Tom Minor’s The Manic Phase is not just an album—it’s a late-night Soho confession, scrawled in eyeliner on a bathroom mirror, lit by the flicker of neon signs and the ghosts of weekend warriors past. This record is bursting at the seams with grime, glamour, and the kind of storytelling that makes you feel like you’ve lived every messy, magical second of it. Rooted in indie rock with dashes of garage, new wave, and punk, Minor’s sound is unmistakably British—sharp-edged, swaggering, but steeped in empathy.

At the heart of the record is Thievin’ Stephen, a mythic figure straight out of a pint-glassed urban legend. Equal parts lovable rogue and manic dreamer, he haunts these songs like a spirit of Soho itself—larger than life and heartbreakingly human.

“Saturday Eats Its Young” captures Stephen’s world with brutal clarity. From its opening line—”Injection, against that slow / Infection”—the song launches into a breathless chronicle of a night out that’s half party, half existential spiral. Minor paints Soho as a siren that devours with velvet teeth: “There’s no protection in old Soho / Suave diction won’t save you though / From friction.” The beat pulses like adrenaline, and the guitars swagger and lurch with just the right amount of menace. You can smell the sweat of the dance floor and taste the cheap beer and regret on your tongue. This is post-punk nightlife poetry at its finest.

But Tom Minor doesn’t leave us in the alleyways—he aims for the stars, too. “Expanding Universe” is a sharp turn into cosmic satire, a space-age stomp that mocks modern materialism and celebrates life’s glorious chaos. “There’s just so many planets and so little speed / But we’re fizzy and always very busy running a brand new street.” It’s cheeky and philosophical, a glam-punk joyride that imagines the end of the world as a never-ending festival. Minor’s vocal performance is part carnival barker, part prophet-on-a-pushbike, urging us not to tarry while the universe dances on. There’s a delicious contrast between the lyrical weight and the giddy momentum of the music.

And then there’s the title track: “The Manic Phase.” This one isn’t just a song—it’s the thesis of the album. The instrumentation is lean and sharp, with a taut rhythm section that throbs like a racing pulse. Lyrically, it dives deep into the rollercoaster of mental states, capturing the volatile highs and lows with startling accuracy. There’s a tenderness beneath the grit—an understanding of how beauty and madness often walk hand in hand. Minor doesn’t romanticize instability, but he doesn’t shy away from its vividness either. “The Manic Phase” feels like running full tilt down a London street at 3 a.m., heart pounding, laughter and tears indistinguishable.

The production by Teaboy Palmer—the self-styled “Phil Spector of Finchley Road”—balances polish and rawness perfectly. Each track feels alive, imperfect in the best way, like a photograph taken on expired film. There’s room for chaos, but it’s controlled chaos—brimming with emotion, not just noise.

In a music landscape often obsessed with clean lines and commercial polish, The Manic Phase is gloriously, deliberately messy. It’s a portrait of a city, and of a mind on fire. It’s indie rock with a poet’s heart and a punk’s sneer. Tom Minor doesn’t just write songs—he crafts scenes, characters, worlds. And in this world, the manic phase is not just something to survive—it’s something to feel. Fully. Loudly. Honestly.