Articles by Jon Buckland
Akin to performing a handstand on a top-loading washing machine and then slowly lowering your head in as it kicks into the rinse cycle.
On Mist Clouds The View, the smoke is clearing and the mist has started to disperse.
Clara Engel has formed a symbiotic relationship with their talharpa (bowed lyre) that extends well beyond formal expectations and poetically communicates something deeply profound.
Suicide’s inspirational tendrils reach out beyond aesthetics, sound, fearlessness, and style to deliver something a little more than all of that combined.
The Academy of Sun’s Nick Hudson has released a haunting new single titled ‘Lights Svoboda’, the proceeds from which will be donated to humanitarian charities in Ukraine.
Even when plying these discordant shards, there’s an oof kicked out from their fused solar plexuses. It is rock ’n’ roll as an aphrodisiac, as a vector of sexuality.
Speechless inhabits a similar world to her previous full-length Traces but grittier, more confrontational, and more singular in its approach. Resina might feel speechless but we hear her loud and clear.
These meld and congeal like a sonic trifle left out in the scorched sun. The separate entities all blurring together but making an absolutely lip-smacking concoction.
With Lieve, Ainley has crafted a requiem for a place in time. He is stepping out of the shadows whilst leaving one foot trailing.
If you’re fearless in the face of Shade, you’ll find within a hymn for good.
This final collaboration is a wondrous way to round off the majestic Split Series from Fat Cat.
With the clues littered throughout Luminol it feels like Midwife is leading herself out to us, just enough to catch a glimpse of her truth and for it to resound deeply within us.
Kevin Richard Martin has made an otherworldly work seem intensely personal.
The arc that IVIC moves along takes us from head to heart to gut and back again.
This was a soundtrack to nihilism. A hedonism born out of self obliteration. It’s carnivalesque. An embodying of the unsettled British mind.
Where Sunn O))) & Boris’s collab felt complimentary and respectful, this is a battleground navigated via a slim Venn diagram-shaped compass.
That our times are so tempestuous as to result in such stirring art should be cause for concern. How bad can things get? And, terrifyingly, how compelling can Skourlis’s music yet become?
A feedback loop destined to swirl round and round, every listen exposing a hitherto unheard element or emotional pang.
Drew McDowall seems on a mission to destroy our expectations of time.
It feels like, in 2020, full-bodied, earth-shuddering noise is just about the only sane response to the constant mental, physical, societal, and ecological unravelling that appears to be occurring around us.
A haunting and gloomy release that somehow retains the vigorous cadence of pregnant clouds rolling over uncertain lands.