It’s ten minutes past close when I blink and find that I’m still lost in my own palm. My left hand lays motionless before me, a corpse at a viewing. The singular spotlight that normally shines over the circular table in the middle of the room is off, and all that remains to illuminate my reading is the pulsating hum of green neon from the sign in the window. The words flash one at a time, all together, and then disappear. “Palm Readings… Mystic Dabrowski.” The words surround an out turned hand. I take my mother’s reading needle, and trace it over the mounts and lines. “Divination is half reading, half guiding the seeker, but all pageantry” my mother used to say. The needle hisses as it scrapes across the soft flesh of my hand. Health, Love, Heart, Head. All lines interweave like the threads of a dreamcatcher. And here, in the gloom, I can’t interpret any of it.
The last woman to come in was too young to be as dead as she was. Upon her face was the same desperate mask they all wear when walking through my door: the anxious, wide-eyed gaze of the onlookers of Christ’s Crucifixion. I knew her before she even reached the chair adjacent to mine. Sluggish gait. Hollow eyes. Trembling hand. Skin thin and brittle. Mummified. The dead and I are well acquainted… here in a room between worlds.
“Tell me my future,” she wheezed, collapsing into the chair, laying her hand across the red velvet cloth between us. I didn’t tell her that it’s not the purpose of palmists to determine any sort of future. My clients are always the souls in Limbo: the drifting ones, the desperate ones. I wrapped her hand in mine. The flesh was cold and clammy. The joints of her fingers were knobby like willow branches. I exhaled and traced her palm. And began the part I’d grown to hate.
The half-lie.
“Your Life line is deep” I told her, “you have strength within you.” I ignored the additional fact that the line was short and straight. Her eyes shimmered in the gloom. I looked down so I didn’t have to meet them. As my mother’s needle crossed the center of her palm, she grimaced. I found her Heart line, which was long and swooping. “Your love is true.” I continued, and her body hitched. The line faded at the end below her index finger. I felt like throwing up. Proceeding with the reading, I told her what she wanted to hear, but not what she needed. I drew musty air from the dried up well and told her it would quench her thirst. Five minutes later, her time was up. She thanked me. And when she left, a part of me departed with her and died.
Then I blink, and find myself staring at my own hand.
The scent of musty cigarettes and incense permeates the room, the ghost of my mother lingering ever present. Sometimes when I’m reading someone’s palm, I can still hear her syrupy voice, can still feel the weight of her nicotine stained finger as she traces it across the valleys of my palm, tapping the mounts.
“Take the needle in your hand, feel the way it runs across the skin without cutting it. Press the flat of it here, the Mount of Luna. Yes! See how it is raised higher than the others on your hand? The blood beneath here flows strong. This is your connection to the beyond, your ability to divine. You will be a great reader, moj drogi. It is written upon your hand.”
It is spoken in a tone that knows as much as it suggests. A tone that tells women whose husbands have been unfaithful that Karma is a spiteful snake, waiting in the deep grass to strike. A tone that takes a young boy by the hand and guides him, through the haze of tobacco smoke, towards a table that can imbue him with the same thrum of power he feels when gazing at his mother.
But when I stare at my own palm, I don’t see the raised mount, even though I know where it lies. My skin is parchment white and blank, thin and windblown. It has always been this way.
The ivory light of the moon spills through the bars in front of the neon sign.
Lost in memory, I press too hard, the needle punctures the skin, and a single bead of ink rises from my flesh. It blooms and breaks, cutting across my palm, trickling up to my middle finger.
The Fate line.
I draw her reading needle through the blood and study it.
As a boy, the Fate line seemed most important, the grand finale of every reading. Watching my mother perform, it was apparent that even when seekers came to learn of their fortune or health, what they longed for was the truth within that line. She would always pause before that reading, the tip of her cigarette illuminating her eyes while all else was shrouded in smoke.
“This is where I deliver the truth,” she would tell me later, “the one we all want to hear. Our Destiny.”
It was bullshit, a reading based mostly on the look on their face, the condition of their hands, and the questions they asked. It was the lie that was the worst… the one that I gave a piece of myself to every client for as a penance. Your line is deep and true? You will find success with your career and desires throughout life. Your line is deep but fades? You must concentrate on your success while you’re young, for your luck will soon run out. Your line is thin and shallow? You will not achieve your goals. Put your energy elsewhere.
Or… you are not bound to your current destiny.
There is another pinch, and a second tear rolls across my palm, cutting from between my index and middle finger to the outer digit of my left hand. The Heart line. Before I can stop myself, the needle pierces the Venus Mount, the fleshy mound beneath my thumb that my mother taught me to use when testing steak tenderness when the palm wasn’t being used for divine purpose. Point after point the needle penetrates flesh, harvesting blood and carving lines that sweep across the pale canvas of my hand.
And I can see it, but I cannot read it.
The moon draws me from the table, and I stumble out into her light. It is cool and soothes the stinging in my left hand. I thrust my hand out in front of me and open my palm. My mother’s needle rolls from my fingers, spinning in the air like a broken compass before shattering on the ground among the half smoked cigarette butts of the strip mall parking lot. Blood webs across my hand in sticky red threads, dripping from the sides of my palm. The Head bleeds into the Heart. Fate into Health. I trace my lines with my finger and read them for the first time. I read my destiny. And although I am terrified by my reading it, like the moon above, the act fills me with something I haven’t felt since my mother proclaimed me to be the last great palmist.
Nastya Ivanov stared at her reflection in the mirror. The black tile in the background contrasted the golden aura emanating from the globe lights above the sink, casting her pale face in a corona of warmth. Gray eyes peered at her through heavily mascaraed lashes, scrutinizing her appearance as she practiced some of her mannerisms. She applied another layer of lipstick and stepped back. Her silver dress shimmered in the dimly lit room, reflecting dots of light like the scales of a fish. It was something that Sarah Artinian wouldn’t have worn, but it suited her just fine.
The momentary thought of that name caused the corner of her mouth to twitch. She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes.
Я – это я she repeated to herself, finding the sounds in the back of her throat instead of her nose. She forced the image of the woman that she was to the surface, drowning any hint of the woman that came before her. She straightened her spine until she was practically leaning back. Eventually the voice that came from her mouth flattened into its Russian accent and cadence. When she was certain she would open her eyes and see herself, she did.
Standing before her was a dead woman.
The past five months had changed Nastya Ivanov. It had faded her brown hair to a straw blonde, and her eyes had lost their vibrant green in favor of a pale gray. Her breasts had gone down by a size, while her ass had gained as much. Her feet hadn’t needed to change sizes, which was good. To do so would have required too much time for recovery. There was no room for error, not with this disguise. Nastya was an influential celebrity and would be recognized by almost anyone in the nation. Now, all that remained was the memory of a tiny brown dog, a photograph of a brick Victorian house in Boston, a microchip embedded in between the joints of her right big toe, the mission, a key to a car in a parking garage five blocks away, and a plane ticket in the glove box.
Tonight was Nastya’s last night on Earth.
***
When she reentered the dining room, the conversation had lifted considerably. The food had been removed. A shot of vodka sat perched on a red napkin. Approaching, she watched as the eyes of the gentlemen seated around the table turned towards her, aware of the yoyo action that so many men think women oblivious to. Sergei Sokolov, Russian diplomat, ex-KGB, her lover, ogled her hungrily and offered her his stubbled cheek, which she kissed. She rounded the head of the table, to the chair on his left. A pair of gloved hands swept around her and pulled the chair away from the white slab of marble Sergei lovingly referred to as his torture table.
“Here, I can obtain whatever I desire. Power. Information. Women,” he’d told her once, drunk on Sbiten, hands fumbling for the buttons of her silk blouse. Nastya took him upstairs, and there used another piece of furniture for a similar deed. Men were susceptible to sharing secrets when their pants were removed. It was in these moments post-coiatus that she’d learned the names of double agents within the U.S. intelligence network, dates of potential mortar strikes, even petty blackmail. But tonight was to be her biggest score.
That was the date, time, and method of the assassination of a western diplomat.
Nastya took a seat. Sergei stood, raising his shot glass. The others at the table did the same. Nastya took it in her left hand, despite the predisposition of the woman she’d been before.
“To terrible deeds,” he spoke in Russian, “and the good they bring to this world.”
“за нас!” To us! came the response.
Nastya had met herself only once in a past life, at a red carpet event that her former agency had sent her to. The women had talked briefly. In that time Nastya observed some of the miniscule ticks the model had had that weren’t prevalent in her Tik-Tok videos and interviews: the way she pursed her lips after words ending in a “r” sound, her habit of biting her thumb when she was nervous.
“We are through talking business, yes?” grumbled Dima Petrov, waving his sausage-like fingers. This was the transition Nastya had heard Sergei discussing on their way back from dinner two nights previously, the phrase that dictated that the night was shifting from banter into one of action and decision making.
“Politics are exhausting. Every solution is the beginning to another problem,” agreed Abrasha Belov, an oil baron who Natsya had met only once, but whose temper and cocaine use were notorious.
“Let us begin with a celebration then,” Sergei snapped his fingers and a man with a bottle on a silver platter appeared. He poured himself another shot of vodka, and then took Nastya’s glass and filled it.
The bottle traveled around the room, each man pouring himself a full shot. The liquid dispersed, Sergei raised a toast.
“To my beautiful daughter, Elizaveta, and her upcoming birthday!”
Glasses crested and fell in the dim light. The vodka was smooth and clean. As she swallowed, Nastya flipped through briefings in her mind. The diplomat did have a daughter from a previous marriage. She was a bit younger than Nastya, who had been 24 when she died.
“Your daughter is becoming a woman this December if I’m not mistaken,” Dima recalled, massaging his jowled chin. Natsya noted the young woman’s age as 18. And so, she thought, we have a date.
“She is. I will not be able to fight off these young men for much longer.”
“Perhaps it will not be the young men you must watch out for, is that not true Nastya?” a gentleman named Lenya who Natsya had not met until this night spoke. She didn’t like the way he studied her. Sergei stiffened in his seat.
“Well if young men took my Sergei for example and used their mouths for more than just talking, I would have more interest in them,” she replied. Sergei’s hand found her knee and gently moved the slit of her dress so he could caress her bare flesh.
“Your accent is curious,” Lenya stated. “Where did you say you were from?”
“Kologriv,” she stated without thinking.
Lenya looked at her suspiciously. “You speak like a woman I knew from Tambov. I am fascinated why you speak like a southern girl.”
Nastya was aware that the focus of the room had shifted from her lover to her. Kicking herself, she made a quick correction to implement Оканье to her vowel structure. “I have been to many places here and abroad. Forgive me if my tongue sometimes… slips.” She reached down and slid Sergei’s hand further up her leg in an attempt to draw his attention elsewhere. “Where do you plan to take her to celebrate, my love?”
“I hear bird watching is quite pleasant this time of year,” spoke Dima. “Perhaps a trip to the country. Robins in the snow have always been a striking image.”
Sergei was silent.
“I disagree. I always find myself searching the skies for a golden eagle, something more majestic to instill within myself a feeling of power,” suggested Abrasha.
Again, Sergei said nothing. Nastya made a note of these two birds, and their national origin.
“My Elizaveta is a strong girl, not prone to stillness or idle time. She desires to make with her own hands. No, a turkey is what she wants to hunt and prepare for her feast.”
The room was silent. Sergei’s eyes shifted to each of the gentlemen, their faces cast into shadows by the low light.
So… the target is American. Nastya thought to herself.
“Sir, I agree that turkey is a fine beast, but is it in season?”
“It is the right season.” Sergei Sokolov’s voice shifted, losing its bright and boisterous timbre. It was a tone she’d never had directed at herself, for she was compliant to his wishes and he was a gentleman towards her. But during late night phone calls, before the disappearances of revolutionaries, yes, she had heard it.
“Which turkey, my friend?” asked Dima slowly, his hands moving only to take the bottle of vodka from the center of the table so that he could pour another shot. Again, the bottle orbited the table. When it reached Nastya she looked to the diplomat next to her. Sergei nodded and she filled both their glasses. Nastya was known for her late night Instagram posts in which she outdrank celebrities and artists, but as she tipped the glass back she worried about the fog that was building in the back of her mind.
“The biggest one she can find,” Sergei dismissed this comment with a wave of his hand. There was an uncertainty settling within the men around her, Nastya noted.
Abrasha was the first to speak. He sniffed and slapped his hands together. The men perked up, as if drawn from an impending slumber.
“Wonderful, and is this for lunch, or dinner?”
“Dinner, I think,” Sergei replied. “She wishes to prepare it, but it is the dessert I want to be a gift.”
Nastya’s mind raced. Was this part of the code or a deflection?
“Cake perhaps?” shrugged Kolya.
The man named Lenya shook his head. “A cake is not dense enough for a girl with such… refined taste. Perhaps a truffle?”
“It should be rich enough for her, yes,” Sergei agreed. He placed a hand on his stomach. “But as you know, such decadent treats make me sick.”
She studied the large man on her right. Everything he said had to mean something. Every gesture, every word was meant to be vague but pointed enough for the orders to be carried out. Glancing at the others at the table, she saw them nodding along. The words were muddled in translation, but she tried to work through them.
“But I am afraid the woman who is my chef, she is not strong with these sorts of things. Her pastries, divine, but her sweets leave much to be desired. One of you perhaps?”
Dima Petrov looked particularly discomforted. His fat fingers rolled around each other like hot dogs at a United States gas station, something Nastya couldn’t believe she longed to see. Abrasha opened his mouth but hesitated.
It was Lenya who rose from his chair. “My cousin is a chef, studying in France. He is good at his trade but his wallet does not agree with his…” he paused. His eyes turned to Nastya, “lavish lifestyle. I believe an opportunity to prove his skill might earn him a seat in this house.”
Sergei’s head bobbed up and down.“I do agree, friend. If he can be convinced to make this dessert for my daughter, and it satisfies her, he would find a space in my kitchen.”
Lenya finished the rest of his shot, and strode to the head of the table. He took Sergei’s hand and turned to the woman on his left. “It is an honor to finally meet you, Lady Ivanov. I have spent hours admiring you. To see you in person…Forgive me, you have a different appearance.” His eyes darted from one to the other. “More beautiful than I remember.”
He released the politician’s hand, bid the rest of the room “Доброй ночи,” and disappeared into the gloom. The others turned from the departing man back to the table and Nastya became acutely aware of three things.
The man named Lenya knew she was not Nastya Ivanov
She had two minutes before he would be calling a gray cellphone in the top right drawer of Sergei’s desk
Sergei Ivanov planned to have the President of the United States assassinated on December 18th by poisoning him after dinner.
The bottle floated around the table a second time and this time it was Abrasha Belov who rose from his chair. “A toast to your daughter’s birthday. We wish her a successful hunt, a marvelous dinner, and the richest life in the years to come. За успех!”
The bottle reached her. She put up a hand and passed it to her lover. When Sergei caught her eye she closed her lids slightly, swayed in her seat, and shook her hand, a trace of mimicked lust on her lips. He winked at her.
“За успех!” The words echoed around the table. The deed was sealed. Nastya rose and kissed Sergei.
“Ложитесь спать,” Come to bed she whispered the same way she had in many perfume commercials. Turning, she walked towards the hallway. She hoped the sound of her footsteps masked the thundering of her heart in her chest. The corridor was miles long, the richness of the red carpet and mahogany wood creating a coffin-like sensation as she approached the rooms at the end. There, she turned left into the politician’s office instead of right, to the bedroom.
The door had not even closed when a soft hum vibrated through the gloom of the office. The desk was illuminated only by the harvest moon yellow of the streetlamp outside. She crept towards it and, removing one of the bobby pins in her hair, fumbled with the lock of the drawer. It was open within seconds. She picked up the phone. Somewhere down the hall, Russian laughter rolled thick and lush, and she nearly dropped the device. There was one missed call, a name she’d never heard or seen.
Taking the phone to buy more time, she pried the window open. The air was sharp and biting. It cut through the material of her dress. She pulled off the silver gown and flipped it inside out. It became something new. Within the material were buttons to give the impression of an overcoat, and fabric that had been tucked down the back elongated into sleeves. She pulled it back over her head and slunk out the window, pulling it closed. Her movements were quick, but controlled. The pins fell from her hair and loose curls tumbled down her shoulders. A napkin removed the bright red shade from her lips. Tonight, Sergei would begin the search for her. A month later a body would be dumped from an unmarked van into the Yenesei river. A badly decomposed, water logged Nastya Ivanov would appear. There would be no signs of foul play, just the lingering traces of heavy narcotics use that had, unfortunately, led to her actual demise. Sometime, a month later, an assassination attempt on the President would be thwarted. No one but Sergei and his men would know.
And somewhere in Boston, a woman named Sarah Artinian would be drinking chai tea with a book in her hand and a small dog on her lap.
That is, if Nastya could make it to the airport before word of her disappearance caught her.
When the boy stepped into the cockpit, all was silent. The flashing blues and yellows of the dashboard had ceased. All that remained, present through the window that encompassed them in a half-sphere, was the infinite abyss and the few remaining stars that flickered within it like distant lanterns. He took a step, and from the gloom a flat, staggering voice spoke.
<I apologize. I believe that I have failed you.>
The boy approached the twin chairs at the front of the room.
