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Tony D'Amico

About Tony D'Amico

https://psychotropicwonderland.com

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Nurse With Wound/Diarmuid MacDiarmada “Lung Oysters” (United Dairies/Arcana Hibernia, 2025)

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In recent years, the most compelling Nurse With Wound albums tend to be collaborations with other artists and this latest opus reaffirms that trend in impressively decisive fashion. Unsurprisingly, Irish multidisciplinary artist Diarmuid MacDiarmada was previously unknown to me, but his presence certainly seems to have inspired Steven Stapleton to go wild here, as Lung Oysters is exactly the kind of playfully demented party that I always hope for with each fresh NWW release, as fiery psych-rock, kitschy exotica, and surrealist musique concrète all collide in impressively bananas (and surprisingly melodic) fashion. In fact, NWW even sound like an absolutely killer (and explosive) real band here on a couple of pieces. This is the most vibrant and vital new NWW album in ages (or at least since Huffin’ Rag Blues).

Aside from MacDiarmada, Stapleton is joined by a few of the usual suspects (Andrew Liles and irr. app. (ext.)’s Matt Waldron) as well as Irish artist Tara Baoth Mooney (who handles vocals on several pieces). Given that almost everyone involved is some kind of sound collage enthusiast, it is damn near impossible to tell who is doing what at any given point, but I suspect Liles in particular played an outsized role in the opening “Monotony Meltdown,” as he seems like the most likely person in that milieu to unleash a fucking molten guitar solo.

In fact, aside from a brief interlude with some trippy chimes, “Monotony Meltdown” sounds like it could have been recorded by a legit ‘70s psych-rock band like The Groundhogs, as it has a driving beat, a strong bass line, dexterous lead guitar pyrotechnics, tambourines, plenty of wah-wah, and even some era-appropriate organ riff-age. Elsewhere, “Volta’s Pistol” is yet another great psych-rock throwback, as a stomping beat and fuzz bass provide an insistently propulsive backdrop for a dual-guitar melody that would not be out of place on a Mark McGuire album. 

As delightful as it is to hear NWW kick out the jams as a formidable rock band, my favorite pieces tend to be the more exotica-inspired ones. In “The Psychobabbler’s Shroud,” for example, a chanting chorus of vocoder’d voices and metallic percussion provide a breezy tropical backdrop for a gentle melody of harmonics, though the distorted voices certainly add a lysergic sense of unreality to the scene (like someone hired Ak’Chamel as the house band for a laid-back beach resort).

“Two Shoves and a Shunt” is even better still, as the whistling and clattering exotica groove is considerably more vibrant and unpredictable. That rolling and festive jungle party is combined with deadpan, poetic vocals from Baoth Mooney, which makes it one of the more fully formed “songs” on the album, but that part does not last for long, as the final stretch of the piece unexpectedly launches into a cool half-funky/half-proggy groove worthy of classic King Crimson.

The remainder of the album is a bit more abstract, but no less great. The lengthy title piece is especially mesmerizing, as a wandering piano melody weaves its way through a shapeshifting chaos of rhythmic claps, Hawaiian-sounding slide guitar, heaving industrial machinery, snatches of vocal melodies, scrabbling guitar noise, and spoken word that drifts in and out of focus. Elsewhere, the following “Refrain (If I must Die)” resembles an unholy collision of torch-y lounge jazz, the industrial rhythms of Thunder Perfect Mind’s “Cold,” and Crass’s more experimental/abstract side (and features one hell of an intense vocal performance from Baoth Mooney as well). 

At first, I was a bit underwhelmed by the album’s final two tracks simply because they followed such an incredible and unbroken run of hits, but I have since warmed to “Bombing For Peace is Like Fucking For Virginity” a bit. It resembles a fog-shrouded doom metal band endlessly teasing out an extended introduction to their opening song with a hallucinatory sound collage of church bells, ominous ambiance, and a host of sounds that resemble a psychedelic rainforest mingled with a swirl of ghosts. 

It admittedly errs a bit on the side of being too meandering and unfocused at times, but I think Stapleton’s surrealist forebears would have enthusiastically approved of a prolonged build up to a song that never comes. While I have thus far failed to embrace the nightmarish ambiance of the closing “A Hairy Tongue Anomaly (modified),” its worst crime is merely sounding like business-as-usual for late period NWW. That would be perfectly fine by me in a different context, but here it has the misfortune of following at least five pieces that easily rank among NWW’s finest work. Tough break. In any case, I definitely didn’t expect to be blown away by a new Nurse With Wound album this deep into the project’s lifespan, but Lung Oysters is a properly revelatory and surprising release with an unprecedented run of absolute bangers.

Listen here.   

