, joy, and wild magic we share with the creatures who travel beside us. It leaves you warmer than it found you.

THE BEAUTY OF WHAT ALMOST WASN’T

Jay Putty’s “If I Never Met You” feels like someone quietly opening a window to their soul and letting the cold night air drift through—soft, cinematic, and achingly honest in the way only Putty seems able to pull off. He isn’t just telling a story here; he’s tracing the outline of a life that could’ve felt unbearably empty had love not wandered in at the right moment.

The track blooms from gentle, fragile melodies that feel hand-stitched rather than produced, carrying Putty’s voice like a confession meant for one person, even though it lands universally. There’s a sort of bittersweet gravity to the whole thing—the kind that makes your chest tighten because it taps into a truth we all try not to think about: the terrifying beauty of meeting someone who changes the map of your life.

What really elevates the song is Putty’s emotional clarity. You can sense his history—the fire he survived, the losses he’s carried, the resilience that made him a storyteller who doesn’t flinch away from pain. Instead, he shapes it into something warm, almost luminous. This isn’t a heartbreak song; it’s a gratitude song disguised as a lament, a quiet reminder that even temporary love is better than never having known it at all.

With “If I Never Met You,” Putty adds another deeply human chapter to his growing legacy. It’s tender, vulnerable, and beautifully cinematic—one of those tracks that lingers long after the last note fades.

A Storm Brewing Under the Skin

Herds come out swinging with “Inside,” a sharp, restless indie-rock flare-up that feels like watching a relationship crumble in real time—only set to a pulse that refuses to sit still. There’s an urgency to the track, the kind that barrels forward with grit and a hint of bruised vulnerability. You can feel the band’s decade-long evolution in every corner of the soundscape: tight, lived-in musicianship wrapped in a haze of psych-rock tension.

Neil Beards’ vocals carry that raw, slightly trembling edge that makes the emotional weight land without ever drifting into melodrama. Meanwhile, Paul Wentworth’s electric guitar cuts through the mix like it’s trying to pry the truth out of someone, while Al Duncan’s bass keeps everything grounded with a steady, unshakable resolve. The production at JT Soar and Snug Recording Co. gives the song the exact texture it needs—rough enough to feel honest, polished enough to hit hard.

What really hooks you is how “Inside” captures conflict without losing its light. It’s feisty, yes, but never bitter; more like a final spark in a fading flame. By the time it peaks, the track feels like a private moment you weren’t supposed to hear, yet can’t look away from.

If this is the energy leading into their third LP, Herds are poised for something striking—something that digs deep, then refuses to let go.

Homeward Glow

The Snow Ponies’ “The Long Way Home” arrives like a warm, late-afternoon sunbeam across an apple orchard — familiar, slightly wistful, and quietly triumphant. Phil Dean’s voice feels lived-in and immediate, folding tender storytelling into a melody that wavers between chiming new-wave clarity and indie-pop intimacy. The arrangement is an elegant balancing act: chiming guitars and shimmering synth lines weave around a steady, purposeful rhythm section, while tasteful production leaves generous space for the song’s emotional center to breathe.

There’s a playful, offbeat charm in the band’s backstory that bleeds into the music — the rural Kiwi setting and curious details (yes, a blacksmith found a role in this herd) give the track an earthy personality that pairs perfectly with its polished sonics. Influences peek through without ever dominating: hints of pastoral Neil Young melancholy, the cheeky immediacy of contemporary indie pop, and the widescreen jolt of classic new-wave results in something that feels both referential and wholly new.

“The Long Way Home” thrives on contrast — intimate verses that lead into a chorus with roomy, uplifting persistence — and it rewards repeat listens by revealing small instrumental flourishes and vocal nuances each time. It’s an assured first step for The Snow Ponies in their Aotearoa chapter: approachable, memorable, and promising much more to come.

A Fury Born in Shadows 

“Sister of War” is The Elephant Man at their most unapologetically feral — a track that doesn’t just knock on the door of your psyche but kicks it wide open and strides in with fire in its eyes. From the very first grinding ripple of guitar, you feel the band pushing into a heavier, more visceral territory, the kind that makes your pulse thrum like you’re standing in the middle of some cosmic battlefield.

Maximilian’s voice is a force all its own here — deep, urgent, and strangely intimate, like he’s pulling you into the storm rather than performing it at a distance. Behind him, the band tightens into something fierce and singular: TMY’s guitars snarl with a cinematic sense of tension, Halle’s drums rumble like distant thunder, and Ivan’s bass lines glue everything together with a menacing pulse that never loosens its grip.

What makes “Sister of War” hit even harder is the emotional architecture beneath all that power. There’s rage, yes, and an undeniable invocation of chaos — but threaded through it is that sudden gleam of something bright, a reminder that even within destruction, the will to rise remains. It’s that clash — darkness locking eyes with the possibility of redemption — that gives the song its teeth.

Bold, immersive, and absolutely unafraid to get loud in all the right ways, “Sister of War” is the kind of track that demands you surrender to it. And honestly? You’ll want to.

Chasing Thunder in the Dark

Scott’s Tees’ We Move As Fast As Storms Allow feels like stumbling into someone’s half-remembered dream and realizing they’ve turned it into music before it could fade. There’s a tender scrappiness to the track—an honest, bedroom-born kind of magic that can’t be faked, no matter how polished a studio might be. You can practically sense the Tascam recorder humming in the corner, catching every breath, every ghostly harmony, as if the song itself were whispering its way into existence.

What makes the track glow is its balance of grit and softness. You hear that alt-rock weight—those Pearl Jam and Soundgarden shadows drifting underneath—but it’s woven with a gentler folk thread, something intimate and inward-looking. The harmonies in the chorus don’t just lift the song; they widen it, like a window thrown open right before a storm breaks. It’s raw, sure, but that rawness feels intentional, like part of its charm is the unfiltered emotion.

There’s also a sweet bravery in the simplicity of the project. One person, one bedroom, one dream—yet there’s a universe pulsing beneath the lo-fi edges. Scott’s Tees isn’t just writing a song about dreams; they’re making something that feels like one, flickering and vivid and a little bit vulnerable.

We Move As Fast As Storms Allow doesn’t rush. It lingers. And by the final note, you kind of want to linger with it too.