The robot sat rigid in the leftmost chair. Rivulets of oil leaked from its visual and auditory receptors and loose panels clung to wires like the last of Autumn’s leaves on her branches. At the sound of the boy moving, the robot turned its head to perceive him.
“But you said we only have a month left. We’re so close,” the boy whispered.
<Correct. Software has begun to fail, Casius. My system is deleting memory files to prioritize essential functions. Once those are erased, the operations bank will shortly follow.>
The boy lowered his head, strands of long, brown hair shrouding his face, and sniffled.
“It’s my fault, isn’t it.”
<To put you at fault would be to insinuate that you were in control of this situation. The prolonged exposure to the radiation levels your heart emits has caused the failure of my system.>
Silence invaded the spaces where the robot had once played ancient 00’s dance hits from its internal speaker.
“Can’t you rebuild yourself?”
<I have done so many times Casius, but we are no longer in possession of the necessary parts. And this time, I am afraid, it is not my hardware.>
“But if we change course, surely we can get to Zalaria-1 or Uxx-”
<Your mother’s final directive was very clear, child, as were the lessons she wished for you to learn. Lesson one->
“Do not blindly trust,” the boy spoke reverently.
<Precisely. To put our fates in someone else’s hands now, when we are so close to our objective, could place you in a vulnerable situation. To do so would be a waste of your mother’s death.> The robot lifted its right hand. Its internal mechanisms groaned, and it trembled as it fought against the violent radiation damage done to its form. A rusted finger found the boy’s cheek, where it collected a single teardrop. <Don’t cry child. You will need the moisture.>
“Tell me about her again.”
<The many traits you seek to know about your mother are within you Casius. Your intelligence, your compassion, your knack for tinkering. All of these are traits she possessed.>
“And my father?”
<As I do not possess a picture, you will simply have to look in a mirror. There, you will find his face.> The robot paused, processing its responses where they had once been instantaneous. <and his bravery.>
“What did he do that was brave?”
<You are aware of this story, but I will recount it for your comfort. As he and your mother were being hunted for your species’ Gaianium hearts, your father was one of the last to stay on Toros while your mother and I escaped. All transmissions from Toros, post-vacancy, were coded with imperial encryption. Completion of your father’s mission had minimal success probability, and yet he stayed to delay Imperial troops.>
The boy turned from the robot and stared out the front of the craft. The android noted the boy’s posture straightening, but did not acknowledge it.
“And you think I’m that brave?”
<Yes. And you will need to be.>
“What if I’m not able to? What if I’m afraid?”
<Fear is unavoidable and, like any emotion, it should be allowed to exist. Do not be unafraid. Be afraid, but be still in your resolve. Lesson Two.>
“Be prepared, and your fear will be manageable.”
<Correct. That is bravery.>
“Are you brave?” the boy asked.
<I am not able to be brave.>
“But you’re not afraid.”
<I am unable to feel fear, Casius.>
“But you’re dying.”
<My system is failing, as are my physical and computing functions.>
“And you said so yourself: it is built into your programming to survive.”
<That is… correct.>
“So you went against your programming to protect me.”
<That is… correct. As your mother died, I held you to my internal core and processed in patterns that would elevate the output temperature of my CPU to match that of her pulse.>
“But… you also knew about my Gaianium heart.”
<I am aware of your species’ condition. Yes.>
Silence fell upon the cabin. All that cued the boy into the android’s continued existence was the sluggish blinking of its singular, crimson retinae. The robot shifted in its seat, its internal mechanisms grinding and thumping.
“What if they’re not out there?” Casius asked. There was a whirring sound.
<There is a 65% percent probability that this is the case. However, the high levels of radiation emitted from the core of Yosan and its proximity to the nearby sun make it a suitable candidate for not only the rumors, but the survival of your species.>
“But what if we arrive… and I’m all alone?” the boy asked. The robot reached out and placed his heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. Bits of rust crumbled from it as he did, and the boy placed his cheek upon the cold metal.
<Inform me of your survival plan… Casius. Files containing it are in queue to be deleted.>
The boy took a deep breath and rose from his chair. There was an orange stain on his cheek from the robot’s hand.
“Step One: Early rituals. 50 push-ups. 50 sit-ups. 50 lunges. Eat nutrition bar. Clean body. Maintenance check on body.”
<…Correct…>
“Step Two: Maintenance check on ship. Ensure no unnecessary power is being wasted.”
<…Correct…>
“Step Three: Assess course. Adjust auto-pilot if needed.”
<…Corr…ect…> The robot’s form groaned as it slumped over in its chair.
“Step Four,” the boy’s voice hitched. “Record findings, discoveries, and thoughts in log.”
<…Corr…ect…>
“Step Five: Late rituals. 25 push-ups. 25 sit-ups. 25 lunges. Eat nutrition bar. Clean Body. Maintenance check…”
The boy stopped reciting his programming. The soft red light of the robot’s retinae had gone out.
<Continue…Casius… I am still cognizant.>
“When will you forget my name?”
<It will be the last thing I delete. Your final directive… please.>
“Step Six: Story time. Stargazing. Rest.”
<Ha. Ha. Ha.> The boy jolted, having never heard that sound before. < I am… laughing… to show that I approve… of your memory. You will not fail yourself.>
The boy reached out and placed his hand on the robot’s, aware that the nerve receptors built into its hands would no longer be able to feel his.
“Would you have lived forever…to see the stars go out?” Casius asked, his eyes on the slumped shadow. A minute passed. Terror and loneliness welled up inside the boy until the voice spoke.
<Would my fuel… cells and hardware… components have allowed it… yes…… But… there is… more beauty… in the life of something… than there is in the death of it……..>
“The third lesson,” the boy spoke in a hushed tone.
<…Casius…>
And then there was the Silence, the oppressive emptiness that fills the room after the final exhale. The boy removed his hand from the unmoving fingers of the communications robot, and climbed up in its lap just as he had done when he was smaller. Together, one seeing, the other not perceiving, they stared out into the great nothingness. He allowed himself to mourn. He told stories of boys exploring planets containing dangers and plants he’d only read about. He shared customs and traditions passed down from his mother to this robot, to himself. He identified distant constellations and told stories of a robot who, abandoning post and directive, took a dying mother’s child and sustained its life. And when the time came, he rose from the husk of his guardian, collected his tools, and undid the android’s lower extremities for he was not yet strong enough to carry its whole form. After his work was finished, he took the upper half in his arms and, like it had done for him so many times, carried it to the bed adjacent to his. He pulled the sheet over its head, recited the three lessons, and closed the door.
When he returned to the cockpit it was darker still, the quiet more daunting, the great expanse of space infinitely intimidating. The boy strode back to the robot’s chair and took a seat in it, inhaling the musk of motor oil and fried circuits. He stared out into the abyss, and even though he was frightened and alone, he remembered the final rule, the one given to him not by his mother or father, but the robot who had cared for him the first decade of his life. He spoke it aloud as his ship floated through the darkness, towards a life and hope uncertain.
The shadows were short when Saratoga Jane heard a commotion rise up from the main street of Amber Creek. It was interposed by shouts sharp enough to punctuate the thick stench of hot piss that permeated Jane’s tannery on the outskirts of town. A commotion wasn’t uncommon around this time of day, but she’d worked all morning and nothing made her happier than to witness someone receive an ass whoopin’. Wiping the fat and residual animal hair from her hands, she left the shade of her workshop and turned towards Amber Creek.
A crowd stood outside the Red Lady Saloon. Rising entangled from the din was a man and woman’s voice This wasn’t uncommon either, as men were oft on edge when their peckers were stiff, as were women when men’s stiff peckers were unwantedly close to them. Still, she placed her fingertips on the Sharps rifle she kept tucked next to the threshold, spat a wad of dip into the dust, and waited to see what would arise.
No sooner had the noise dwindled when there was the crack of batwing doors bursting open. Folks scattered like grouse from a meadow. The cloud from their exodus swirled like a dust devil, and as it thinned the figure of a man in a pale leather jacket and black hat remained standing in the middle of the road. To his right, another figure knelt in the dirt. In his left arm was a parcel.
Jane stepped into her tannery and donned a vest she’d made for herself last winter after the shootout with the Poudre Valley Bandits. She’d stitched four thick layers of buffalo hide to the front and back, a design that had not proved itself to be bulletproof but had seemed to allow less penetration when she’d strapped it to a cottonwood and unloaded her Peacemaker into it. She pressed a bullet into the rifle’s breech and made her way towards town.
The silence was the kind before the drop of a man at the gallows, a collective holding of breath drawn in even by the structures lining the streets. Jane had made herself familiar with this silence over the years as Amber Creek’s unofficial sheriff, as it was the same one that gathered in between the counts of paces in a duel. She marked her breathing, minded her surroundings, and relaxed her muscles. To be stiff was to preemptively lay in one’s grave.
Thirty paces from the man, she stopped, and called out
“Contrary to what your Papa might have taught you, Tom Mackey, most women don’t like being dragged about.”
The man turned, and Jane could see, even from a distance, that he was in his cups. Capillaries spread from under the shadow of his hat brim like roots from a clod of dirt. He swayed, drawing the woman kneeling next to him closer.
It was Danni Winters.
“I’d call you a law man, but we both know ye ain’t got a gun in yer sheath,” the drunk cawed.
“And I’d ask you to act like a gentleman, but I’m confident I can come to the same conclusion. Let her go.”
Tom Mackey hocked a loogie into the prostitute’s hair. The bundle in his arms squirmed. Jane’s eyes flickered between it, the girl, and the drunk.
“That her kid Mackey?”
“Ain’t got no right to keep ‘im from me. ‘E’s mine too.”
“There ain’t no way for you to know that. God knows she’s had other-”
Jane was known as a quick draw, but the sight of the child made her hesitate. In one fluid movement, Tom Mackey released Danni, and drew his pistol. The first shot found Jane in her shoulder. She dropped. Hitting the dirt, she found a thundering ache in her left arm when she tried to prop herself up. In the same movement, Tom swung the pistol level to Danni. He pulled the trigger twice. Crimson erupted from the prostitute’s bodice.
The tang of gunpowder and the wail of a child was overpowering. Using the rifle as a crutch, Jane struggled to her feet. By the time she’d regained her composure, the coward had taken off, his left arm clutching the child, the pistol in his right scanning the empty boardwalk. Jane brought a hand to where the bullet took her, and found not blood on her fingertips but flakes of sand-colored leather. By the time she’d raised her rifle, Tom had mounted Jim Barnam’s horse, and was gone.
Staggering forward, Jane felt the town around her come to life. When she reached Danni, the prostitute’s powder blue petticoat had been stained to a deep maroon. Jane knelt and took Danni in her arms, stroking strands of hair off her sweat soaked face.
“At least it’s finally cold here,” Danni Winters gurgled. A hand reached and found Jane’s. It was soft and clammy. “Bring ‘im…”
The girl’s voice was seized by a hitch, and when her final breath floated from her throat it brought with it a trail of blood. Jane had been Death’s accomplice from the moment she’d split her mother open. A life soaked in blood and brined by mountain air had left her thick skinned and tough to chew. It was enough to tan anyone’s hide.
But the child…
A muffled thump of boots in the sand approached. Jane looked up into the shadow of a boy. Manicured fingernails swept over an upper lip with four thin hairs. A shiny government star glared on his chest. Sheriff Giles cleared his throat.
“Shame to see what a girl’s lifestyle will bring upon her.”
Jane lay the girl’s head down, rose, and started off west.
“Carry her body to the cold shed and tell Doc to prepare it for viewing. I’ll be back before sundown.”
Spurs clacked as the boy scampered after her.
“As appointed sheriff-”
“Week’s been hot. A body’ll smell soon. Tell ‘im we’ll bury her at dusk.”
“I’m not a messenger boy, I’m the Law!”
“Town had Law before Uncle Sam slapped a star on a baby and sent him to play cowboy.”
“Now just-”
Jane spun and took a fistfull of his collar. The boy cowered, repressing a gag as he inhaled her stench. The life of a tanner was a lonely one. Jane preferred it.
“Go home and grease your gun, kid. Your help is unwanted.”
She sauntered off to the stable where her horse was kept. Already saddled, she swung herself upon Folstam and, with a slap on his backside, sent them galloping towards the looming wilderness.
***
Two hours later, Jane knew she’d regained some ground in her pursuit. What few horse tracks she found in the mud had grown shorter and more abundant. Tom Mackey had slowed, at least along the creek. The tracks made their way into the water. Either he was trying to throw her off and was on the other side, or he was traversing up the creek. The ride through the mountains had been hard. Folstam was foaming at the mouth. She dismounted and led him to one of the smaller offshoots of the main water. As he drank, she crept to the other bank and, finding no tracks, decided that Mackey had continued his trek up through the stream. They trudged on, keeping to the bank where the shadows were the most prevalent and where the sound of their footfalls would be masked by the gurgling stream.
Amber Creek was five meters wide and, at this time of the year, had reduced to a gentle crawl. Cottonwoods sparsely lined the sides of it, their gnarled bark burned white. Low water rolled over rocks, turning them into balls of glass. Jane continued until she heard a sound in front of her: a low, haunting wail. Wrapping Folstam’s lead to a tree, she crept forward alone.
Tom Mackey waded in the shimmering creek. Head low, horse lead in hand, he struggled knee-deep upstream. He still held the baby across his chest. Jane placed a pellet in the primer.
The child complicated things. If she took Mackey in the back, there was no guarantee that the bullet wouldn’t pass through and hit the child. If she shot him in the head or leg, there wasn’t a guarantee that he wouldn’t fall on the baby or drop it in the river. Either she would have to reposition in front of him so she could see the child, or she would have to draw him to her by calling out.
A third option presented itself. A loud crash tore the air. Jane turned, and found that Sheriff Giles had led his horse at a gallop into the waters twenty paces in front of her. Pistol drawn in an act of excess machismo, and the young man fired a shot into the sky.
“Scoundrel! Surrender yourself to the Law!”
Tom Mackey was drunk, not stupid. Releasing the reins, he twisted and unsheathed his pistol. There was a wet, thud, like a hammer hitting soft clay. Giles’ horse’s head jerked and, taken by Death, sent them both tumbling into the water. A shot cracked from the sheriff’s revolver, and snapped off into the foliage. Giles leapt from the falling beast and crashed into the mountain stream.
Tom Mackey faced his adversary. Babe clutched to chest, he fired again. The water in front of the flailing sheriff spouted. Slipping to find footing, Giles sent another two shots the drunkard’s way, oblivious to the kid. Jane noted he had one shot left before he needed to reload. Mackey had three, assuming he reloaded after shooting Danni. The boy scrambled across the stream to use the animal’s corpse as a barricade. Jane lay her rifle in the crook of a tree and reassessed.
While the boy shouted ordinances, Jane worked through her shot. If she took Mackey in the head, there was a chance his neck would snap backward, but he would fall forward. If he did, he would either crush the child on the river rocks or drown it underneath him. The right shot was the neck or upper chest. If the bullet found him there, it would carry his body backwards, the child landing upon him, hopefully giving her time to retrieve it.
Another gunshot. The boy had rechambered and was shooting wildly at Mackey. Jane nearly screamed at him to cease, but couldn’t’ afford to draw any attention. A bullet took Mackey in the leg and he collapsed to a knee. The boy rose and fired once more. A fountain erupted to Mackey’s left. The child squirmed. Mackey leveled his iron.
The bullet took the expendable Sheriff Giles in the head. He staggered a pace to his right before dropping. Letting out a yell, Mackey straightened his right leg, and started to rise. The babe thrashed in his arms, and he lowered his pistol to regain his grip on it. The child’s head bobbed up to the level of Mackey’s throat.
Jane exhaled and fired.
A mist of blood exploded from Tom Mackey and he, like the husk of a burnt cabin, collapsed backwards.
The child stopped screaming.
Jane was up before Mackey’s body hit the water, and was thrashing towards him through the river as, on his back, he floated towards her. When the body was a stride away she plunged upon it and took the babe into her arms. It was covered in thick, warm blood and was still. A lump in her throat, she turned the baby to look at it.
Danni’s child stared up at her with open eyes, reaching toward her leathered face with its soft, delicate hand. Collapsing to the rocks of the river, aware of the dull pain that shot up her knees when she did, Jane held the child and wept while her rifle smoked on the bank and two corpses floated past her, down river, towards the town that was its namesake.
Genre: Action/Adventure Event: Superfluous Character: A Tanner
If you want to stir some serious shit online, enter a progressive rock forum and mention the vocalist. For those uninitiated in these types of conversations, vocalists regularly serve as a serious trigger point, and the discourse surrounding them often oscillates between complete adoration to pure loathing, to the point where one’s perception of a band is seemingly ruined because of one member’s performance. The amount of weight that your Spencer Sotelos, James Labries, and Claudio Sanchez’s bear is truly monumental, and it lends itself well to a conversation about the purpose of vocalists, especially in your progressive genres that tend to be more complex and layered. Many bands have approached this conversation (or at least, their fan’s disdain for vocals) by either releasing instrumental versions of albums or even abandoning their vocals altogether (ala Night Verses), but very rarely do we see bands take on the task of incorporating vocals into previously instrumental music.
There’s a good reason for it. When your music is already a slew of heavy, dizzyingly complex riffs, the addition of vocals could lead to a muddying of the waters of sorts. I certainly can’t perceive a band like Animals as Leaders or Plini adding a vocalist, as there would be nothing extra to add. If you’re going to add vocals, there has to be a purpose.