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The Humble Bee, “Morning Music” (Cotton Goods (2010)/Dauw (2025)

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Newly remastered and reissued for the first time ever, Morning Music was the second handmade release from Craig Tattersall’s solo tape music project. Notably, Tattersall had already been involved in several great bands by this stage (Hood, The Remote Viewer, The Boats), but the simple, intimate ambient soundscapes of The Humble Bee were a new direction for him and the original 4CD collection was a major statement that has deservedly acquired a cult following over the years through unofficial uploads. Notably, the album’s title is quite literal, as these pieces were all recorded over the course of a frigid Manchester January between 6am and 7am each day (before Tattersall left for work) and each piece needed to be fully composed, recorded, mixed, and documented within that one hour. 

Given that tight time constraint, these pieces are all understandably quite brief (two or three minutes each) and quite simple as well (usually just two or three interwoven loops). That brevity and simplicity seemed to suit Tattersall just fine, however, as these tender and sublime miniatures cumulatively add up to languorously beautiful and immersive extended reverie. Unsurprisingly, Tattersall’s palette was quite simple as well, as he wove his magic from little more than a few blearily frayed and murmuring chords, an occasional gently flickering fragment of melody, and a healthy amount of crackling, hissing, and fluttering tape noise. That last bit is unusually important, as it gives these delicate pieces a satisfying physicality in which they seem to be crackling with electricity and life. Those non-musical sounds also often play an integral role in shaping the hypnotic rhythm of these looping meditations.  

In keeping with the theme of meditation, the essential beauty of these pieces lies in the Zen-like harmony of Tattersall’s combined loops, as he proves himself to be quite adept at finding the ideal balancing element for each of his central themes. For example, the gentle murmuring ambiance of “06.01.2010” unexpectedly blossoms into deep, languorous beauty around the halfway point when a warm, repeating bass tone and wobbly two-note melody appear. Elsewhere, “17.01.2010” is another highlight, as a sensuous and whistling melody resembling a singing saw gradually emerges from a cold rumble. I was also struck by a back-to-back pair of lovely piano pieces on the album’s second half (“19.01.2010” & “20.01.2010”), as twinkling and rippling melodies lazily circle over a backdrop of warm, wistful chords.

That said, the individual highlights are far less important than the overall experience, as Morning Music feels like a blissful morning spent in a cozy cabin with a crackling fire and manages to sustain that heavenly illusion for the duration of two full LPs. Actually, scratch that: it actually feels more like a warm memory of such a morning, as the warped, stretched, flickering, and submerged textures of the tape loops imbue these pieces with a dream-like sense of unreality that is an extremely alluring place to linger. In fact, I can think of few albums more deserving of a reissue than this one, so Dauw deserves a lot of credit for finally coaxing Tattersall into making that a reality. I especially envy the people who managed to snag the original hand-assembled Cotton Goods release with the daily photographs from Tattersall’s window and the diagrams of his set-up, as Morning Music is an absolute classic of intimate and soulful home-recorded magic.  

Listen here.

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Skullflower, “Draconis” (Cold Spring, 2014)

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It is hardly newsworthy to report that a Skullflower album is a blackened, face-melting fusillade of gnarled guitar noise or that it sounds like shoegaze turned occult and murderous, but Draconis still kind of blindsided me. Though it is characteristically grinding and brutally heavy from start to finish, Matthew Bowers and Samantha Davies unexpectedly balanced their caustic maelstrom with a bit more structure and melody this time around. Not all the time, mind you, but when the combination of harrowing noise and buried melody comes together just right, Draconis feels like one of the most brilliant albums in the Skullflower canon.

Draconis was ambitiously and curiously billed as “synapse-scorching occult industrial prog noise folk,” which probably does a fine job at summarizing late-period Skullflower’s inspirations, but is a bit misleading in describing the actual content, which falls much closer to “drone-damaged walls of guitar noise.” Though it thankfully has some structure (historically not Bowers’ strong suit), there is nothing here that suggests the complex, byzantine structures of progressive rock, nor is there much to suggest “folk” in the traditional sense (like, say, an audible acoustic guitar, a traditional melody, or any vocals). Instead, Draconis is mostly a series of roiling oceanic soundscapes of metallic bowed strings, throbbing low end, and smoldering guitar noise. That said, there is definitely something deeper happening as well, even if it is not overt: Draconis still somehow feels like concept album in its own weird way, evoking an otherworldly ritualistic atmosphere and occasionally blossoming into unexpected vistas of relative calm.

Unsurprisingly, the best pieces are those where Davies and Bowers augment their noise squall with some kind of perverse anti-hook. For example, “To Raise Wolves” beautiful enhances its trebly Black Metal guitars with washes of white noise and an insistently swooping “air raid siren” synth motif. Such innovations appear with far more frequency on the superior second disc than on the first, with nearly every song standing out in some inspired way. Some major highlights are the warped shoegaze guitars of “Autumn’s Trinkets” (which call to mind the smoldering ruins of a Swervedriver song) or the rippling undercurrent and howling roar of the epic and hallucinatory closer “Dakshninikalika.” The most stunning piece, however, is “Sunset Dreams,” in which the duo’s tortured, dissonantly harmonizing guitars unfold over an unrelenting, slow-motion chord progression and an omnipresent shivering hiss. The overall effect is quite an apocalyptic one: “Sunset Dreams” would be the perfect soundtrack to deserted city of collapsing buildings.