I imagine this conversation arose among the fans of Alpha Male Tea Party, a Liverpool rock group whose music dances somewhere between the manic energy of Tera Melos and the heavy riffage of The Physics House Band, as singles from the newest project started to drop. While, up until their most recent release, this group has been purely instrumental, their songs have always demonstrated an understanding of tension and atmosphere as well as a mature comprehension of how to write a hook without words. This attention to songwriting as a craft has landed them squarely in the middle of this conversation, as the band has decided on Reptilian Brain to hand guitarist Tom Peters and bassist Ben Griffiths vocal duties. It was a bit of a gamble. To add vocals might add an extra layer of emotional depth and warmth. It might help the band express messages that, in this tumultuous era of miscommunication (or lack thereof entirely), often get lost in instrumental music. It might also result in an album that feels jam packed with too many ideas.
To cut to it, this decision pays off in spades.
Reptilian Brain is a masterclass in the blending of chaos and order, intricacy and atmosphere. Each song is an amalgamation of rock genres and sounds with its own arc, unique climax, and energy. Songs like “Hostess Imperial” and “Battle Crab” bounce and stumble through math rock riffs while closers “Sniper’s Dream” and “All Become One When the Sun Comes to Earth” ascend with triumphant post rock riffs and space rock atmosphere. And while these songs would stand on their own, the strength of this album lies in the combination of these massive instrumental moments with vocal hooks that are just as infectious and weighty.
To understand the strength of their decision to add vocals, look no further than album centerpiece: “A Terrible Day to Have Eyes.” On its own, the instrumentals of this song serve as the backbone of a chugging, punchy, midtempo banger. With the inclusion of vocals, however, this material is elevated into a heartbreaking story of a violent, childhood experience, and subsequently a song about trauma and grief. It’s a slow burn that builds to one of the most gratifying sing-a-long portions of any song from this year, but it’s also a strong example of what makes this album so fantastic. The vocals are simply another layer that adds chaos and heart to an album that would otherwise be a strong, if unassuming, rock album. Beyond the stellar, mature musicianship (the topsy turvy riffs, the groovy basslines, the hyperactive drumming), this is an album that sees a band reaching their full potential because of the addition of lyrics. Each song serves as a breakdown of our modern social and political hellscape, one that attempts to reduce us to our reptilian brain. This album is a statement fighting against that.
If you haven’t checked AMTP’s previous work, none of this matters. What does matter, however, is that this is one of the best rock albums of the year. It’s a collection of smartly crafted, fun, unique rock songs that dances between progressive, math, grunge, and space rock, and an album that solidifies AMTP as one of the most criminally underrated acts of the past decade.
This has been one of the weirder years of music. For every album that’s fairly accessible there’s another that’s just downright challenging. I’m not sure what that reveals about the year I’ve had or my listening habits, but there’s a lot to scratch your head at, and there’s a lot to dig into and appreciate.
I only ask one thing of you. Whether you hate them or love them, listen to them regularly or have never heard of them, I ask for your engagement. Send me emails or messages. Subscribe to my writing (I promise to post more in the coming year than I have previously). Let me know what you’re digging yourself or what you’ve listened from last year that’s not on this list. It’s the way that we keep this thing alive and, let’s be honest, with a growing family, career commitments, and other distractions, this is really hard to do regardless of how passionate I am for it. I’m not asking for your pity, but it helps keep the engine lubricated and the wheels spinning.
Lastly, thank you for your time. Thanks for reading or scrolling. Thanks for being present. In a digital age where things are more bite sized and easily digestible, I seem to have gotten more long-winded. This may be an anomaly and next year I may return to paragraphs, but I guess when the spirit moves you, you gotta do whatcha gotta do.
Without further ado, let’s dig into these albums.
Honorable Mentions:
Samurai Lupe Fiasco (Hip-hop) Smart storytelling and chill beats.
In a Landscape Max Richter (Piano) Sparse atmospheric piano music.
Mountainhead Everything Everything (Indie Pop) Pleasant indie pop for a nice summer day.
FLIGHT b741 King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard (Blues Rock) King Gizz has fun with 70’s psyche rock.
Mahashmashana Father John Misty (Singer Songwriter) Trippy, lounge rock.
Top 30 Albums:
30. Vestiges of Verumex Visidrome Gnome (Stoner Rock)
I’d initially thought about moving this album up on the list, not because it was necessarily better than some of the others that come after it, but because it’s so damn goofy. I was concerned that, if I was actually going to get you to check out this list, I would need to start somewhere safer… but then I remembered that, if you’re looking at this list, chances are pretty good that you’re prepared for some weird shit. So, here we are.
On the surface, Gnome is a gimmick band. They dress up as gnomes, sing songs about fantastical lands and quests, and, in the title track, sing with silly voices, but hold on! Don’t close the tab yet! The reason why this album made the list is because, despite all these really odd qualities, the riffs are there!
Vestiges of Verumex Visidrome is the child of sludge/ doom metal acts like Black Sabbath, Mastodon, and Baroness. Song after song swings and grooves with an attitude of a band from Alabama instead of Belgium (where Gnome herald from). If you’re looking for an album that makes you want to chop down a tree, save a damsel, and fight an ogre, this is the one for you.
For fans of…Black Label Society
29. My $tory Got $tories Bruiser Wolf (Hip-hop)
There’s hip-hop that makes you think deeply about complex social issues like police brutality, poverty, and generational trauma. And then there’s Bruiser Wolf. That probably makes it sound like the album is one to just have on in the background as you hang with your friends, but I assure you that it is very much the opposite. You need to be actively listening to appreciate how damn funny this one is. This album is a masterclass in how to write punchline after punchline. Wolf is a wholly unique artist in that every song is a series of couplets designed to set up and then deliver a hilarious zinger. His flow is closer to that of a stand up comedian than a rapper, and Wolf unfolds a life of sex, drugs, and hustler bar after bar after bar. I have laughed more listening to this album than I have listening to anything else in quite some time. I can promise that you will not hear another hip-hop artist like Bruiser Wolf this year, next year, or any time soon.
For fans of… Old Dirty Bastard.
28. The Bird of a Thousand Voices Tigran Hamasyan (Jazz Fusion)
Scoring a video game has to be hard work. The music is what drives not only the action, but the player themselves. It’s a delicate balance between propelling the player forward with frantic energy and giving the player space to breathe with dense atmosphere. So naturally, when I heard that Armenian keyboardist Tigran Hamasyan was going to be creating and scoring his own video game, I was intrigued. Hamasyan is known for his angular, polyrhythmic piano compositions, so I had confidence that the intense parts of the game would be driven by his djent inspired, often glitchy playing style, but would his score be able to articulate the calm as well? Would it immerse the player into the mythical world of Armenian folklore that he was attempting to construct?
Well, it’s on my list, so the answer is yes. The Bird of a Thousand Voices is a massive album at just a hair over an hour and a half, densely packed with heavy, rhythmically complex songs (“The Kingdom”, “The Well of Death and Resurrection”) as well as moments of soothing peace (“The Bird of a Thousand Voices”, “Bells of Memory”). Hamasyan’s metal and Armenian folk music influences are on full display here, creating a score that feels as exciting and innovative as it does cohesive. It does a brilliant job of establishing and revisiting themes in a unique way that, without even playing the game, allows the reader to compose an idea of what is supposed to be happening at each level of the game. I guarantee, if you’re a fan of jazz, metal, or video game music, you’re going to find something to enjoy with this album.
For fans of…Brad Mehldau.
27. Critterland Willi Carlisle (Americana)
One of my favorite things about doing this list is that there’s a lot more drama than one might think. Albums jockey each other’s status (or, eventually lose favor the more I listen to them). Some even disappear on to my “Albums I Listened To” list only to make a reappearance back onto my “Top Albums of the Year” list like some underdog football team. This album is one of the latter because, even though I didn’t listen to it all the time this year, I could not get it out of my head. I found myself continually suggesting it to friends and family, and regularly hummed the melodies of my favorites even when it wasn’t on my list. So grab yourself a cup of whiskey and find yourself a slowly setting sun. This one’s for the cowboys. The loners. The drunks.
Don’t let the seemingly goofy cover fool you. This album is a collection of raw, vulnerable americana/bluegrass/ folk songs about queer identity (“Two-Headed Lamb), addiction (“Higher Lonesome”), and living free (“Critterland”) and a masterclass on storytelling. Carlisle portrays himself as the travelling troubadour, weaving very modern issues into a sound that has been at home in the backwoods of Appalachia for the past three hundred years. In a year where country music saw some of it’s biggest numbers for streaming and engagement, this is the album that captivated and resonated with me long after I’d thought I forgot about it. So if you need a good cry, a good hug, or just want to hear a good story, this one’s for you.
For fans of… Woody Gutherie.
26. Of the Last Human Being Sleepytime Gorilla Museum (Avant Garde)
When I was in high school, sitting in the back of my junior level English class, I had a friend named Jonathan. He was one of the few metalheads that I was friends with back then, and when we weren’t… working on assignments… we were sharing with each other our latest music finds. I bring this all up because it was at this time that I was first exposed to the weirdest (and still one of the weirdest) bands I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering. They were a collection of musicians: xylophonists and saxophonists, recorder-players and guitarists. They played in a genre that can only be explained as a mix between carny-folk and metal. They shocked the world (and specifically my world), dropped three wild albums, and then disappeared in 2007.
Well reader, the circus is back in town. Resurrecting material they recorded back in 2010-11, they started a kickstarter to help bring the album and a companion film back to life and, using elixirs, a defibrillator, and the body parts of many different corpses, were able to resurrect this very strange and evocative album.
Loosely connected by a story about the last living human being and the public’s fear, scrutiny, destruction, etc. of it, there’s a lot to try to dig into with this project. If you get hung up on how weird it is, you probably won’t like it. Most of you probably won’t like it. But try to focus on one bit and you might just come to an understanding of it. Listen to the wildly intricate compositions that melds influences of folk, prog, metal (“El Evil” is a thrash metal song on violin), and carnival music. Observe the truly astounding vocal harmonies of Nils Frykdahl and Carla Kihlstedt as they serve as the heralds for the coming of the last human (how can it be the last human if people are also observing it? Good question). Appreciate how outlandish and bold some of the song choices are. This truly feels experimental, especially in a day and age where many creators and artists have access and an audience to do whatever the hell they want. This album will unsettle you, reader, and it will probably also test you. But I can promise it will linger long after its final notes play.
For fans of… post-apocalyptic carnival music.
25. Revelator ELUCID (Hip-hop)
If you’ve dared venture onto the internet this year, you’ve found it’s a perpetually paranoid place. Conspiracy theories present themselves as news while tinfoil hat wearing basement dwellers denounce science and fact. Political adversaries point fingers at each other, slinging the warmest shit from the pile that is quickly growing around them. Every day citizens are drawn further apart by carefully constructed political and social lines. We are told that the world is black and white. It is or it isn’t.
This paranoia is felt in the claustrophobic beats and ELUCID’s aggressive, unrelenting flow, and rich lyricism. It can be felt in the glitchy, electronic break of “SLUM OF A DISREGARD” and the industrial pulsing of “CCTV”. It can be found in the muddy, psychedelic “14.4” and “IN THE SHADOW OF IF”. At times dream, at other moments nightmare, this is an album that demands the listener’s attention and is packed with enough to encourage one to return to it again and again.
For fans of… Del the Funkee Homosapian.
24. Light Verse Iron and Wine (Folk)
There’s a lot of heavy music on this list, in genre, composition, and content. I’m sure that comes as no surprise to my frequent readers. It should also then come as no surprise to you that every once in a while I need something calmer and brighter to balance out the grim dark. Light verse, as the teacher in me feels want to inform you, is poetry that sets out to be humorous and… light. It doesn’t mask some wheighty theme with uplifting stanzas or soothing imagery. It is meant to be easy to consume.
Light Verse is a collection of folk songs that encompass the listener in a sense of peace. Accompanied by Samuel Beam’s whimsical, lilting voice, tip-toeing ukelele and guitar lines, and warm production, this is an album for summer days where time doesn’t really matter. Songs dance softly, stretching, smiling, lifting from one pleasant line to another. If you’re in need of something to elevate your mood, this albums going to do it for you.
On a personal note, this album found me in one of these small, seemingly trivial moments. Sitting on my couch, I watched as my daughter practiced walking. She used the sofa to stand and then, turning, stumbled unsteadily towards her objective. At moments this was her mother or myself or the other sofa. Sometimes she made it, sometimes she didn’t, but as the symphonic climax of “Tears that Don’t Matter” rose to a crescendo I found that, indeed, the tears were falling. Her steps grew more confident. She fell less than she did during her previous attempt. And it was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. That’s what this album captures: it is a warm, simple moment. It is a reminder that when the world seems dark and paranoid and hope is lost, it is the light verses of our lives, the moments that are seemingly small, that matter the most. They’re the moments that make this life worth living. So put this album on. Smile at your children. Dance with your loved one. Stand outside and watch people as they walk by. Wave at your neighbor. You’re only as empty as a lost and found.
For fans of… the little, intimate moments.
23. Ridiculous and Full of Blood Julie Christmas (Sludge Metal)
As someone who collects physical media, I have a deep appreciation for artists who have a fully realized vision for their product. Even before I put on the album, the cover art should give me a good idea of what I’m going to be engaging with. It should reveal something about the album that, as I’m listening to the songs, simultaneously reveals something and develops itself over the course of the listening. And since you’re reading this on my website, you’ve scrolled past the album art for Julie Christmas’ latest album, and have already been affected by it.
If I had to award a vocalist of the year award to anyone, it would be Christmas. That’s not because her vocals are “good” (read:soaring, beautiful, ethereal) in the way that one sometimes thinks of when it comes to a vocal performance, but because they are phenomenally effective. Christmas is completely unhinged. She shrieks, hisses, and moans over post/ doom metal riffs. Her emotions are torn from her very diaphragm to the point where you have to wonder if delivering this performance actually hurt. But you feel it, and when I’m looking at strong vocal performances that is what I’m looking for. I want to feel Christmas claw her way through the muck and shit of society that represses her voice.
So as you listen to the clattering, anxiety-inducing drumstick cadence of the opening track “ Not Enough” or the looming dread built within “The Lighthouse”, have the album artwork in front of you and stare at it. Gaze into Christmas’ maniacal grin, her blood stained mouth, her dead eyes. Feel unsettled. Feel her power. Feel her fury.
For fans of… The Ocean.
22. Loss of Life MGMT (Psychedelic Rock)
The trip is over. The neon colors spilling from the ceiling have faded away, evaporating on the wind in a sparkling haze. The swimming images have retreated back into the shadows that elongate with the setting sun. All that remains is the sense that something was there. Something was experienced. And the ego is left with a simultaneously comforting and unsettling fact.
One day, we are going to die.
This is perhaps a morbid way to introduce an album created by a band that, at one point, was responsible for the pop anthem “Kids” and the infectiously groovy “Electric Feel”, but that’s ultimately what this album is. Gone are the funkadelic synth lines and the massive pop choruses. Instead, they are replaced with a collection of songs that are still psychedelic in nature, but darker, and more sober. If many of their previous albums were a celebration of life and living in the moment, experiencing and feeling (especially if those experiences are elevated by substances), then this album is the reflection that comes after. It’s the dissection of the trip. Songs like “People in the Streets” and “Loss of Life” find the band contemplating mortality and one’s place in the world. Even “Bubblegum Dog” (one of my favorite songs this year), which feels more familiar to MGMT’s previous output, is a darker version of anything they’ve created so far, a song about change and growth that portrays maturity as a dog that haunts and lingers with you until you’re ready to make the change.
So if you’ve grown up with MGMT like myself, give this album a chance. Sure it doesn’t sound like much fun, but maybe that’s the point, man.
I have a belief that, when there is societal unrest, music is at its best. I suppose that’s a really pessimistic way to look at art and the world, but it seems to be true. And as we wound ourselves up for another election cycle, that tension was palpable in quite a few albums released this year. I suspect this will only be exacerbated in the coming years, but that’s a conversation for another forum.
I bring this up, however, not to stir shit with my audience but to set the stage for this album, a collection of songs that are ultimately about the breakdown of society and, most importantly, communication. Caligula’s Horse’s darkest album yet, it gravitates around the idea that when a society doesn’t talk, it is destroyed. This idea is explored in detail on the four part centerpiece “Charcoal Grace” where vocalist Jim Grey sings about a family torn apart by a father’s unwavering beliefs , his attempt to guilt his children back to his side when he’s on his deathbed, and the result of his hate as it remains imbedded within his children. Yeah… it’s dark.
But within the darkness is a light. On songs like “The World Breathes with Me” and epic closer “Mute” (one of my favorite tracks from the year) the band implores its listeners to use their voices to speak out against the darkness, to find hope when there is none, and to seek an interconnectivity with other humans in a time that would divide them. This is their most emotional album to date, and one that will stay with the listener long after the final guitar notes echo out from the progressive metal mountaintop they were played from.
For fans of… Breaking Benjamin.
20. The Inevitable Fork Melted Bodies (Avant Garde Metal)
Back in 2020, I was absolutely blown away by the debut album of a band who sounded like if the Dead Kennedys were chewed up and vomited out with The Downward Spiral-era Nine Inch Nails and Mr. Bungle. Enjoy Yourself was violently overindulgent, as hilarious as it was angry, as Looney Toons as it was looney bin. I’m drawn back, in particular, to one of their music videos where, in a song about consumerism, they injected their own video with fake youtube ads, so many that it actually disrupted the flow of the track. They willingly destroyed their own art, and your consumption of their art, to make a point.
That takes dedication to a cause. That’s punk af.
Enter The Inevitable Fork, an album released in four EPs before being reconfigured into an album that contained eerie interludes from Xiu Xiu vocalist Angela Seo. Frantic hardcore/industrial/noise riffs serve as sledgehammer for the band to pummel the listener while vocalist Andy Hamm maniacally screams lyrics about mental health, trauma, success, doubt, and regret and how all these factors form the fork that our lives inevitably lead to.
What I’m continually drawn to about this band is how wholly original they are. Especially in a world where algorithms lump like sounding acts together to sell a product, Melted Bodies stand out as an act with an unwavering vision. It’s a vile, neon, grotesque, and sometimes unappealing vision, but it’s one that will draw you back in thanks to its smart songwriting, catchy choruses (yes, there are some), and unique flavor.
For fans of… System of a Down.
19. Coming of Age Mile Marker Zero (Progressive Rock)
If it isn’t apparent, I’m a sucker for a good progressive rock album. I’m sure it has something to do with it being a genre that I grew up listening to, but I appreciate how much variation there is across albums. Some feel familiar, referential of the sounds and albums that came before them, while others find bands pushing the boundaries of their sound, exploring new directions, styles, and subject matter. Mile Marker Zero are a group that very much falls in the former category. Their sound is heavily influenced by the progressive bands that came before them, and on this album, in particular, they explore the sounds of the bands that inspired them even further.
If their previous album, The Fifth Row, was an exploration of the future and a story about the dangers of AI, government surveillance, and the Singularity, Coming of Age is a look backwards. Using progressive rock as a foundation, the album is about the band’s roots, exploring topics about growing up and leaving your friends and family behind to pursue your dreams. Drawing inspiration from Kansas, Rush, and Yes, the band crafts a smart collection of songs that delve into both the excitement and trepidation that come with having to leave the town you grew up in. It’s an incredibly heartfelt album from a relatively young band that lives one foot in both the past and future.
For fans of… Steven Wilson
18. NO HANDS Joey Valence & Brae (Hip-hop)
Ok, you’ve seen the album cover. You know everything you need to know about this album. This one is in your face (Eat a booty with a side of fries/ Did a triple backflip, I ain’t even tried“). It’s goofy (“Teachers like thongs, always up in my business”). It’s unapologetically embarrassing (“You a small fry, you look like Toad/ I spit fire, I’m more like Bowser/ I got you scared, don’t piss your trousers”). And… the energy is there. Trading bars about nerd culture (and being “badass”) over a collection of boom bap/ house beats that sound like they belong in the 90’s/ early 00’s, Joey Valence and Brae have crafted an album of front to back bangers that are so infectious, hilarious (yes, they are aware of how ridiculous this album is), and punk that it’s really hard not to love it. This is for those of you who grew up in an age where coats were neon colored, tips were frosted, and pants were the size of circus tents. This is for the house party as much as driving with the top down on a warm summer evening. It’s for the skate park as much as the dance club. Grab your bucket hats, hair gel, and JNCO jeans. The 90’s aren’t dead, in fact, they are just getting started.
For fans of… the Beastie Boys.
17. I Lay Down My Life For You JPEGMAFIA (Hip-hop)
It’s taken me a while to come around to JPEGMAFIA. There’s no doubt that he is a talented rapper, but I always felt like the beats he constructed were a little unpolished, a little unfinished. My opinion began to change with last year’s visceral Scaring the Hoes, and my opinion of him has only improved with this year’s release.
I Lay Down My Life For You sees Peggy at his most refined. His signature sample heavy production is still there (and there are some truly wild ones on this album), but the beats feel more articulate, more complete than they have on some of his previous releases. The album is a rapidfire, punk rock affair, with most songs not reaching the three minute mark. Peggy is also at his most volatile, dropping heater after heater with his signature sneer. He calls out white people. He calls out his contemporaries (on “SIN MIEDO” he raps “Fake plug talkin’ Tubi rappers/ Got a machine behind ’em, and still they can’t fill up capacity with they raps”). It also sees him at his most vulnerable, discussing failed relationships on “I recovered from this” and his own shortcomings on “either on or off the drugs”. Regardless of the subject matter, JPEGMAFIA has officially cemented himself as one of the most ingenuitive, creative, and important rappers in the game on this one. He’s changing the game in a way that needs to be noted.
On a side note… that Denzel Curry feature on “JPEGULTRA!” goes off.
For fans of… MF DOOM.
16. War. Whores (Noise Rock)
This album is your neighbor working out in his garage. Next to pints of motor oil and empty PBR cans, he pumps out reps on a shitty bench press, pausing in between sets only to take a draw from his cigarette (yeah, he smokes cigarettes), crush a can of beer against his forehead, and rinse repeat. Yeah, he’s wearing a wife beater. Yeah, the bar touches his chest every time. Yeah, he’s blasting music. Yeah, it’s eight in the morning. He doesn’t give a shit.
You might not like him, but he’s kind of a badass.
That’s what this album is. You might not like it, but it’s kind of badass. There’s nothing complex to these riffs. The lyrics aren’t trying to say anything deep. It’s just ripper after ripper, an unrelenting 33 minute slugfest. It’ll get you storming around the pit, banging your head until your neck hurts, and throwing elbows. It’ll get you doing that even if you’re in your living room. So go ahead, shotgun a beer, take off your shirt, and go join your neighbor in the garage. It might be stupid, but it’s going to be fucking fun.
For fans of… Pantera.
15. Melodies of Atonement Leprous (Progressive Rock)
Last year, one of my favorite albums was the solo project titled 16 by Leprous’ front man Einar Solberg. It was an incredibly personal progressive rock album, delving into Solberg’s past, incorporating some of the weirder elements found in Leprous’ material including symphonic and electronic elements. As I suspected (and Solberg confirmed), this was an intentional choice, and it was a way for him to incorporate some of his more off-kilter influences to allow the rest of the band to take the helm with the writing of their main project.
The result is Leprous’ heaviest album in a hot minute, both lyrically and instrumentally. I came into Leprous at a weird time, jumping on board with their softest, most atmospheric release, 2019’s Pitfalls, and went back to discover some of their older heavier material when they played them all live during the pandemic. All this is to say that I don’t mind and even really enjoy their lighter/ poppier side, and that’s probably also why I really enjoy this most recent album because, even though it is their heaviest album, it is also one of their most accessible ones. Stomping, bouncy grooves, not to mention Baard Kolstaad’s intricate, off kilter drumming, are written within a fairly digestible pop structure, and that, on top of some of the band’s biggest choruses/ vocal moments, makes this one an album that touches on every part of the band’s sound that fans love. Songs like “Like a Sunken Ship” and epic closer “Unfree My Soul” swell to absolutely massive climaxes that I can attest translate to an almost larger than life status in the concert setting. If you’re someone who has never really appreciated metal music, but love great vocal performances, this is definitely one you should check.
For fans of… Evanescence.
14. Every Sound Has a Color in the Valley of Night Pt.II Night Verses (Instrumental Metal)
You watch them for hours… days. Shapes spin and sway around a roaring bonfire as shadows rise and fall like tongues of flame. It’s hypnotic, powerful, dizzying, beautiful. You can’t look away, even when one of the shapes points in your direction and beckons you forward. Without taking a step, you are drawn to them, carried by something within you that is and isn’t your soul. Your body rises in the air over the fire, arms outstretched, becoming something new as the moon breaks from the clouds and bathes you in its dead eyed glow. The ritual is complete. A new life has begun.
If the first part of this album, released last year, was the beginning of a ritual, fast paced, galloping, spiralling in and out of itself, then this year’s release, the second half, is the darker summoning at the end of the mass. There are plenty of intense, faster paced songs (“Plague Dancer” and “Crystal X”), but there’s also an incredible haunting post-metal-esq atmosphere to provide breathing room for the band’s trademark, tightly-woven sound. As I said last year, guitarist Nick Pirro, bassist Reilly Herrera, and drummer Aric Improta continue to prove that they are some of the best metal instrumentalists in the game, writing not only impressive but memorable riffs (“Phoenix V Invocation” is hands down the heaviest song you will hear this year). So light a candle, sit in the darkness, stare into the abyss, and immerse yourself in the second chapter of this behemoth of an album. Just don’t be surprised if you start to levitate.
For fans of… Cloudkicker.
13. The New Sound Geordie Greep (Lounge Rock)
In 2019, the world and I were exposed to a band called Black Midi that was bold, experimental, new, and shockingly good. Following the release of their debut album Schlagenheim, they dismantled the BBC with a performance of “bmbmbm” that ended in absolute chaos and made one of the most affecting statements I’ve ever seen a new band make. They followed it up with two more incredible albums: 2021’s shimmering post-punk Cavalcade and 2022’s dark, proggy Hellfire (one of my favorite albums OF ALL TIME).
And then, in 2024, vocalist and lead guitarist Geordie Greep unceremoniously announced that the band had broken up (something a chunk of the band wasn’t even aware of), and the next day, announced his solo album. The news was as shocking as it was disappointing, and many like me held their breath to see what sort of statement the former frontman would make. Was Greep capable of living up to the hype of a band that was literally at its peak? Was the decision to strike out on his own an act of hubris that would find him floundering without the voices of his bandmates?
Well Greep put fans’ concerns to ease with an album that is not only one of the best of the year, but one of the weirdest, horniest, and most vile. The album conceptually follows the lives of many despicable men: generals, business men, executives, and producers. All of them are desperate for sex, wealth, power, and status, and all of them are fucking pathetic. On lead single, “Holy, Holy”, Greep’s protagonist hires a prostitute to flirt with him (and eventually have sex with him) at a local bar, allowing him to cosplay as the debonair, sophisticated man he longs to be. On “Through a War” a military man (presumably a general or a dictator), regales another nameless woman about his triumphs and victories, his story swirling with sex and violence as he attempts to bed her. There’s something hilarious about their desperation, and it’s largely what makes palatable an album that will have many listeners revolted. (Seth Evans from HMLTD shouting “THIS TOWN IS FUCK” on “Motorbike”, a song where a man going through a midlife crisis abandons his family and life to ride his super cool motorcycle out of town, might be the funniest thing I’ve heard this year).
Driving all of these stories forward is music that can only be described as deranged lounge rock. Latin influence (samba, mambo, tango) infuses each of these soft rock songs with a flair that paints the setting of a shitty jazz lounge from the 70s. Suede and faux leather adorn the furniture as the smell of cheap cologne, whiskey, and cigarettes permeate the walls and air. These elements were used as accents in Black Midi, but Greep leans heavily on them with this project. The arrangements add to the concept, making everything feel cheesy and tacky in a way where you can’t tell if Greep is being sincere or not. If this sounds like an insult, I assure you it’s not, because everything here works. Narratively, musically, tonally, Greep has succeeded in crafting a project that oozes with a deplorability reserved for men stuck in arrested development with mommy issues, sexual impotency, and fragile egos.
For fans of… Steely Dan?
12. Friend of a Phantom Vola (Progressive Metal)
There’s something about knowing when to release an album that denotes a specific understanding of the listening experience of the whole rather than the experience of listening to a few one-off singles. I’m sure there are plenty of features behind the scenes that dictate when a band can actually release their material (mostly factors out of their control), but when it works in their favor, it really helps the album pop. Such is the case of Vola’s latest release, an album that echoes with a haunted, empty atmosphere perfect for the November day it was released.
It feels like Vola was really going through something on this one. Songs like “We Will Not Disband”, “I Don’t Know How We Got Here”, and heavy hitter “Hollow Kid” all reverberate with a nostalgia and longing that is only exacerbated by lyrical topics of death, passing time, and memory. That’s not to say that Vola has neglected the grooves and djenty riffs that made them such a growing powerhouse in the prog metal scene (opener “Cannibal” features a killer performance from In Flames’ Anders Friden), but in general there is a sadness throughout the album that leaves the listener with the sensation that some great loss has left its impact on the group. The cherry on top is closer “Tray” which some might say is a downer, but to me is the perfect statement to wrap the album up. Like many of the other songs, it feels like the epilogue of a ghost recounting his life as everything fades to grey. If you’re looking for an album when the world is grey and monochromatic, this is the album for you.
For fans of… Sleep Token.
11. TOEHIDER EPS (Progressive Metal)
If you’ve made it this far onto my list, you’ve probably noticed that there’s a lot of “fun” here. Many of my favorite albums didn’t take themselves too seriously, which probably says something about my own mental state wrestling the various events that occurred in the Year of Our Lord 2024. Well, as we approach my top ten albums, there is one collection of releases that I continued to return to over the course of the year: the “release a month” madness that was Toehider’s EP project.
Starting technically back in August of 2023, this idea was a mad dash of creativity and lunacy that saw progressive metal goofball, Toehider (a collaboration of solo artist Michael Mills, and artist Richard Evensand), exploring a wide variety of genres, expanding not only their catalogue but their sound. While there are twelve EPs within this release schedule, there are three that stood out to me.
The first, and most cohesive, is the April, 80’s synthesizer infused SPACE FAMOUS. This EP is a demonstration of what makes Toehider such an exciting artist, and it’s the one I would recommend to the casual reader of this list. Songs like “Present Prism” and “Skipping Summer” sound right at home on a Warren Miller soundtrack from the aforementioned time, with punchy drum patches, brooding synth lines, and catchy pop choruses while the title track dives headfirst into power/glam metal akin to Judas Priest or Iron Maiden. There isn’t a single song I would consider skipping on this EP and, had it been a full album experience, would have easily breached the top ten of this list.
The second one, Rediscovery is for the more adventurous listener and the one who is familiar with Toehider and wants to just find out what types of influences have led Michael Mills to pursue the zany, wacky type of progressive metal that he plays. It’s an album of covers, ranging from a part-manic, part-heartfelt rendition of Sia’s “Chandelier” (Mills has some serious pipes), to the Muppet Show’s “Can You Picture This?”. Yeah, it’s that ridiculous. He even manages to make Focus’ criminally underrated 70’s jam “Hocus Pocus” sound even more deranged. This one is a lot of fun and a definite recommendation for those who want to know just how the hell Mills got to where he is musically.
The final EP from the session is the dark, doomy X, an album that explores his heavier side. This album struck me, because while Mills has always been an artist that doesn’t take himself too seriously, mixing absurd lyricism with a touch of self-deprecating humor, there are songs that delve into topics of self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy/ missing inspiration. It’s not as fun as a lot of his other stuff (and, again, it’s shockingly candid about the creative process), but it’s still a great EP worthy of digging into, especially if the previous two peaked your interest.
That’s not to say that all the EPs from this session worked. The thirty minute song of ambient sounds on Stereo Night Ash: Music for Relaxation, Meditation, Decatastrophizing, and Deep Sleep is a creative departure but one that did nothing for me, and the collection of duck themed children’s show tunes on Children of the Sun 3 (no, I’m not writing the whole name), is goofy but ultimately not one that I could return to without serious internal embarassment. But that’s the allure of Toehider. He’s unafraid to explore any avenue of music, and the results are usually pretty great.
Some might ask “why not just release all the best tracks on one album,” but I think the answer is pretty clear. Regardless of the release, each of these EPs stands on its own, has its own flavor, and to combine them would have inevitably led to a project that was strong in songwriting, but lacking in cohesiveness. So, if you’re feeling goofy, check some of these EPs out. Regardless of which one you choose, you’re in for a wild ride.
For fans of… Thank You Scientist.
10. GNX Kendrick Lamar (West Coast Hip-hop)
If you’ve been keeping up with pop culture or hip-hop culture, there’s no way in hell you missed the Kendrick-Drake beef. One of the most massive events of the year, it saw Lamar go absolutely IN on Drake, dropping diss track after diss track until Drake had to bow out with a pathetic attempt to make it sound like he was bored with the whole thing and was moving on. Kendrick continued his victory lap with a massive Amazon Prime concert and a one off song, but it seems that to win wasn’t enough. To play the Super Bowl wasn’t enough. Kendrick had more to say, and that’s what GNX is.
It was inevitable that many of Kendrick’s fans were underwhelmed by this album. It wasn’t some epic, multi-layered puzzle for them to dissect like To Pimp A Butterfly or Mr. Morale and the Big Steppers. It wasn’t even a chart poacher like Damn. Instead, it was an album to silence those that felt he could only make high concept albums and those that felt he’d abandoned his west coast roots. The whole thing is a love letter to the music he grew up with and the music continuing to be made in that region. “Reincarnated” is a track that sounds like a 2Pac song that reflects on the struggles of black artists before and “heart part. 6” has the g-funk sound that artists like Snoop made famous. So if you don’t get it, that’s ok. It’s not for you, or really me. It’s the album that Kendrick wanted to make, and it’s really freaking good.