If Draconis has a flaw, it is that its many moments of sublime, alien beauty are interspersed with some rather harsh noise, which may make it a rough ride for those solely looking for warped guitar genius. Also, the best pieces on the album inadvertently call attention to the fact that the weaker pieces could have been much better if they had only incorporated some kind of additional hook or twist to the formula. Such pieces are hardly boring though—their rewards simply lie in their sheer massiveness, raw power, and textural complexity. Also, I personally enjoy harsh noise done well, so I am delighted by the idea of an excellent and blistering noise opus that periodically blossoms into something much more wonderful. Though it is undeniably very “niche,” Draconis feels like an absolute tour de force/possible career-defining masterpiece to me. This was easily one of my favorite albums of 2014 and it is still one hell of a ripper more than a decade later. Blackened grandeur at its finest. 

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Lea Bertucci, “The Oracle” (Cibachrome Editions, 2025)

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This latest release from the New York-based composer saxophonist is a bold and deeply psychedelic departure from her usual terrain (aside from being partially recorded in a cave, of course). The first big surprise is that The Oracle is an extremely vocal-centric album to an almost a capella degree. The other major twist is that Bertucci “creatively misuses a reel-to-to-reel tape machine to live-manipulate her voice” into an unpredictably kaleidoscopic and hallucinatory swirl of bubbling, hissing, murmuring, and slurred words stripped of most context and meaning. 

Bertucci envisions the album as “soothsaying for this tumultuous historical moment” in which layers of voices reveal and obscure “images of dreams, warped news headlines and mythological imagery.” While not all of that conceptual framework made the leap into a significant part of my listening experience, Bertucci certainly conjures up one hell of a sustained and deeply abstract mindfuck that feels both timeless and otherworldly. 

The character of that mindfuck is best described as “a somnambulant seer in a space cave is trying to tell me something important, but her words are pulled apart and stripped of meaning because both reality and the physics of sound have begun unpredictably bending, stretching, and dissolving.” The closest signpost is probably the space whispering of Gong’s Gilli Smyth, but Bertucci’s vision is a radically deconstructed and aggressively minimalist twist on that aesthetic, as the only real “music” is an omnipresent drone of some kind and the occasional flute (aside from the closing “In This Time,” which improbably features the Wesleyan University Taiko Ensemble).    

Given Bertucci’s hyper-constrained palette of subtle drones and her own manipulated voice, most of these six pieces share a very similar feel (a spacey dream fog of flickering and stretched voices), but a few pieces transcend that baseline to achieve a more unique character. For example, the title piece has the feel of ASMR-loving ghosts drifting through a deserted and deadly silent space station (nicely enhanced by some breathy flute sounds that feel like submerged howls). I am also quite fond of the comparatively warm “In This Time,” as the percussion gives it an ancient/tribal feel and Bertucci’s hazy and fitfully melodic Siren-esque vocals are beautifully enhanced by a backdrop of air raid siren-esque vocal swoops. 

My favorite piece is “Two Way Mirror,” however, as Bertucci’s fragmented and stammering words leave behind lysergic vapor trails over spectral, didgeridoo-esque drones and visceral samples of industrial machinery that sound almost like screams (it is even great when the vocals fade away). In short, The Oracle is quite a spacey and immersive rabbit hole to plunge down and quite a wild departure for Bertucci as well. Given that, fans of her earlier work will likely find this challenging and abstract vision of hallucinatory sound poetry, caves, and “folkloric flutes” nearly unrecognizable as a Lea Bertucci album, but adventurous psychonauts will find plenty of deep and otherworldly psychedelia to luxuriate in (while presumably fraying their sanity a bit as well). 

Listen here.

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Steve Hauschildt, “Aeropsia” (Simul, 2025)

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This is the first new release from Emeralds’ former synth wizard in six years and marks a return to his DIY past with the unveiling of his new imprint Simul (much of Hauschildt’s early work was self-released on his own Gneiss Things label). Obviously, a hell of a lot has happened globally since Hauschildt last surfaced, but it seems like a hell of a lot has happened personally for him as well, as he left Chicago to live on the other side of the world in Tbilisi, Georgia.

In keeping with that theme of transformation and disorientation, the album borrows its title from a perception disorder that roughly translates as “seeing air.” It is often triggered by hallucinogen use and apparently makes it seem like the objective material world is veiled in static or television snow. That makes an appropriate title for this release, as these eight sensuous and meditative synth pieces evoke a sense of solitary grandeur and longing fitfully frayed by distortion and sizzle.