When the beef with Drake was at its peak, I remember stating that this was a great thing for hip-hop, and Kendrick’s career, if for no other reason than it lit a fire under his ass to create. This album is Kendrick’s angriest. He lashes out at his contemporaries (“wacced out murals”), addressing and creating beef in real time. He reminds the public that he can still make year defining bangers (“squabble up”, “tv off”). He struts up to the throne and takes the crown, demanding his peers either step up or step back (“man in the garden”). It’s a messy album, and it’s by no means perfect, but it feels in many ways like someone lighting a firecracker and throwing it into the box that is hip-hop. And until anyone can prove him wrong, I agree with Kendrick. I think he deserves it all.
For fans of… Beating a Drake… errr…. Dead horse.
9. Cool World Chat Pile (Noise Rock)
Two years ago, when I wrote my piece on Chat Pile’s debut album God’s Country, I commented on how I felt sorry for the band because they had set the bar too high on their inaugural release. Combining nu metal riffs with fuzzy production and Raygun Busch’s unsettling, cynical lyrics, it was an album that lived in the dark corners of my mind not only for the year, but the time in between now and then. To be honest, I didn’t expect the band to survive (or wish to survive) the year or two that came. There was no reason for me to believe this. There were no interviews hinting at turmoil within the band, nor songs serving as pointed jabs at one or another, I just figured with something THAT good, the band would choose to self-immolate and float off into the atmosphere.
But Chat Pile are back after a two years of touring and growth and they sound… worn. Everything that God’s Country did incredibly well is still there, but the edges are frayed. The riffs are more plodding, sludge-y, doomy. Busch’s vocals are exhausted, blunt, and garbled like a man who’s been punched in the face one too many times. Although the band has stated that this album is an expansion of their sound, focusing on the larger world instead of the issues more central to Oklahoma City where they came from, this album feels more intimate, more personal than the previous one. Songs like “Frownland” and “Masc” explore feelings of voiceless and powerless. The album explores how the world beats people down through violence, be it physical, historical, systemic, and even political. The band almost seems to be saying that, to talk about the issues they did on their previous album is pointless. Information will be skewed. Spirits will be broken. Truth will be buried. Indeed this idea is cemented on the mammoth closer “No Way Out” where, over skittering, frantic picking, Busch shrieks about the hopelessness felt in this world and the lies passed down to us consumers, voters, citizens, by powers that cannot be confronted or changed. As we enter a new year, this is certainly a dour one to explore, but perhaps also a necessary one.
For fans of… The Jesus Lizard.
8. Where’s My Utopia Yard Act (Post Punk)
It’s hard for me to really pinpoint why I love this album. Is it the funky basslines? Is it the spoken word, highly dry, vocal delivery? Is it the way that the whole album feels in part both heavily sarcastic and bleedingly sincere? Even writing this, I might as well backtrack and say that it’s probably all of the above. What Yard Act have done is construct a slew of cheeky, post-punk songs that sneer at consumerism, pop culture, toxic masculinity, and people who think they’ve got it all figured out. This album is part party (“We Make Hits” and “Dream Job”) and part the ravings of the dude leaning over the bar next to you (“Down by the Stream”, “Fizzy Fish”), drunkenly rambling on about some story from his childhood, referencing people and places like you’re supposed to know them between drags of his cigarette. Regardless of the direction, the groovy pocket is what carries this album from one idea to the other. So, like you would at the bar, pour yourself a pint and bob your head along. Yeah, you’re doing it because you want this drunk to just leave you alone. But you’re also doing it because you’re kind of having a really good time.
For fans of… Idles.
7. Stasis Hippotraktor (Sludge Metal)
Alright look, we all know Spotify is the root of all music evil, but every once in a while they provide me with solid data on what my listening habits for the year were and, more importantly, remind me of how much I listened to specific albums. Hippotraktor’s Stasis was an album I sort of slept with. It remained on my year end list from the time of its release in June up until now, happily content to take up space and accompany my drive to work and other weekly activities. It wasn’t braggadocious. It didn’t demand I immediately talk about it with friends, if anything it was fairly unassuming. But here it is, breaching the top ten, to which I’m sure many of you are thinking “how?”
It’s because, while it does take a little time to digest, this is an album that needs to be listened to by anyone who considers themselves a metal fan. What Hippotraktor have managed to do is construct an album that feels as grand as its album cover suggests. Stasis is an album that is a perfect merger of post metal atmosphere and crushing djenty riffage. It knows when to let the listener breathe and when to drop them into breakdowns brutal enough to fell a mastodon (don’t believe me… check that beatdown at the end of “Silver Tongue”), something all the more impressive considering this is only the band’s second outing. Over instrumentals that feel like ocean waves crashing against a cliff face, vocalist Stefan de Graef howls like a chained man attempting to tear his bindings from the rock, defying all who would stand in his way. If that sounds epic, that’s because it is. Everything about this album suggests a group that knows more about song construction than their discography would suggest, and the result is an album that demands multiple listens and yet will grab the listener after just one.
So thank you Spotify. You’re a terrible company, but without you I might not have realized how much I listened to this one. And as this album commands its listener, be better. Live a richer existence. Defy that which attempts to force you into complacency.
For fans of… Gojira.
6. Wheels Within Wheels MEER (Progressive Pop)
Three years ago, one of my favorite albums (and one I continually return to) was from a Norwegian band that completely blew me away with an album that had its roots in progressive rock and pop with a heavy leaning into broadway music sensibilities. They were the kind of group that immediately landed themselves on my “to watch” list, and I waited eagerly to see what would drop next from the talented group of musicians.
Well, if I loved Playing House, then I really freaking love this year’s release. Wheels Within Wheels is a worthy follow up to its predecessor, an album that doesn’t change their signature blend of genres so much as refine it. The choruses are bigger, the songwriting is smarter, the pacing is even more engrossing. Sitting at about an hour, this album is comfortable taking its time to immerse you in the rich world Meer have constructed, using massive ballads like “Today Tonight Tomorrow” and “Mother” to build atmosphere and provide space for some of the more energetic tracks (“Golden Circle”).
I can’t stress this enough, whether you’re a prog-head or a casual music listener, you need to be listening to this band (and subsequently, this album). There’s a little something for everyone. Songs like “Chains of Change” and “Behave” might appeal to those of you who love a good radio jam, while the epic, bring the curtain down closer “This is the End”, serves as an artistic statement that throws everything at the canvas and leaves nothing left (for god sakes, they even have lyrical callbacks to their previous album. If that doesn’t give you goosebumps, I don’t know what will). This is a band that has earned the hype and, as I said last time, I literally can’t wait to see what they come up with next.
For fans of… ensemble tracks that lead into the intermission of musicals.
5. Highly Irresponsible Better Lovers (Hardcore)
Look, I had a whole thing written up about this super group including the brief history of the breakups of both Every Time I Die and The Dillinger Escape Plan and how each might have contributed to the topics of communication breakdown, disillusionment, and the end of things (times, love, friendship, etc.). But the reality is, you don’t really need to know about the band’s baggage to get this album. Realistically, the band probably wants you to move on from the tumultuous endings each respective group faced, and it’s not like you need context to understand why this album is so freaking good. Composed of veterans of the hardcore and metalcore scene, this album is exactly what you need when you’re having a bad day and need to punch your steering wheel. Combing the groove infected, head banging riffs of Every Time I Die with the unhinged vocals of The Dillinger Escape Plan, Highly Irresponsible is half an hour of face-melting, gut punching hardcore music that blows your face up, picks up the pieces, and slaps it back on your skull. And you’re going to ask for more. Every band member is firing on all cylinders here, ripping through songs about failed communication, the end of things, and the general feeling of disillusionment that seems to be permeating all members of American life. Unlike some supergroup albums that have mature songwriting but feel more like a shouting match of personalities vying for control of the reins, this album feels like a singular vision. The boys came together out of a mutual respect for each other’s ability to write cataclysmic jams. They’re not ready to let go of their music (and hopefully never will be). And they can put on a decimating live show (seriously, every band member knows how to perform). At only half an hour, there isn’t really much space to breathe on this one. The boys really bottled electricity on this one. Hopefully they’re here to stay.
For fans of… drop kicking friends through dry wall.
4. And Now I’m Just Gnashing My Teeth The Barbarians of California (Hardcore)
You know what was on my music BINGO card for 2024? Enjoying a lot of progressive music, hip-hop, hardcore, and an album or two of folk. You know what wasn’t on my BINGO card? Loving the hell out of a hardcore album released as a side project for the band AWOLNATION. Yeah, you read that right. The guys who brought us “Sail” (sorry to the band if you’re reading this, but that’s all I got) released an album of feral, ball-to-the-wall hardcore. And it’s really fucking good.
What I respect most about this album is that it takes risks. One might expect a band known for releasing radio friendly alternative music to attempt a project like this and to play it safe, sticking to a sound that’s been tried and true in order to make a cross genre shift that is more inoffensive than it is bad. This album doesn’t feel inauthentic. It doesn’t feel like the band just woke up and thought “hardcore music is easy to make, so let’s do it.” Instead, And Now I’m Just Gnashing My Teeth, feels like a passion project, a true love letter to a genre that the band has wanted to create in and simply hasn’t before. This album doesn’t give a shit if you like it… and that’s precisely why it works. The riffs punch above their weight. The vocals bounce between absurd and manic, adding to the berserk energy that permeates every single song on this project. When I say there are no misses, I mean it. You’ve got “The Walrus” with its skate punk riffs, wakadoo vocal performance (seriously, that whistle breakdown), and a blistering thrash moment mid-song. You’ve got “Three Letters” which sounds like something dropped off a Tony Hawk Pro Skater soundtrack. You’ve got the epic closer “Far Out, Bro”, which puts the foot on the gas and doesn’t relent until disintegrating into madness. These guys set out to make a statement and, by God, they wrote it in bold, block letters.
For fans of… Every Time I Die.
3. Unyielding Night Assemble the Chariots (Symphonic Death Metal)
One of my favorite movies of all time is Mad Max: Fury Road. Critics of it will claim that it’s just one long chase scene, and they’re right, but it’s a really good chase scene. Without feeling the need to impede upon the stories pacing with backstory or flashbacks, it builds its characters and its world around it as it goes. The cinematography is incredible, the acting is frantic, and the characters imbed themselves into your hearts with their unique characteristics.
I bring this up because Assemble the Chariot’s latest album, the opening chapter of a three part (?) concept is very much the same way. What it lacks in story (Aquilegia, the planet of light, is being attacked by the Reavers and they must fight to the death while their great leader escapes to preserve their way of life) it makes up for with fist-pumping riffs, battering drumming, guttural vocals, and smart touches of symphonic scoring. Breaking up the action with minor interludes (which serve to remind the reader of the stakes, the impending darkness, and the plans of the heroes), this album is one headbanger after another, shifting from stomping tracks like “Admorean Monolith”, hyperspeed thrashers like “As Was Seen By Augers,” and power metal-infused epics like “Galactic Order.” I’d really only recommend this for the metalheads reading this list, but if you are a metal fan, this has to be one you check out. Did this writer find goosebumps running up his arms as, *SPOILER ALERT* their defenses failing against the unrelenting onslaught of the invading Reavers, the Aquilegians let out their final war cry? You bet. But that’s what this album does. It engrosses you in its cosmic battle and makes it feel personal. It reminds you of your own struggles and the moments in your own life when you’ve felt hopeless, and it gives you the strength to stand up one last time. It reminds you that, even in the darkest moments, as the enemy stretches infinitely across the horizon, there are things worth fighting for… Things worth dying for.
As the Protectors scream “We will not back down, until every last one of us dies.” As you drive to work, you might just find yourself doing the same.
For fans of… The Battle of Helm’s Deep.
2. Life in the Wires Frost* (Progressive Rock)
It’s going to sound cheesy, but I genuinely believe in the power of music. I believe that it has the power to heal trauma, to bring people together, to inspire change, and to aid with rebellion. Regardless of whether it is familiar or challenging, radio-friendly or avant garde, I believe it’s important to regularly engage with music, to share it with loved ones, to explore new artists/albums, and to find comfort in old favorites. Especially in turmoil, never forget how important music is.
This concept of the power of music is one explored on Frost*’s latest project, a mammoth hour and a half long concept album about a young man who, living in a dystopian society, hears a voice in an old transistor radio beckoning him to escape his mundane, controlled life. It’s a concept that, as a teacher, I see so many teenagers exploring on their own. So many of us, especially in our youths, used music as a way to define us. For some of us, it helped us fit in. For others, it was a way of shedding societal norms and pursuing our own identity. For the protagonist of this album, it leads to him being hunted by the government, finding his own voice, and becoming something powerful and new.
Crafting an album that sounds like the lovechild of Genesis, Pink Floyd, and modern progressive rock, Jem Godrey and company have constructed a project that feels as much an homage to the music that saved them (they’re not exactly spring chickens) as it is a message to future generations, a voice in the ancient radio, beckoning teenagers to explore a genre that has historically, and continually been about breaking the mold.
One of the most impressive features of this album is that, despite its massive run time, it flies. This is largely due to the songwriting, which knows when to insert a smart chorus, when to expand a strong solo section, and when to let the album breathe. In part, I think the latter is one of the reasons for it feeling like this album doesn’t overstay its welcome. Using short interludes and saturating each song in a strong, nostalgic, melancholy atmosphere helps immerse the listener in the world of the characters. You feel the main character’s sadness as he’s trapped within an unloving home (“House of Winter”). You experience a rush that can only come from liberating oneself on the optimistic and powerful “Evaporator” (tell me this isn’t the perfect night highway driving song). You lose yourself in a sense of wonder as he transforms into something new (“Life in the Wires Pt. 2”). Regardless of whether you’re an progressive rock old head or a new convert, this album is a brilliant collection of songs that are both familiar and new. It’s an olive branch from those who found themselves in a specific group of artists and albums, to those who, perhaps feeling lost, rejected, or confused, are just about to.
Isn’t that what this list is all about?
For fans of… Peter Gabriel.
1.I Haxa I Haxa (Dark Folk)
If you’ve been watching this list for the past five years that I’ve published it, you’ve probably noticed a trend with my number one album of the year. Often it is one that I spent a lot of time with but more importantly it is usually one that has the courage to do something massive. It’s an album that I couldn’t stop thinking or talking about. It’s one that, above everything else on the list, I already know the staying power of what I would consider to be a classic. And so this year, my favorite album is one of rich atmosphere, beautiful lyricism, and a phenomenal marketing campaign. It is one that captured my attention and my emotions, and unrelentingly retained them since it was teased back in February.
When it was announced, it was stated that this project was to be a collection of four songs, released separately as four EPs (and subsequently broken up into four acts). A collaboration of singer-songwriter Rebecca Need-Menear and producer Peter Miles, these EPs were released with each season, thematically connecting a piece of a larger story to each season. I have to bring this up because we’ve seen artists playing around with how to release an album over the past couple years. Some have elected to release each song before the release, to help keep the album in conversation and streaming rotation. Other artists (like Melted Bodies earlier on this list) decided to release EPs to tease the song beforehand. While these ideas are frustrating but understandable given the attention spans of many in this day and age, they’ve enraged this writer who often waits for the whole album to be released in order to appreciate the music as one complete statement. But I Haxa’s release schedule makes sense and it helped establish the feeling of each album. Part One is haunted, dead, creeping in the shadows, seeking the light (early spring). Part Two is awake, lush, filled with breathing room (early summer). Part Three is alive, violent, angry, self-immolating (autumn) and Part Four… is beautiful, collapsing, revelatory (winter). This is one of the first unique release schedules that I’ve seen that adds to the listeners appreciation of the album while also providing space and time to process (and return to) each part.
There are other attributes of the release cycle that I could get into, from the packaging to the video accompaniments of each part, but all of this would mean nothing if the music wasn’t absolutely phenomenal. The intentionality of this project isn’t just felt in the packaging and release, it’s deeply rooted within the very concept of this album. In lush soundscapes constructed with electronic, industrial, post rock, folk, and even breakbeat, images of death and rebirth are constructed in abstract poetry that unfurls and wilts repeatedly. It leaves you both satisfied and hungry for more, a cyclical experience that ends where it begins (much like the covers of each individual EP suggest). This is not an album that you’ll want to hear only once. This is one that will linger with you in the darkness long after the truly breathtaking closer “Circle” fades away (seriously, after listening to this whole album all the way through for the first time, I sat in silence, stared at nothing, and wiped away tears). It will summon you back to it, beckoning with darkened fingertips and lidless eyes. It will lift the Veil, and show you the darkness, the beautiful, the haunted, the holy, the Circle. Come. See. Become. Breathe. Destroy. Discard. Renew. Release.
Man… it’s been a helluva year for music. Not only have I seen myself expanding my taste into genres I don’t always touch, but we’ve seen some of my favorite bands release their best material yet. In short, this year has been a lot stronger than last!
Fatherhood has done a number on me dear reader (I had to include one last one in my intro much to the chagrin of my wife), and perhaps it’s just me, but I found myself more moved emotionally than I have in years. In this list are albums which show artists wearing their hearts on their sleeves, bearing it all for their fans and listeners. As you read/listen through this list I hope you find some of these moments as well, and feel the same impact that I have.
There isn’t really much to preface this overview with that I don’t touch on in my individual reviews. I do want to thank you for taking the time to read through this (or skim it… let’s face it, there isn’t much space in our soundbite society for you to dedicate yourself to reading every word I write), and appreciate your engagement with my website. A small favor… if you find yourself enjoying any of these albums or, at least, appreciating my write-up for them, leave me a comment or message. Your engagement keeps me writing, sharing, and creating.
Without further ado… my favorite albums of 2023.
Honorable Mentions:
Apologie du temps perdu, Vol. 1 BRUIT (Ambient)(EP) Electronic, atmospheric, post rock.
Downer’s Grove Kevin Atwater (Indie)(EP) Midwest, gloomy folk vibes.
Momentum Their Dogs Were Astronauts (Progressive Metal) Bombastic, overblown instrumental metal.
Quaranta Danny Brown (Hip-Hop) A sober and dour reflection on being 40 from rap’s goofiest oddball.
Another triumph of ghetto engineering Open Mike Eagle (Hip-hop) B-sides from one of underground hip-hop’s best albums from 2022.
30.God Made Me an Animal Better Lovers (Metalcore) (EP)
It’s not often I put EPs on this list. The purpose of an EP is to tease music to come, and so I usually will listen to one, enjoy it, and then put it on the backburner while I wait for the LP.
But holy shit, this one is worth talking about.
It’s hard to believe that it’s been six years since The Dillinger Escape Plan, one of the metal world’s greatest “core” bands, called it quits. Their departure created a power vacuum of sorts, one which many younger, hungry bands have tried (and expectedly failed) to fill. The metal world was further shaken last year when, after one of the best albums of their career, another of my favorite groups, Every Time I Die, also violently imploded. So of course the hype was real when the ex-members of ETID announced they would be teaming with Greg Punciato, the feral ex-frontman of TDEP. The announcement was like when you were playing with your Batman and Spiderman action figures at the same time as a child, a team-up of such legendary proportions that it couldn’t possibly deliver.
Well… hold onto your boots kids, because this one’s gonna knock you off your feet. God Made Me an Animal is an absolute ripper of an album, the sonic equivalent of wearing that sexy dress to your school dance after your boyfriend breaks up with you. The EP is a statement (or warning) to former band mates and friends, a proverbial “look at how much better off I am without you.” Shots are fired across the bow. Grenades are tossed with reckless abandon. While time will tell if this act can sustain the power and substance to live up to its predecessors, it certainly will go down as one of the greatest supergroups to be born in the 2020’s. As Punciato shrieks on opening track “Sacrificial Participant”, “If you don’t tear them down, you can never build.” I’m just happy to have the boys back.
For fans of… Revenge served hot and fresh.
29.Blossom Pupil Slicer (Metalcore)
One of the things I find so terrifying about alien movies is the idea of becoming a vessel. You’re yourself, but something else. You’re in the passenger seat as some other entity grips the wheel. Blossom is ultimately an exploration of this concept, something that is science fiction for some, and a social issue for others. The music itself mirrors this experience, at times tranquil and floating, at others violent and desperate. Vocalist Kate Davies howls and shrieks through lyrics about body possession and dissociation while metalcore riffs shapeshift between thrash, black, and nu metal influences. It’s, at times, an overwhelming and consuming experience (this is a loud album), but hands down one of the most intense and passionate metal albums of the year.
For fans of… Converge.
28.My Back Was a Bridge For You to Cross ANOHNI and The Johnsons (R&B)
If the previous album was the embodiment of violent change: ravaging, decimating, and all consuming, then this album is the opposite. It’s the kind that comes from looking at one’s reflection in the mirror of a calm pond, the revelations that come to one as they’re walking through an autumn forest. On My Back Was a Bridge For You to Cross, ANOHNI directly addresses the listener over tranquil and gently swaying R&B tracks, not condemning but merely asking them to reflect on love, acceptance, and equality. It’s a spiritual successor to the great R&B albums of the 70’s that explored the concept of loving those that don’t look like you; instead asking the listener to love those that don’t LOVE like you. It’s a heavy album, to be sure, but one that’s necessary (and will be necessary) in the years to come.
For fans of… Marvin Gaye
27. One Day Fucked Up (Punk)
Two years ago, the album that stole my number one spot was Fucked Up’s Year of the Horse. It was a prog-heavy rock opera that told the story of a young woman’s escape from a demented society with the help of a horse sent from heaven, leaning on sludge metal just as much as it did the sweeping scores of Ennio Morricone. It was my introduction to the band’s music and I was curious as to what a more traditional album from the band might sound like.
One Day is a wild departure… and by that I guess it’s a return to form? Packed full of stomping punk riffs (“Found”) and fist pumping anthems (“One Day”, “Roar”), it’s a more straightforward affair than its predecessor. And while there were certainly higher-prog elements that I missed from the album, there’s still plenty of weird riffs and smart songwriting that make the album an engaging listen. Ultimately, it was the collection’s thematic message that drew me in. The album poses the question that we all inevitably face: “What would you do with one more day?” Songs are hopeful and filled with bright production, providing the album with some levity that, if done by another group, might have found the music spiraling into some dark places. Given the events of the past five years, I think we’ve had enough darkness for a while, don’t you?
For fans of… The Mighty Mighty Bosstones
26. Cracker Island Gorillaz (Alternative)
I won’t lie to you reader, I was on the fence about this album for a while. True, I was one of the more adamant defenders of it, both to peers and online strangers, but upon reflecting on it, I wasn’t certain that I LOVED the album. Really, it wasn’t until my Spotify Wrapped that my doubts were cast aside and I came to realize what my heart already knew.
I really dig this album.
It’s hard to talk about the Gorillaz without acknowledging two things. First, that their first three albums are indisputably awesome. Second, that their recent output has been lackluster. Sure, there have been songs that have broken through the static of lukewarm albums, but there hasn’t really been anything that has felt cohesive or inspired. Cue Cracker Island, a release whose first two singles were the sole reason for the return of my belief in our beloved, animated band. Poorly timed to release in February (seriously… who let Damon do that?), this album was made for the summer. Tracks like “Cracker Island” and “Silent Running” groove along to the driving beat of a speed boat, while others like “New Gold” and “Tormenta” float through a haze of pastel colors. For the first time… ever, the Gorillaz were one of my top artists of the year and this album accomplished that single handedly. If you’re reading this at the time of publication, this album is warm enough to make you want to sit out on your patio in a bathing suit with a marg, a pair of shades, and a sense of reckless abandon that can only come from a carefree, June afternoon.
For fans of… Tame Impala
25. Integrated Technology Solutions Aesop Rock (Hip hop)
At this point, not much can be said about Aesop Rock that hasn’t already been said. The dude is a loquacious lyricist, whose ability to turn a phrase has only gotten stronger as he’s shifted from weaving abstract images together to a more linear storytelling. Aesop continues to impress with his ability to completely dissect topics, starting with something seemingly simple (see “Pigeonometry”, a song about… you guessed it… drawing pigeons) and turning it into something profound, and in my opinion is one of the sharpest MCs in the game today. In a genre that seems to be shifting (at least in the pop sphere) towards a fairly cookie cutter formula, Aesop demonstrates once again how the nerds and weirdos are the ones really making waves.
For fans of… Del the Funkee Homosapien.
24. Desire, I Want to Turn Into You Caroline Palochek (Pop)
Y’all… I did it. I got a pop album on my year end list! Ignoring the fact that this one was critically acclaimed and will, undoubtedly, make many reviewers and music consumers’ year end lists, I genuinely enjoyed this one. On Desire… Palochek has crafted a collection of songs that feel warmly nostalgic (“Pretty Impossible” feels like something dropped in the 90’s-early 00’s) while simultaneously living in a space that is solely of her own creation. And while her voice is an obvious starting point for talking about why this album is so strong, I think what I’m drawn to most about this project is its versatility. Each song is a different snapshot of some popular subgenre, ranging from the flamenco beat in “Fly to You” to the fragile atmosphere of “Hopedrunk Everasking”. Palochek is truly a pop virtuoso, the equivalent of an artist painting in different styles or an athlete succeeding in multiple sports. I can’t stress enough… if you are someone who likes pop music, you need to listen to this album.
For fans of… Charlie XCX
23. The Worm HMLTD (Art Rock)
On this list we’ve got all sorts of concept albums. If you’ve been following my year end reviews, you know I’m a sucker for them. We’ve got dragon apocalypses. We’ve got ghost love stories. We’ve even got tales of interdimensional survival. But snagging the award for “strangest concept album of the year” goes to HMLTD’s latest output, an album about… a giant worm? Or is it? To be honest, I’ve read plenty of reviews and notes and I still can’t really make heads or tails about what the overarching story is really about. All I know is there’s a worm, it’s all consuming, it’s maybe a metaphor for hate or base human desires, and that this is a wild album. Heavily inspired by musicals, 70’s psychedelic rock, and a little bit of prog, this album is a campy, unhinged celebration of experimentation and exploration. Regardless of your taste of music, it’s hard not to admire the ambition and scale with which HMLTD attacked this concept. And while you might walk away from this album scratching your head asking, “what the hell was this about?”, you certainly won’t be walking away feeling like you wasted your time.
For fans of… the movies your friend would make in college where you just sort of watched them and scratched your head and said… “huh”, but in a good way.
22. Javelin Sufjan Stevens (Indie)
It’s weird to admit this, but I think Sufjan Stevens’ 2015 release Carrie and Lowell is single handedly responsible for getting me into indie folk. I’m sure I would have inevitably gotten into the genre as it was a time when I was branching out from the genres I’d grown up with, and I was in a long-term relationship with my then girlfriend (now wife) who was (and still is) a huge fan of the genre, but it was that album (and the perfect storm that surrounded it) that drew me into the genre. Sufjan’s stomach-turning album about the death of his mother was the perfect backdrop for my life at the time, many of the emotions reverberating across my own experiences at that time. I say all this because, since then, Sufjan has sort of abandoned the folk-heavy leanings of that album, be it through the orchestral, bombastic Planetarium or the electronic laden release, The Ascension, and I have been eagerly waiting for the time when he would return to this sound.
If Carrie and Lowell was a reflection on his parents: the turmoil he experienced growing up, the mix of emotions he felt reuniting with the mother who essentially abandoned him, then Javelin is an honest portrait of his relationship with his partner who passed away in April. Beneath gentle picked guitar strings, tinkling electronics and piano notes, Sufjan recounts stories of love as it truly is: sometimes angry (“Javelin (To Have and To Hold)”) ,sometimes heartbreaking (“So You Are Tired”), sometimes lonely (“My Red Little Fox”), but always warm, honest, brave, and true. Stevens navigates these feelings of love and losing love so beautifully, so intimately, that this album will stay with you long after its final, hope filled song, “There’s a World”, plays. Because even though we inevitably lose what we love, there is beauty and purpose within this wonderful life we all live.
For Fans of… Simon and Garfunkel
21. Born Again Danger Mouse & Jemini the Gifted One (Hip hop)
If you asked me what kind of music I was listening to in 2003, I can tell you with confidence that it sure as hell wasn’t hip-hop. In fact, the genre wasn’t even on my radar. But times have changed, and here I find myself in 2023 listening to an album that was written and recorded at a time when the fastest lyrics I’d ever heard came from a Weird Al song (sometimes… I embarass myself).
Born Again is, in many ways, a time capsule. Danger Mouse’s beats are closer to the boom bap rhythms of the time, and Jemini the Gifted One’s flow closer to Black Thought’s than Drake’s. One would think that an album being written twenty years ago would sound dated, but the energy is so palpable that it’s hard not to find yourself bopping your head to it. Jemini’s rhymes swing between braggadocious to cautionary, and his flow is that of someone who is a veteran of the game instead of someone who wrote two albums and dipped. Songs like “Where You From” sound like something I heard before football games in the late 00’s, whereas jams like “Born Again” glitter and jive by like something written in the 90’s. If you’re sitting on your couch, longing for a specific time when hip-hop had a unique flavor and flow, this album is for you.
For fans of… The Roots
20. O’ Monolith Squid (Post Punk)
Have you ever had one of those dreams that starts one way, be it pleasant or simply semi-normal, that then shifts to something else? You’re semi-lucid. You’re on a beach. No, you’re in a bedroom. No, you’re standing on the edge of a skyscraper? It’s daytime, but then you blink and the sun is rising. You know you’re standing in your childhood home, but for some reason it’s the place you live now? That’s sort of like how it feels to listen to this album.
O’ Monolith is surreal at times, jammy at others, grooving in some spaces, shapeshifting and angular in others. It lives in the same space as some of the great experimental albums of the 70’s: unafraid to explore spaces that are strange or at the very least unfamiliar. The music video is a great visual representation of this. The song “Swing (in a Dream)” starts off fairly straightforward, much like a game of one on one basketball, but as the song develops it becomes more chaotic. Other sounds start taking up space and, before you know it, the original groove is attempting to play around all these other music moments. There’s an anxiety to a lot of the songs on this album that make it an arresting listen and one of the most memorable albums of 2023.
For fans of… The Talking Heads.
19. Knower Forever Knower (Jazz Fusion)
On May 25th, Knower masterminds Louis Cole and Genevieve Artadi delivered a message to fans. As anyone who has a pulse is aware, streaming services pay their artists in coupons and there’s no money in music. So, in an attempt to actually get paid for the music they make, the two of them announced that their album would not be put on streaming services for the first 6 months (or so) of its existence, and if fans wanted to hear it they would have to buy it. The move was a gamble, but also one that reveals how much these two believed in the piece of art they’d created. This play could have easily imploded on the duo, isolating potential fans from reaching the music in an era where you HAVE to hype the release with singles and streaming opportunities. Instead, the project amassed $85,000 over the projected $6,000, and there’s a good reason.
As the kids would (maybe) say, this rips.
From front to back, this is a collection of Cole’s and Artadi’s strongest material, a jazz fusion album whose sound ranges from in-your-face funk bops (“I’m the President”) to smooth jazz, R&B jams (“Real Nice Moment”). Cole’s drumming is as floaty as ever, applying ghost notes as egregiously as one would use seasoning on a piece of boiled chicken, and Artadi’s tongue-in-cheek lyrics hold enough wit and attitude to provide a youthful spunk to their blend of lo-fi and high energy jazz. And while their respective performances are incredible, it’s truly the arrangements that make this the memorable album that it is. Relying on the talents of Dwayne Thomas Jr., a.k.a. Mononeon (bass), Rai Thistlethwayte (keyboard), Jacob Mann (keyboard), and a literal orchestra of brass, woodwinds, and strings, each song is absolutely reverberating with creative energy.
I don’t want to take up too much more of your time, dear reader, but I would be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to talk about the keyboard solos on this album. Particularly, Rai Thistlewayte’s on “It’s All Nothing Until It’s Everything.” As I’ve said before, the musicianship on this album is next level, but this keyboard solo, hands down, wins solo of the year for me. Floating on top of Cole’s frantic drumming is a piano solo that truly defies anything you’ll hear this year in terms of creativity, musicianship, and batshit wackiness. It, and many of the other solos on this project, are just the icing on the cake, and one of the reasons why this fun, goofy, high energy album made it into my top 30 albums of this year.
In 2021, one of my favorite albums of the year was Psychedelic Porn Crumpets’ SHYGA! The Sunlight Mound. It was a warm, fuzzy collection of psychedelic, garage rock that felt akin to dancing in the summer sun, riding the buzz of whatever your drug of choice is. With bands like this, I expect fun but not necessarily a whole lot of variation (unless you’re King Giz in which case… it would be foolish not to expect it). Well, imagine my surprise when Fronzoli dropped late this year, an album that still incorporates plenty of overdriven guitar riffage but leans more heavily into an almost metal aesthetic. There are still plenty of lighter moments, but even those are coupled with some goliath riffs that come kicking down your door like your drunk neighbor on a saturday morning. “Dilemma Us From Evil” is the perfect example of this, a song that starts with some nice floating chords before dive bombing into a heavy af chorus. It sounds like something the Beatles might have written if they took less acid and drank more bourbon. Don’t expect any depth to lyrics here (see “(I’m a Kadaver) Alakazam”’s lyrics: “Sorry that you died Mrs Robinson/ I guess chihuahuas look like chicken to a crocodile/ Nothing like a well seasoned appetite/ You see them tiny fuzzy pixels on your satellite”), but expect to have a sore neck when your head quits banging.
For fans of… The White Stripes
17. Every Sound Has a Color in the Valley of Night PT.1 Night Verses (Instrumental Metal)
You’ve never truly known darkness until you’ve gone creeping through the forest on a night with no moon. It’s the kind of darkness that amplifies every sound, the kind of darkness that holds no outline of shape because everything is shadow. You continue to walk through this haunted grove until you see a warm, orange light bleeding through the thick web of branches and roots in the distance, notable in that it is the only light to exist… to maybe have ever existed. And as you approach, you come upon a fire, roaring and towering into an opening in the forest canopy. Surrounding the fire is a circle of six figures. As the fire crackles and leaps they begin to sway, and as their dance grows more frantic, shapes begin to rise from the fire.
That is, essentially, what it’s like to listen to Night Verses’ latest album. At times haunting and atmospheric, at others swirling and chaotic, it’s hard to believe that this wall of sound can possibly be created by only a trio of musicians, but if you’re looking for metal that will leave you with a sense of awe and wonder, this is the album for you. Guitarist Nick Pirro, bassist Reilly Herrera, and drummer Aric Improta are on another level of musicianship, each a virtuoso with their respective instrument. This is an album that will possess you with catchy riffs and otherworldly, jaw dropping performances. If you’re looking for a band to wow you, and inspire you to never pick up an instrument again, this is the group to do it.