Hauschildt’s work has always been a bit hit or miss for me, as he seems much more inspired by New Age, kosmiche, and early ‘80s film soundtracks than most other artists within the current synth vanguard and those retro sounds are not always my scene. He also happens to have a much stronger melodic sensibility than most other synth artists and an incredibly sophisticated and nuanced approach to composition as well, so his strongest pieces tend to be absolute stunners. To my ears, Aeropsia’s absolute stunner is “Dividua,” as a gently blooping and bittersweet melody languorously unfolds with a host of gorgeously streaking and twinkling embellishments before dissolving into a more percussive/marimba-esque coda. Elsewhere, the more propulsive and Emeralds-esque “Pyramidal” is another quietly mesmerizing highlight, as a cool off-kilter groove anchors an intricate arpeggio motif with a wonderfully tumbling and fitful melody.

That said, the full beauty of Aeropsia only reveals itself with deeper headphone listening, as Hauschildt’s nuanced and sensual manipulation of textures offers a more subtle world of pleasure lurking within the more obvious one. “Slipping” is an especially fine example of that small-scale magic, as it gradually blossoms from a gently smeared and wistful organ reverie to a a tenderly burbling arpeggio theme before dissolving into an achingly beautiful finale of chiming, crystalline tones and slow heaving sighs with frayed edges. The title piece is similarly sublime, as a rippling, delay-enhanced piano motif is beautifully enhanced by flickering and streaking high notes and Hecker-esque static-ravaged chords. 

The remainder of the pieces are a fine batch as well, but they tend to diverge in more “ambient” or “cinematic” directions. The former are best represented by the lush, dreamlike opener “Statue of Verdigris” and the billowing, slow-motion majesty of the closing epic “Amongst Automata,” while the thumping and burbling “Forgetting in the Static” best captures Hauschildt’s retro soundtrack side. There are also some strong contributions from guitarist Michael Vallera and ubiquitous avant-garde cellist Lia Kohl throughout the album, but Hauschildt’s intuitive genius for melodies, textures, and ingeniously interwoven layers are what make Aeropsia an exceptionally fine synth album. Steve Hauschildt may have been quiet for the last several years, but he remains very much at the peak of his powers (and might even be better than before in some respects).

Listen here.  

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Legendary Pink Dots, “Chemical Playschool 25” (Self-Released, 2025)

There is not a hell of a lot of background information about this latest installment of the Dots’ long-running Chemical Playschool series other than the fact that it was recorded in 2025 and will eventually have a double vinyl release. Fortunately, anyone who has been following LPD’s career for a while will know exactly what to expect: a deep and eclectic dive into free-form psychedelia, promising song fragments, and wherever the hell else the band feels like throwing into the mix.

This one is an especially solid entry to the beloved series, however, as the aforementioned song fragments are quite a strong batch. That said, they are fragments, so the primary appeal of this album lies in shapeshifting and kaleidoscopic fantasia of the overall journey. While the fleeting glimpses of great songs can be teasingly exasperating at times (as always), I love the current uncluttered aesthetic of (mostly) just surf-damaged dreampop guitars, propulsive drum machine grooves, and vocals (albeit still with plenty of trippy sounds perpetually bleeding in from the periphery, of course)

For the most part, every single piece on Chemical Playschool 25 follows a very similar trajectory that begins with a moody or simmering song built from little more than Edward Ka-Spel’s vocals, a dubby drum pattern, and a melodic guitar motif from Erik Drost. At a certain point, however, the “song” bit either implodes, dissolves, or becomes enveloped in a swirl of psychedelic electronics, backwards melodies, hallucinatory samples, and field recordings.

Sometimes the song will eventually re-emerge from that lysergic maelstrom and sometimes it will not, but there is always the kernel of a legitimately cool and catchy song at the heart of these pieces. I suppose one could reasonably argue that the band is endlessly repeating the same trick, but the magic lies in the details and there is more than enough sonic richness and imagination on display to imbue each piece with its own distinctive character (especially on headphones, which are damn near essential for total immersion in these complexly layered psychotropic collages).

The sole exception to that template is the closing 16-minute epic “It Always Happens In 3s,” which is an endlessly shifting rabbit hole of hallucinatory abstraction that covers everything from Kraftwerk-esque early techno to nightmarish dark ambiance to weird mutant party grooves (with horns!).

Aside from that impressively bananas tour de force, my favorite piece is “Trans Siberian,” which notably inverts the template by evolving from a drifting nightmare-scape into a wonderfully melancholy “pop” gem with a twangy “Personal Jesus”/”Never Tear Us Apart”-style guitar hook and an unexpected bed of Mellotron-sounding flutes. Elsewhere, “My Doppelganger” and “Quarantine Machine” are a pair of like-minded highlights built from squelchy drum machine grooves and tremolo-woozy, delay-enhanced surf guitar chords.