For fans of… Animals as Leaders
16. Like Dying Stars, We’re Reaching Out (Run for Cover) Runnner (Indie Rock)
There’s a lot of bombastic, over the top music on this list. In general, I think I gravitate towards compositions that are grandiose, that become something bigger than where they started. So, if you’re looking for an album about the quieter moments in life, one that seems to capture the beauty in the seemingly insignificant memories, this is the album for you. Noah Weinman, a.k.a. Runnner, does this beautifully, crafting songs that seem to live in those liminal spaces of life, each song a snapshot of friends and lovers from the past year, a look back on the growth we’ve made, the tears we’ve cried, and the lives we’ve lived. This review is simple and sweet, but then again, so is this album. Put this on and watch the sunset. You’ve earned it.
For fans of… Noah Kahan.
15. The Aux Blockhead (Hip-hop)
If there is one point of contention I seem to have with my students nowadays (besides grading, bathroom pass policy, etc.) it’s the state of modern hip-hop. I feel like an old man, but when I get a recommendation from a student for someone like Playboi Carti or Youngboy Never Broke Again I just cannot get into it. There’s a certain depth of lyricism that seems to be missing, a lack of vision that the young sometimes have (you’re thirty years old Kevin… shut the hell up). And while pretty much every single one of my hip-hop albums demonstrates this gap of talent that I’m referring to, I don’t think I could have come up with a better mixtape that demonstrates the difference between these young clout chasers and actual hip-hop artists if I tried.
If that sounds pretentious… so be it.
I can’t emphasize how wild the features list on this album is. If you’re anyone who has been paying attention to the underground of hip-hop, seeing Quelle Chris, Danny Brown, Billy Woods, Open Mike Eagle, Aesop Rock, among a slew of other names should be enough to turn your head (I discovered Bruiser Wolf on the sultry “Papi Seeds” and… damn, I’m an instant fan). Much like the title suggests, it very much feels like a who’s-who of hip-hop, a party where one person after another is tossing on their favorite song from their artist of choice to try and one up the other. The result is an album that is chaulkful of masterful lyricism, creative beats, and memorable moments. It’s a celebration of everything that hip-hop has been, is, and will be, a reminder to the people who come to the genre seeking poets that there are still some really great dudes making beats out there, you might just have to seek them in the shadows. If you’re someone who enjoys hip-hop from the fringes, this album is a must check. I guarantee you’ll find something to whet your appetite.
For fans of… MF Doom.
14. Scaring the Hoes Danny Brown/JPEGmafia (Hip-hop)
Imagine this (for some of us this might not be hard): you’re at a party, maybe even putting yourself back to your college years. You’ve been given the aux cord (guess I dated myself there) and are in charge of the jams for the night. You have two options: play something that everyone is going to like to keep the party rolling, or play something interesting that might earn you cred or get you a few laughs but runs the risk of killing the mood. This is essentially where the title comes from, the type of music that might scare off the girls who just wanna jam and party. This album is a compilation of hip hop that does just that.
Scaring the Hoes is a perfect marriage of underground darling Danny Brown’s clever, horn-dog lyrics and JPEGmafia’s punk aesthetic and production. Both MCs are absolutely laying it down on this album, leaving nothing behind. Over beats that have no business going as hard as they do (“Garbage Pale Kids” samples a Japanese ramen commercial), Brown and JPEG trade bars and jabs with a flow so natural one might think they’ve been doing this for years instead of this album representing their inaugural partnership (with the exception of JPEG providing beats on Danny Brown’s 2019 album uknowwhatimsayin?). It’s one of those artistic marriages that is so natural it’s impossible to imagine either artist crafting this album on their own. It isn’t the most accessible hip hop album on this list, but it is one of the most engaging albums to be dropped all year.
For fans of… Beastie Boys.
13. Petrodragonic Apocalypse; or, Dawn of Eternal Night: An Annihilation of Planet Earth and the Beginning of Merciless Damnation King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard (Thrash Metal)
I have a love/ meh relationship with King Gizz. At their best they drop albums that infuse their signature brand of psychedelic/ garage rock into the flavor of the month,crafting a collection of music that is uniquely them: bright, colorful, and jammy. All too often, however, I find myself exhausted by the end of the year, having listened to four of their albums released over the past twelve months that just feel like with a little bit more time in the oven the album could have been really special. And if I’m being honest with myself, I will preach the word of King Gizz but have found their recent years of output a bit closer to the “meh” side of the scale. Well the Gizz must have sensed my apathy, because their first of two releases this year came out the gate firing on all cylinders. This year’s offering sees the band once again returning to an aggressive sound (akin to 2019’s Infest the Rat’s Nest) with a heavier, thrashier take on their respective genre that is homage as much as it is reinvention. The result is an album that is unrelenting from start to finish, the sonic equivalence to a Mad Max movie.
Make no mistakes, this is still a Gizz album. There are plenty of jammy, psychedelic moments (see the halfway mark of “Motor Spirit”), but these elements are infused so organically into the tracks that they provide a proggy element to a genre that I find is often soured by formulaic, repetitive riffage. In fact, despite it being a year where metal titans Metallica released one of their better albums in recent years, you would be hard-pressed to find a better thrash metal album this year (or even one released from the past five years). So roll those windows down, find your favorite highway, and put the pedal to the floor. Witness me.
For fans of… Deep Purple
12. Sheol Hypno5e (Post Metal)
There is a place where we go after we die, a place of shadow and memory where we see our loved ones, see our faults, see our most beautiful memories; a place we eventually fade from until we are once again dust… one with the universe. It is a place known as Sheol, a land where the dead are laid and to which the dead go. It is this space of haunted longing that Hypno5e’s fifth album lingers, sifting through a story of love, memory, and loss.
Hypno5e are the masters of tension and release. Their albums are composed largely of massive metal songs that accumulate mass as they roll onward. Sheol is no different, and although the band claims that it is one of their lighter albums, make no mistake that this album is just as heavy and brooding as its “sequel”, 2019’s A Distant (Dark) Source. And while it can be appreciated on a song to song basis, Sheol is at its best when the listener is fully immersed within the sonic landscape the band creates. Feel the tension of massive opener “Sheol Pt. I: Nowhere” as it builds into “Sheol Pt. 2: Lands of Haze”. Bang your head as the closing minutes of “Bone Dust” come descending down upon you like the crushing reality that the memory you once had is not what it seemed. This album will lift you up only to break you down. It will draw you back into the haunted lands of your own Sheol.
The album begins with a poem, titled “Heces” by Cesar Vallejos. As plucked guitars guide the listener through a land of mist and shadows, Vallejos illustrates a portrait of a person lamenting their dead lover. “Esta tarde llueve, como nunca/ y no tengo ganas de vivir/ corazón” roughly translated to “This afternoon it rains, like never before; And I have no desire to live.” It’s the perfect, moody accompaniment to this album’s dreary, lament-filled atmosphere, and one that fully helps demonstrate the drama in which these songs drift and slowly sink.
For fans of… Gojirra.
11. Hellmode Jeff Rosenstock (Punk)
I was talking about music with a friend recently and came to the conclusion that we’re officially beyond the pandemic. I don’t mean that in a sense of processing and healing, but more that the art that we create can process it and where we are at the end of it instead of being in the middle of it. Last year was one of the worst years for music (at least in my opinion) partially because we were still reeling as an artistic community from the political, global, and social ramifications of this event. It’s hard not to look at albums like Kendrick Lamar’s Mr. Morales… or Chat Piles God’s Country and not feel the raw nature of these albums as they processed these events. I bring all this up to say that this year, by contrast, has felt like a healthier place for many of my beloved artists, a space where they can now start to process the cluster bomb that decimated many of our social skills, attention spans, and general mental stability.
This album is the embodiment of that.
Titled Hellmode, Jeff Rosenstock’s latest album is as much about healing as it is about our current, global hellscape. Many songs (“WILL U STILL U” and “DOUBT”) are about this healing process, this forgiveness of ourselves and our shortcomings. There are still plenty of songs that have a lighter meaning (the bouncy “LIKED U BETTER”), but even in these moments Rosenstock finds time to reflect on his own actions and perceptions. The result is a punk rock album that is as cathartic as it is fun. It’s the kind of experience that, by the end of it, leaves you feeling refreshed, understood, and ready to climb out of your own hells. Let’s put our demons aside for a minute and dance it out. You’ll feel better, I promise.
For fans of… NOFX.
10. Maps BillyWoods & Kenny Segal (Hip-hop)
This is the year of Billy Woods. Ignoring the fact that he is featured on literally EVERY hip-hop album on this list, his label Backwoodz Studioz is also responsible for many of this year’s biggest releases. So it only makes sense that among all these great releases is Woods’ second outing with legendary producer Kenny Segall and, much like the first outing, it’s a certified banger.
If 2019’s Hiding Places was a dreary rumination on gentrification, mortality, and the dark places we choose to ignore looking at, then Maps is its brighter, more colorful cousin. Over a slew of memorable beats, Woods weaves his trademark dry, biting witty remarks, his lyrics more poetic in nature than linear or sing-songy. Indeed, this album feels like the experience of touring itself, as songs end and start like waking up in the back of the van only to find yourself in a new town, a new experience. Songs like “Babylon by Bus” feel a little more reminiscent of old school boom bap, where as “Year Zero” (featuring Danny Brown delivering some of this year’s funniest lyrics) trudges along to a nightmare fueled lo-fi beat like someone driving through the shell of a bombed out city. In this respect, there’s a little bit of something for everyone and while Maps can be seen as one of Woods’ more accessible releases, this is by no means a comment on the depths of lyricism that have given Woods’ the reputation as one of the most prolific, well-written, well-read MCs in the game. If anything, this album is hopefully a jumping in point for those who like hip-hop but haven’t checked out one of the greatest artists you’ve never heard of because man… if this year is any indication of the success to come it won’t be long before you’ve heard his fuckin’ name.
For fans of… The Roots.
9. Heavy HeavyYoung Fathers (Art Pop)
On this list, more so than last year, there are a lot of albums of celebration. I mentioned early in my Jeff Rosenstock write up my hypothesis for this, but coming in at my number nine spot is an album that is very much a sonic celebration, a dance party that incorporates elements of soul, West African music, psychedelic, and pop. It’s an album that is warm and welcoming, a collection of songs that feels cohesive and yet impossible to pin down. One moment you’re stomping and clapping to the drum and bass of “I Saw”, the next you’re swaying and reflecting to the tranquil, M83-esq atmospheric build of “Tell Somebody”. It’s an album that’s a unique experience and unlike anything I listened to this year.
When I reflect on the breakdown of my list, I try to separate it into sections of ten so that, by the time you’re at my top ten albums you’ve reached the ten that I would recommend to someone over the rest of the list.
Reflecting on this album… I’m not sure why or how it earned this specific spot. Perhaps it’s because this album is so out of my typical wheelhouse that it’s made a lasting impact on me. Perhaps it’s the warmth of this album, and the contrast it has to so much of the music I typically listen to. Perhaps it’s that it’s just a fun album, the kind that makes you want to bob and groove back and forth, the kind of album that sticks with you because it’s just enjoyable. Sure there are moments of reflection and meditation (“Geronimo”), but in general the power in the music is that you can feel it. The grooves are infectious. The vibes are right. This album will stick with you long after the thundering beat of “Be Your Lady” dissipates.
For fans of… Gorillaz
8. Praise a Lord Who Chews but Which Does Not Consume (Or Simply, Hot Between Worlds) Yves Tumor (Experimental Rock)
I always appreciate an artist who’s a chameleon, who refuses to be pigeonholed into one sound or genre but instead uses genre as a tool to explore whatever the thematic material of the album dictates. Yves Tumor is one of those artists, akin to a Bowie, whose bravery when it comes to composition and whose dedication to producing brilliant sounding music has quickly catapulted them into one of the most ingenuitive and exciting artists of our generation. Their music is bombastic without being overblown, so extravagant that it borders on campy (although, as we know, I am not dissuade from music that exists in the camp), and on Praise a Lord… we see a truly one of a kind album, unencumbered by preconceived notions, genre specifications, or a sense of pressure from media or fanbase.
From the first, anxiety breaths of “God is a Circle” to the groovy, swinging orchestral arrangements of “Ebony Eye” this is a brilliantly composed (and produced) album that surprises as much as it pays homage to the sounds of some of the greatest art rock albums of the 90s. It’s a short listen (clocking in at around thirty-seven minutes) but in that time Yves Tumor manages to seamlessly weave R&B, funk, psychedelic, electronic, industrial, and alt rock into an exciting, gripping album. In many ways these sounds aid Tumor’s thematic reflection on their own upbringing, exploring topics of religion, mortality, and love, serving as almost a time machine into the music that Tumor grew up with and how, by referring back to those genres, they’re taking us back into the space they occupied when they were younger and being introduced to this grandiose topics. It’s sexy. It’s raw. It’s emotive. It’s got swagger. It’s, essentially, everything that rock and roll was built on and everything it should be.
For fans of… Prince.
7. 16 Einar Solberg (Progressive Rock)
I’m a true believer that we are defined not by the events of our lives, but how we face them. Loss and grief can lead to personal growth and self-realizations. Pain can lead us to seek out joy. Love can help us see what we’ve been missing the whole time. For some of us, these moments come with the diagnosis of some illness, or a bad accident. The loss of a friend or loved one. Relocating to a new place.
For Einar Solberg, one of the masterminds behind progressive rock band Leprous, the year that defined him (or at least greatly altered him) was his 16th year and it is this year that Solberg, conceptually sitting at his fireplace, reflects on.
Ultimately, this album is a celebration of Solberg’s influences, both personally and musically (two of the songs feature people important to his life: his sister (Star of Ash) and brother-in-law (black metal artist Ihsahn). Each song has its own personality, from the cinematically epic rock song “A Beautiful Life”, to the orchestrally composed “Where All the Twigs Broke”, to the metal tinged “Splitting the Soul” and it’s fun to hear everything from Massive Attack to Andrew Lloyd Weber blended together. For fans of Leprous, this is a tasteful deconstruction of the music that Solberg brings to the table when focused on his main band, a way for Solberg to try his hand at writing songs that are representative of these different musical masks that he weaves together. It’s also a glimpse into some of the pivotal moments in Solberg’s life, from his first foray into music, to his decision to live a life for himself, to even meta commentary on his decision to write the album in the first place (and why he chose to face these moments). But you don’t have to be a fan of Leprous to enjoy this album, any music fan can appreciate this solo artist showcasing all the genres that he loves working with, and just how his sound is influenced by them.
This journey into Solberg’s past comes to a head with the absolutely monumental closing track “The Glass is Empty”. In many ways, this is the moment the whole album has been building to, the final door left to open, the last boggart to face. Because while there are many emotional moments woven throughout this album, this song is absolutely heartbreaking and is THE moment that defined his 16th year of life. I won’t claim to have any personal information about Solberg’s past or personal life, but knowing the fate of one of his family members it seems this song is a confrontation of that moment, his own admission of guilt, and the heartbreak from the event’s outcome. The self-destruction that this person brought upon themselves and Solberg’s brutally raw exploration of this moment make this, hands down, one of the most important musical moments of the year and, if you’re a fan of musicals, progressive rock, or just phenomenal music, I can’t stress enough how important it is that you listen to this tear-jerking composition.
This album is heavy, make no mistake. The moments of levity float to the surface only to be sent plummeting to the depths by anchors of honest reflection. Still, this list isn’t just about albums that you’ll like listening to, but albums that you SHOULD listen to. By exploring his past, Solberg also invites you to explore your own, to reflect on those years that defined you, to bask in the warmth of their light, and to illuminate the corners where the demons might hide.
For fans of… Pasek and Paul (the writers of Dear Evan Hansen and La La Land)
6. Periphery V: Djent is Not a GenrePeriphery (Metalcore)
If there’s one thing I hate about the metal community, it’s the gatekeeping, elitist mentality that comes with it. So often I hear from my peers in this genre that an artist is “too pop-y”, or “too mainstream”, etc. And while newer bands like Sleep Token seem to have taken the brunt of this unfair critique currently, for a good chunk of time you couldn’t (and still can’t) make it through a facebook thread of an online forum for Periphery without someone slinging shit at them. The criticisms range from the band taking themselves too seriously, to not seriously enough, to Spencer Sotelo’s voice. And while some of the criticism is valid (I too have been frustrated by the band’s inability to actually take themselves seriously), it’s almost impossible for me to deny that I am, at this point, very much a fan boy. So you can imagine my hunger as I waited for FOUR years for their next album after 2019’s Hail Stan (again… that title) for the princes of progressive metalcore to release their next album.
So here we have PV, an album whose title pokes fun at the very “subgenre”/sound they helped popularize in the metal scene. And you know what… It’s really damn good. One of their best. It’s pop-y at times. It’s heavy at times. But this is also their most focused and heartfelt album since… ever.
Sure, the goofy titles are there (both of the album and some of the songs), but this album feels like a band actually trying to take some risks instead of rehashing (conceptually) the songs from past albums. Opener “Wildfire” sees the band tastefully revisiting themes and lyrics from 2015’s Juggernaut, exploring the more human side of a demonic possession instead of the supernatural lore. “Atropos” takes the listener on an eight minute journey that’s a masterclass of building a theme. This album truly sees them swimming in uncharted waters, testing the listener and themselves with longer song structures and weirder experiments (the pop ballad “Silhouette”).