“Spotless” is yet another gem, as it departs from the album’s template with a bouncy, piano-driven groove. That said, the allure of individual songs is not quite the point here, as this album is best enjoyed as an extended immersive plunge into deep psychedelia. Experienced thusly, the entire album is a delight, as fresh and imaginative motifs are continually bubbling to the surface (such as the tropical/exotica groove in “Monstera Mash”).

While I have faded in and out of LPD fandom over the years for varying reasons, there are a few facets to this project that I absolutely love that can be exclusively channeled through the mind of Edward Ka-Spel. For one, he can be an absolute psych-pop genius when he sets his mind to it (see Tear Garden’s “Romulus and Venus”). Naturally, I am huge fan of his unsettling monologues as well (The Creature That Tasted Sound, the holiday singles), but I am also a huge fan of a well-crafted Chemical Playschool-style plunge into all-enveloping free-form mindfuckery and this latest opus hits the mark nicely for me. Guitarist Erik Drost is probably this album’s MVP as the melodic guiding force, but I was quite struck by the elegant craftsmanship apparent in all of the various song fragments as well.

The fragments may be brief, but they are beautifully edited and tightly composed while they last and both the beats and omnipresent psychotropic intrusions tend to be quite inspired as well. I have no idea how well this stacks up against every other installment of this series, as I don’t have 20+ hours to reassess its predecessors, but Chemical Playschool 25 is one hell of a satisfying and substantial release by any measure.

Listen here.

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Roméo Poirier, “Off The Record” (Faitiche, 2025)

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This fourth solo album from the reliably fascinating French collage artist is billed as “an amusing romp through the discarded history of recording studios.” That claim probably wildly oversells this album’s comedy value, but Off The Record is definitely unusually playful and entertaining for a sound art album. It is also quite an immersive, unexpectedly beautiful, and occasionally even haunting album that impressively continues Poirier’s hot streak. Stylistically, most of the pieces resemble the warm, skipping loop ambiance of classic Oval, but the unpredictable and overlapping samples of studio chatter, sound checks, and false starts adds quite a lot of mystery and depth to that vision.

Much like its predecessor Living Room (assembled from samples of his father’s music), Off The Record feels like both a loving homage and an inventive deconstruction/détournement. This is most evident on “Steve A.” (a thirty second collage of Steve Albini saying the word “studio”) and “The List.” In the latter, an array of Poirier’s friends and peers (Jake Muir, Andrew Pekler, etc.) list a series of iconic and influential studios (INA GRM, Black Ark, etc.) over a sensuously pulsing ambient dream fog. It is one of the album’s most beautiful pieces despite the music remaining relatively understated and unchanging, as the space between the various voices gradually decreases until they overlap in a hallucinatory jumble. Apparently Poirier’s inspiration was partially borrowed from the Accumulation style associated with French artist Arman (and others) in which unaltered, mundane items are combined into an assemblage. The artistry lies primarily in the curation and placement of the materials and Poirier shows a real gift for that here, as Off The Record’s best moments attain an elegantly woven spell of sublime beauty from a host of forgotten, discarded, silly, and otherwise meaningless studio moments.  

To his credit, Poirier finds an impressively ingenious array of compelling ways to recontextualize his studio detritus throughout the album, playfully dabbling in everything from dub to exotica to soul (and tossing in some well-placed amusing samples along the way as well). While the first two pieces function primarily as a gently deepening immersion into Poirier’s vision, things soon settle into a nearly unbroken run of highlights starting with the album’s third piece (“Langsam”). Some pieces are more musically substantial than others, but they all tend to follow a similar trajectory in which studio chatter on a specific theme is gradually transformed into something unexpected and compelling. In “One Two One Two” for example, Poirier unleashes a host of eclectic clips of various engineers and artists endlessly counting off, but the final moment blossoms into a sensuous ambient haze with finger snaps and a trumpet hook. Elsewhere, “Ssttuuddiiooo” transforms a chopped and skipping loop of the word “studio” into an unexpectedly soulful and sexy groove that suggests a hypnagogic Madlib deconstruction. “Silencio” is similarly musical and even more substantial, as a dubby bass throb anchors a sensuous and dream-like voyage through a swirl of voices, subtle electric piano, and string flourishes.

The overall effect is akin to a series of clever and amusing magic tricks, as it is always a delight to hear the seemingly disjointed parade of aborted takes, sound checks, dialogue snippets, and mishaps improbably blossom into something wonderful (sometimes with a delightful final reveal to boot). For example, “Snare Drum Mic” is a languorous fantasia of lush strings, Hawaiian-sounding lap steel, and snatches of singing that ends with guy explaining (and then exasperatedly re-explaining) that he accidentally banged into the snare drum mic. 

Aside from the charming premise, flashes of humor, and ingenious execution, I was unexpectedly impressed with the general vibe of the album, as the juxtaposition of orchestral samples, snatches of jazz, and bleary ambient synths feels like a hallucinatory and impressionistic taste of mid-20th century Hollywood grandeur. That element really makes this album feel like an immersive experience much greater than the sum of its parts. I also love how the endless cavalcade of interruptions and false starts give the album a mischievously elusive feel that lies somewhere between an existentialist comedy and a series of flickering mirages. Neat trick. My only caveat with Off The Record is that it leans more heavily towards art than ambient beauty, so curious listeners may want to give Hotel Nota or Living Room a spin before delving into this more minimal and conceptual detour. 

Listen here.     

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The Shadow Ring, “Hold Onto I.D.” (Siltbreeze (1997) / Blank Forms (2025))

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Newly reissued, this singular 1998 album is billed as arguably being The Shadow Ring’s best-known and most accessible album, but there are a couple of important caveats to that claim. The main one is that The Shadow Ring’s entire discography had been maddeningly out-of-print for years before Blank Forms ambitious reissue campaign began and this album was the only one available on streaming platforms, so it is arguably their best-known album for reasons other than its merits alone. Secondly, accessibility is a relative thing and “most accessible Shadow Ring album” essentially means “a bit more accessible than a Jandek album.” Despite the clattering martial-style percussion on de-tuned drums, Lambkin’s discordant guitar abuse, and Goss’s queasily disorienting synths, however, this album is an improbably fun and haunting glimpse into a deeply weird and unfamiliar world.

Notably, I personally find the earlier Wax-Work Echoes to be much more musically satisfying and easier on the ears, but the more spoken word-centric Hold Onto I.D. is a fascinating and unique release in a completely different way, as it offers an unsettling and vaguely sinister account of Graham Lambkin & Darren Harris’s new life in Coombe House (a former ambulance station) after moving out of their parents’ homes (which were still within walking distance). While Blank Forms rightly describes this as the band’s “most overtly autobiographical” release, the actual reality of Coombe House is transformed into a curdled magical realist nightmare in which our two dour protagonists are continually besieged and menaced by an alarming infestation of sea creatures.  

Notably, this is the Shadow Ring’s second album to feature Tim Goss on electronics and keyboards. In theory, the reduced emphasis on Lambkin’s jarringly discordant out-of-tune guitar strums seems like it should have heralded a big leap forward in listenability, but that is again not always the case here, as Goss unleashes some willfully annoying and incredibly shrill sounds in Hold Onto I.D.’s first two pieces. Also, there is still plenty of dissonant and gleefully inept guitar playing to be found. There have been plenty of bands over the years that have transcended their crap gear and lack of instrumental competence to make magic, but the Shadow Ring is not one of them on this particular album. 

Fortunately, the combination of Lambkin’s half-sardonic/half-creepy lyrics and Harris’s amusingly bitter and hostile-sounding readings of said lyrics are compelling enough to make the music itself feel like a somewhat irrelevant afterthought. Apparently, Lambkin made a conscious effort to use bureaucratic language on this album, which often makes Harris sound like an incredibly disapproving government official grumbling about snails and other prominent Shadow Ring concerns. In fact, I am tempted to characterize Hold Onto I.D. as a wonderful and bat-shit crazy spoken word album that also happens to have some music.

My favorite pieces are “Coombe House” and “Like When,” but the real appeal of this album is akin to a found footage horror movie mingled with flashes of jet-black deadpan comedy (though the band repeatedly insist that it is “no occasion to laugh” and dourly add that “prawn got a bit involved”). Fittingly, “You’ve got to watch the water” is the overarching concern this time around, as Harris laments snail infestations and notes “leaving this house becomes a dream” (a sentiment that the band’s lone hapless neighbor probably echoed as well). While the aforementioned sea creatures allegedly send the band’s piano to a simultaneously watery & grisly grave at one point (no occasion to laugh again, obviously), there are also plenty of amusing and pseudo-autobiographical details that suggest Coombe House is not entirely an unending nightmare. For example, Harris proudly notes at one point that he can now cook whenever he wants or open any window at any time he wants and further notes that “the washing up gets done” (“aided and abetted by brushes and things”). Concerned listeners will also be relieved to learn that “there are no dictators anymore over fat-free milk.”

There is also a good deal of deadpan meta-commentary on the album itself, as a microphone abruptly quits and vows “to work with better bands” at one point. Harris also drolly notes “I am not concerned with the music tying in with the words—not now…and I never was that bothered before.” Lambkin also throws some wonderfully groan-inducing dystopian jokes into the lyrics, as “Basic Everyday Life” finds Harris warning of a future in which fish are only caught in “internets” and robots determine whether you have chicken or tripe for dinner. They also arguably break the fourth wall at the end of “Coombe House,” as Harris grimly insists “black out…NOW.. Do it now.” Of course, that may have instead been directed at Harris himself by Lambkin (he DOES stop speaking for the song’s final minute). 

While I can certainly see why the aforementioned disgruntled microphone sought refuge elsewhere, Lambkin, Harris, and Goss were really onto something quite amazing on this release: every time I listen to the entire thing, I get sucked deeper and deeper into The Shadow Ring’s mind-bending rabbit hole of dissonance, rot, and improbable apartment problems. I think that makes this some kind of outsider masterpiece, as my deep immersion in this album this week has left me feeling like a half-mad resident of Coombe House myself (though I am thankfully not yet fearful of my shower drain).

Listen here.

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The Shadow Ring, “Wax-Work Echoes” (Corpus Hermeticum (1996) / Blank Forms (2025))

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Amusingly, The Shadow Ring’s third album was originally intended to be a collection of outtakes and live recordings for Bruce Russell’s new Corpus Hermeticum label, but a crucial recording from the band’s US tour was accidentally left in a bar. That setback was ambitiously overcome by recording an entire album of new material instead and it was notably the first to feature Tim Goss as a full-time member. Notably, Goss had been making sample-based music with a computer, so his inclusion coincided with the arrival of some better gear. Consequently, this album significantly departs from its more primitive predecessors with improved sound quality, a strong emphasis on electronics, and the involvement of the Goss family piano.

That said, Graham Lambkin’s discordantly out-of-tune guitar strums remain a central feature at this stage and Goss occasionally proves himself to be similarly adept at unleashing his own eruptions of annoying dissonance. At other times, however, the trio unexpectedly conjure something best described as outsider musique concrète along with surprisingly effective squalls of noise and feedback. Unsurprisingly, Darren Harris’s vocals remain delightfully unsettling, compelling, and enigmatic as ever, but this album is unexpectedly more significant for its flashes of brilliance with the music itself, which is not something I often say about The Shadow Ring.

The opening “You’re Holding All Your Feathered Stock” is one of the stronger pieces on the album as well as one of the more representative pieces (for better or worse), as Lambkin’s thorny guitar strumming gives the pieces the feel of some kind of ragged and ritualistic occult procession while Harris ominously announces that the screaming birds are being kept away from sunlight and harm. It’s great while it lasts, but it also boasts a lengthy self-sabotaging outro of shrill synth indulgence. The following “Catching Sight” has the opposite trajectory, as it begins with somewhat half-baked piano hammering yet gradually (if lazily) blossoms into a mystifying yet vivid sound collage that feels like a collision of farm machinery, sprinklers, animal sounds, spacy synth throb, and a mechanical monkey. It then closes with the explicit introduction of some of the album’s unlikely central themes (and recurring refrains) about the importance of taking some time to get it right and the question “who says vermin are shy?” Elsewhere, the trio’s “self-mythologizing lyrics” additionally “celebrate the clicking of horse hooves, ponder the sociability of rats and mice, and warn of the dangers of poultry.”

My favorite piece is “Recovered Meat,” as the trio gradually whip up a properly unhinged and visceral onslaught of howling electronic mayhem over an understated beat and a pleasantly bleeping and squirmy synth motif. Elsewhere, “Camel or Carthorse” is album’s most charming piece, as Lambkin somewhat tunefully (if morosely) sings a lilting melody about fur bonnets and other Shadow Ring concerns over comparatively amiable acoustic guitar. It has the feel of an outsider sea shanty (not unfamiliar terrain for the band), but then Harris suddenly crashes the party with a spoken (and vaguely threatening) meta-narrative about what the song has accomplished so far and warns “I’ve got some more of this music” and further declares that “a hit is a hit.” “Rats and Mice” is a perverse delight as well, as Harris again urges listeners to “get things right” through a veil of distortion over a distracted and shambolic martial rhythm strafed by electronic chaos and feedback.

That said, the quality of the individual songs on Wax-Works Echoes is really secondary to the experience of being immersed in The Shadow Ring’s insular, unsettling, and half-creepy/half-funny headspace, as there is nothing else quite like it. There is rarely a moment in which the nexus of provocative art, willful obnoxiousness, and elaborate joke is not incredibly blurry, but that gives the album a sense of macabre fun no matter how dour Harris seems about the various absurd plights facing him. While there are certainly cerebral shades of a conscious musique concrète influence and Jandek-ian guitar misuse as well as actual poetry, the band are equally likely to play mattress springs, abuse walkie-talkies and answering machines, rant about vermin, credit non-existent band members, or bring in a guest like Richard Youngs to make noises with a chair. Anything goes and it is all gleefully deranged. 

Given that. sometimes this album can admittedly be really damn annoying, but the moments when everything works feel like a haunting and inscrutable transmission from a grimy, hallucinatory, and mouse-plagued alternate dimension and there is nothing else quite like it on earth. The band were definitely in the thrall of some (curdled) white-hot inspiration here. Also, I genuinely admire the fact that three resourceful broken-brained weirdos living with their parents in a coastal resort town took the time to get things so gloriously wrong that they grabbed the attention of underground music luminaries all over the world (and managed to do it without Harris’s parents even noticing that he was in a band for several albums). This is one of my favorite Shadow Ring albums.

 Listen here.

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Weston Olencki, “Broadsides” (Outside Time, 2025)

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This is the first solo album that I have heard from this Berlin-based composer, but I have previously enjoyed his collaborations with Tongue Depressor and Jules Reidy. Notably, the latter (2024’s I Went to the Dance) was a continuation of the “avant-hillbilly” era that first began to take shape with 2022’s Old-Time Music and now returns in spectacular fashion with Broadsides. While Olencki’s primary inspiration remains firmly rooted in the rural American South and Appalachian folk music traditions, these latest pieces present that vision in more of an intense and complexly layered sound collage experience that lands somewhere between a maximalist Chris Watson and a killer Daniel Bachman/Francisco Lopez mash-up. It also happens to be one of the most mesmerizing and immersive headphone albums of the year.

This album can arguably be described as an abstract and impressionistic diary of Olencki’s 2023 trip across the American South, as it was lovingly assembled from field recordings taken along the way (rivers, crickets, trains, etc.) and deconstructed bluegrass and country standards. Notably, the South is a place of deep personal meaning for Olencki, as they grew up in South Carolina and now live in a dramatically different culture half a world away. In keeping with the “deeply personal” theme, Broadsides’ structure is also inventively informed by their family’s generational passion for quilting, as Olencki notes that ““Quilting, like music, is a practice of embedding knowledge and remembrance into the very core of the thing you are making.” In the case of Broadsides, that means that these complexly woven collages pull in all kinds of childhood memories, cherished places, and familiar old songs from the past, as well as plenty of new sounds and impressions from the road trip experienced as an expat reshaped by life in a German city.

Fittingly, the journey begins with the immersive and vividly realized sounds of a train station (“Prelude”), but things start to veer off the tracks in supremely hallucinatory fashion by the second half of “she left,” as the sounds of rain storm blossom into a dizzying and endlessly churning maelstrom of layered textures. Headphone listening is absolutely essential, as the magic of the piece lies in the cacophony of visceral, sharply realized textures and the seemingly infinite subtle transformations lurking within. It is the following “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” that is the album’s stunning centerpiece, however, as gently sloshing waves and a loose and casual banjo improvisation gradually blossom into an absolutely bananas banjo supernova. 

Much like its predecessors, it is more of a rich sensory experience than a melodic song, but Olencki’s increasingly wild and violent banjo playing sounds like a desperate attempt to beat the devil. Described as “the euphoria of melancholy in motion,” Olencki achieved the piece’s delirious intensity via computer, as the “plucks of banjo are bounced around the frame by a computer, its pitches determined within algorithmic sequences and transcriptions of classic three-finger licks.” Amusingly, the piece ends with a non-computer-enhanced recording of some old-timey fiddlin’, which makes me feel like I’ve just stumbled dazedly out of a diabolically unhinged square dance.  

The album’s other stunner is the following “all my fathers clocks,” as the overlapping clockwork rhythms of several antique clocks provide the backdrop for an absolutely feral bowed autoharp performance (purchased from a local strip mall and left detuned). Like every other piece, it is primarily an immersive experience, but this one is an intensely gnarled and visceral celebration of creaks, buzzes, sweeps, and bow scrapes. Notably, it is also quite a bit more nightmarish than the rest of the album, as it pointedly departs from the rural and rustic atmosphere of the earlier pieces to approximate a ferocious and incendiary noise set by a demonic cellist. Elsewhere, the closing “Omie Wise” is a highlight in a very different vein, as an increasingly warped and phantasmagoric pedal steel performance from guest Henry Birdsey is joined by river sounds and buried renditions of the titular murder ballad that serve more of an ASMR function than a melodic one. 

While the river sounds were fittingly recorded from the same river where Naomi Wise’s body was found, the murder ballad aspect does not darken the piece all that much, as it mostly just feels wonderfully disorienting and dreamlike before everything falls away for a lovely and transcendent outro in the form of a crackling and skipping recording of the hymn “How Great Thou Art.” It makes for a perfect ending to a singular, poignant, and wildly ambitious album. While I could probably rave about the vivid and wonderfully textured production and mixing at length (Broadsides is an absolute a tour de force in that regard), I will valiantly restrain myself from that, as Olencki’s larger achievement lies in crafting the kind of album that leaves me feeling like something profound, uplifting, and vaguely life-changing has just occurred.

Listen here.   

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