What I find myself drawn to most about the album is the emotion. Periphery has never been a group that shied away from discussions of depression, suicide, and grief, but this album feels like it’s holding these topics with more reverence and even seems to give us a glimpse of what lies on the other side. “Dying Star” is a beautiful song about accepting change (as a father, I have found myself growing misty eyed over the last lines of the chorus: “On roads unknown/ Your heart is open”) while “Wax Wings” is one of the bands most memorable riffs in recent albums that discusses the pressures of living up to society’s expectations (clearly reflected in the band’s feelings of attempting to live up to their own expectations for themselves).
The most beautiful moment on this album, and possibly their whole discography, comes with the song “Thanks Nobuo”, a tribute to the Final Fantasy composer Eumatsu. Over lush strings and epic choral sections, the band writes a song about accepting the past and yourself, finding the strength within, and loving your brothers. The song is a tribute to a man whose video games have made a huge impact on the group (you can hear his influence in the orchestral sections spread across albums) but it’s also a love letter to each other, a thanking of one another for accepting each other, flaws, histories, and quirks in all. It’s touching, and as the song dissolves the listener is left with a lush few minutes of serenity. It’s the perfect breathing room after a metal album that challenges its listener’s attention spans and is filled with riff after riff, and a message to fans as well: that after all our hardship there is light. There is peace.
For fans of… Spiritbox
5. Fauna Haken (Progressive Metal)
It’s no secret that, if you’ve talked music with me in the past few years, I’ve brought up Haken. If I had to craft a list of my favorite artists of all time, Haken would easily make the top ten and three of their albums (2013’s modern masterpiece The Mountain and 2019/2020’s equally as perfect double album Vector/Virus) would make the top ten as well. They’re one of the few bands in the genre who seemingly touch on both qualities of the genre: the reverence of its historic past and the desire to push songwriting forward. Their discography is damn near perfect, ranging from the metal fused Vector/Virus to the ethereal Affinity, and so given my love for their most recent album, I was excited to see where they would go with this one.
Fauna is the most experimental album in their discography, not sticking with one aesthetic like the 80’s prog infused Affinity or the 70’s inspired The Mountain, but rather serving as a collage of their past works. Each song is a kaleidoscope into their sound, and the result is an album that is as cohesive as it is a perfect starting place for new fans. Songs like “Taurus” and “Beneath the White Rainbow” have a heavy/djent quality much like Vector/Virus. Subsequently, “Elephants Never Forget” has a circus-esq sections which sounds like something from their earlier work. The first album since their EP in which keyboardist Peter Jones joins the crew, there’s a certain levity within the music that has been lacking since Aquarius (see the pop-y “The Alphabet in Me”). It’s a fun exploration of their discography and, whether you’re a new fan of the band or someone who has been following them from day one, there’s a little something here for everyone.
For fans of… Dream Theater.
4. He Left Nothing For the Swim Back Skech185 (Hip-Hop)
In a year where Danny Brown and JPEGmafia crafted the year’s wildest hip-hop release and Billy Woods established himself as the king of the underground with yet another right hook of an album, it’s hard to imagine a release topping either. Enter Skech185, yet another artist on Woods’ Backwoodz Studioz label, and hands down one of the hungriest artists I’ve heard in a hot minute. On his debut album Skech spits venom over nine tracks whose beats range from banging to anxiety-inducing. His flow never relents from barking, and he sounds more like a slam poet with a megaphone shouting up at God than an beatnik with a microphone. His wordplay is phenomenal, and he comes across as someone recounting a story, each tale a cautionary one. The result is an album that is unrelenting and furious.
Of all the albums on this list, this one’s title might be the most accurate. Seemingly a reference to the movie Gattaca in which the main character beats his brother in a contest to see who can swim the furthest by having no plan to return to the shore, this album sees Skech doing something similar. There is no energy left on the cutting room floor. Every rhyme, every beat, every song, is pulsing with a jazzy, gloomy urgency that you would be hard pressed to find on any song on the Billboard top 20.
He Left Nothing For the Swim Back is one of those debuts that leaves the listener excited to hear what the artist does next, and the only issue I can see with this album is that it sets the bar so high that it’s going to be a struggle to top it on his next outing.
For fans of… Earl Sweatshirt
3. Let the Truth Speak Earthside (Progressive/ Symphonic Metal)
Eight years ago I came across a debut album that shook me to the core, an album that was so good it quickly established a place on my favorite albums of all time list. It was bold, cinematic, and evocative, an album that said just as much with the few lyrics it had as it did with the bombastic, over the top instrumentation. That album was Earthside’s 2015 release, A Dream in Static. Incorporating a blend of post metal and symphonic metal, it was the perfect album to launch a band’s career, a statement of the band’s dedication to musicality and musicianship. It was the kind of debut that left the listener hungrily waiting for more, and so in (relative) radio silence we waited to see what (if anything) Earthside would return with.
But eight years is a long time to wait, especially in today’s society that devours music in singles and soundbites. In that time an insurmountable level of expectations were set (at least in my mind), that inevitably seemed impossible for the band to reach. Cue the band’s release of the lead single and closing track for the album: “All We Knew and Ever Loved”, a song that is Hans Zimmer as much as it is Leprous. It was a wild but important single to release, a statement that let fans know big things were coming, if only they might hold out a little longer for new music. Well hold out for two years we did, and the fruits of our patience and continued support is an album that addresses the few shortcomings of its predecessor, and elevates its strong elements to another level.
Let the Truth Speak is a monumental album, not only one of the best metal albums to be released this year but undoubtedly of the next decade. It’s clear that the band was not resting on their laurels this past… almost decade, but rather refining and honing their craft. With their last release, the best songs on the album featured stunning guest vocal performances from the likes of Daniel Thompkin (TesseracT), Lajon Witherspoon (Sevendust), and Eric Zirlinger, and this time around the group continue their trend of choosing vocalists who not only contribute to, but elevate the material. There is the ethereal vocals of Keturah on opening, djent inspired “We Who Lament”, the commanding attitude of AJ Channer (Fire From the Gods), and these are only some of the incredible talent they manage to pull. While some might argue that adding vocalists to the majority of the songs distracts from the band’s stellar musicianship, I would argue that it does the opposite, providing simply another layer to add emotion and weight to Earthside’s already powerful music.
If A Dream in Static was mostly post metal inspired, Let the Truth Speak leans heavily in a more progressive direction, and the variation in song structure only makes the album a more colorful listen. Songs range from alt/nu metal (“Patterns of Rebirth”) to the absolute left hook that is the funk inspired (and Tower of Power incorporating) “The Lesser Evils”. This is an album that still feels wholly Earthside, while creating more standout moments throughout.
All in all, it isn’t simply the songwriting or vocal performances, but the album’s overall meaning. Let the Truth Speak is an album about mortality, be it human, planetary, or morally. It is an album that begs the listener to listen with love. It’s an album that demands we speak for those that cannot. For if we do not speak, or provide room for the truth to speak for itself, then we damn ourselves to a life of inevitable collapse and destruction.
For fans of… Trans Siberian Orchestra
2. 3D Country Geese (Art Rock)
Let’s do another thought exercise. Imagine this: you’re at your favorite local dive bar. You’re already three pitchers of your favorite domestic in and, as another large plastic vessel of frothy gold is placed in front of you, the lights dim, a set of spotlights illuminate a small stage, and a band stumbles their way onto it. And when I say stumble, I mean in that cartoony, lampoon-esq way that comes from someone who is in their cups just as much as you are. They’re dressed like they got launched out of a catapult from the 70s, and have just now reentered from the stratosphere and don’t know when or where the hell they are. The music begins, and you aren’t sure if its what the band is playing or your perception of what the band is playing… but it’s fucking good. The lights are fucking good. Man… are you as drunk as I am?
That’s 3D Country, a blend of post punk, funk, rock, country, and boogie that simply cannot be defined by one genre but rather by an attitude. It’s goofy, wild, adventurous rock music that has the swagger of a group whose more than just two albums into their career. Each song is a drug fuelled romp into 70’s inspired, Looney Tunes-esq rock. Each twist and turn is just as colorful and as inventive as the last. Over solid blues/funk rhythms laid down by bassist DiGesu and drummer Max Bassin, lead singer Cameron Winters croons, bellows, and hollers songs about love and self and ego death with a performance that can only be described as “bonkers”.
This is an album for people who are hungry for new, inventive music, people looking to be surprised by songs that take left turns without sacrificing superb writing. It’s the kind of album that, had it been released fifty years ago, would be regarded with reverence, passed down by those in the counterculture with a cult status, the kind of album that inspired those that followed for generations. It possesses the unique ability to sound referential without repetitive, reverent to a time and place where music was about exploration just as much as space was. So, if you’re someone who wants to hear a band explore a wholly unique sound, give this record a spin and see if you can pin them down. Or, maybe just drink a pitcher of beer and lose yourself in the lights.
For fans of… Captain Beefheart.
War of Being TesseracT (Progressive Metal)
The pandemic did a doozy on us. It tore apart families and friendships. It revealed our worst impulses. It forced us to stare into the mirror, to stare into the abyss that lay within self, to question our mortality, our morals, our goals. For many people, many talented artists, it forced them to make a decision: do we really want to keep doing this? These past three years we’ve seen so many bands, musicians, artists disband and leave their art, but we’ve also seen others rise from the smoldering ashes, pull each other up, stand among the wreckage and make a statement.
And in the case of TesseracT, deliver the performance of a lifetime.
The War of Being is an exceptional piece of modern art. I always hesitate to designate something a “classic” album before I’ve had years to sit with it, to see if it has made a lasting impact on me, to see if its concepts, music, and ideas linger with me as I move through the years. This designation is usually given to albums only after they have spent a decade with me. But dammit… this might be a perfect album, a stirring composition that has haunted me from the opening notes to the last, atmospheric moments. It’s the kind of album that has caught me in unexpected moments, tugging on my heartstrings as I drive home from work or building me up as I prepare myself for a day I’m not feeling ready to tackle. It’s the kind of album whose message is universal, everlasting, every morphing.
Musically, this album sees each musician delivering a performance of a lifetime. Each song is a perfect blend of the lessons learned on previous albums, an amalgamation of sounds that shows a band evolving and reaching their truest, fullest potential. It’s an amalgamation of One’s aggression (see “Natural Disaster”), Altered States grooves (bob your head to “The Grey”), Polaris’ massive hooks (have your heartstrings tugged with “Tender”), and Sonder’s concise songwriting ( check the radio single ready “Echoes”). Over massive riff after massive riff, lead singer Daniel Tompkins provides a soaring, thundering performance that establishes him as the best metal vocalist doing it right now (seriously… listen to “Legion” and tell me if anyone else is bringing to the table what he does on that song). This is truly an album of firing-on-all-cylinders, no skips progressive metal, an experience that knows when to drop the bass just as much as it knows when to let a song breathe, to build tension and anticipation for the next emotive moment.
Conceptually, the album is a spiritual successor to 2018’s Sonder, TesseracT’s heaviest outing to date and a collection of songs that focused on a person’s feeling of ostracization from society. War of Being takes this concept and shifts the gaze of one’s ire not outward but inward, following two characters as they navigate a world in which their traumas, fears, and truths manifest themselves as physical adversaries. These two characters lose each other (and themselves) in their descent into the madness of the world but, by facing themselves and their own demons, come face to face with each other. It’s a powerful metaphor for anyone who’s been in a relationship, and as someone who has been faced with his greatest and most beautiful challenge yet (fatherhood), it’s a powerful album that focuses on topics of acceptance, true love, and redemption. I won’t spoil the ending (or at least, what I think is the ending) but by the time the final, haunting notes of “Sacrifice” finish their echo it’s almost impossible not to feel the gravity of this album.
When a band takes this big of a leap (concept album, VR video game accompaniment, massive book of art and story, world tour, cinematic music videos), the energy within the project is palpable. Regardless of whether you’re someone like me who really immerses himself into the concept of his favorite albums or someone who just appreciates music, this album will enrapture you from start to finish, force you to go to war with the parts of yourself you’re most afraid of, and then take your hand and support you to the life-altering conclusion. In the end, isn’t that what the best art does?
Faye had just finished dredging up and emptying the remainder of the crab traps from the ocean floor and was securing them to the deck of the Ginny when she heard the call come over the horn. The rainfall had worsened in the past hour, growing from an occasional tap to the drumming of fingers on the crown of her head. She finished tossing the female crabs overboard, wiped the sea slime onto her bibs, and plodded up the stairs to the wheelhouse. Beneath her the engine of the boat she’d called home for the past six months grumbled to life.
“Yeah, I don’t like it either,” she grunted, patting the side of the boat before hawking a loogie into the frothy waters. From the other side of the fogged window she heard a series of frantic, muffled words, followed by an indiscernible response from the captain. A gust of wind blew spray over the bow of the boat, ripping her hat from her head. It tumbled and spun through the air, carried off into a sea that rose and fell like the coils of a giant serpent. Faye cursed, and then entered the warmth of the main cabin.
“Ten-four. The Ginny’s on her way,” Captain Shepp responded through a mouthful of sunflower seeds. He slammed the microphone of the transceiver onto the dashboard.
“Traps are pulled.” Faye grabbed her long braid and wrung it out onto the floor.
Shepp said nothing. The ship shuttered, and Faye shifted her footing as it propelled them forward.
“It’s not good captain. If you pissed on an old woman’s grave on the way home from the pub, now’s the time to tell me.” Again, silence filled only by the steady chugging of the engine and haunted seagull cry of the gale outside. Faye rolled her eyes and sniffed. “We’re gonna have to sell her Shepp. The gas we got will get us home but… ” Her eyes shifted from the compass to the barometer, to the captain’s unwavering gaze. Something was off. “You listening to me?”
The old captain nodded. He picked up the mouth piece from the dash and put it back on the receiver. He shifted a seed from the clump on the left side of his mouth, cracked it with his teeth, and spat the shell.
“Yeah. I heard ya.”
“Then you’ll forgive me for wondering just where the hell we’re going when it’s blowing harder than a dockhand’s sister out there, because it sure as shit doesn’t sound like we’re making for the harbor.” The captain’s gaze was set ahead of him, where the bow of the ship was baptized by sea spray as it fell.
“The Sea Cow’s in trouble-”
“The Sea Cow’s always in trouble Shepp. It’s a hunk of shit, just like our hunk of shit. And we need to cut our losses while we can to get…” she stared out through the frosted glass, “…home.”
“Those boys said they’re already taking on water. Too much weight in the hull. Engine won’t turn over neither.” His voice, normally coarse as salt was oddly calm. Faye waved a gloved hand and shook her head.
“Because of their own damn pride. Tell them to ditch the cargo and call the Coast Gua-“
“Already did, but we’re closer.”
“And we’ll be closer to the harbor if we ju-”
“They said they’d give us their haul.”
Even the Ginny’s engine took a second to process the news. The boat rose and fell, the beating of the bow against the surf, the steady plodding pulse of a funeral march. Faye’s own heart beat with it. Their live tank was an empty stomach, a constant reminder that every hunch Faye had this season hadn’t paid off. Captain Shepp frequently insisted that luck came with the tide, but Faye knew it was bullshit.
“It ain’t worth it,” Faye tried to reason, absentmindedly rubbing the tattoo on her forearm, through the thick rain slicker. Beneath the rubberized polyester was the image of a poorly drawn dog and two stick figure girls walking it. A tattoo drawn by a little girl who missed her mother. Shepp glanced at this action out of the corner of his eye.
“Your sister’s watchin’ her, right? Might be nice to buy her something other than top ram-“
“Don’t,” Faye growled and the captain dropped it. “Fuck… how much?”
“Enough.”
“How much?”
The old crustacean spit shells to his feet.
“50 grand each.” The boat rocked in the growing torrent. Wind whipped the sock at the bow.
“How far out?” she asked. Her gaze was lost in the glass, where a reoccurring image haunted her.
“Two miles. We’ll be there and back before the storm even hits.”
Thunder rumbled overhead in disagreement.
“We’re not going to get there in time. It’s not possible.”
“Aye… maybe. But if we do…” The radio squealed with feedback and then quieted.
“Dom and his boys are righteous cunts,” she said.
“Yeah…” the captain tossed another fistful of seeds into his mouth, “but so are we.”
***
Outside the tiny main cabin, the wind howled its duet with the soft hum of Faye’s harmonica. Angry with the Ginny’s defiance, the surf grew more violent, drawing the bow of the boat down before walloping it with a rising wave. The captain’s gaze never left the hazy front window, stoically focused on the task at hand. It was a quality that had drawn Faye to be part of his small operation in the first place. She supposed they were both gamblers at heart: him with the sea, she with her money… her marriage… and her happiness. She wondered what he saw when he stared out into the growing darkness beyond the warmth of the cabin. Did it mirror the recurring nightmare that she found herself trapped in when she stared out into the gloom.
The biting cold of a December storm. The whip of her thin plastic coat. The soft glow of her sister’s living room, where through a similarly fogged window she saw Sydney and her aunt playing a board game on the carpet. And the knowledge that once again, as she climbed the shoveled steps, she had nothing to bring, not even a cheap, pathetic gift, for Christmas.
“There she is,” the captain growled and the image in the glass faded in Faye’s eyes. There, floating like a drowned man in the dark-grey surf, was the Sea Cow. A wave rose between them and the red hull disappeared. The motor protested as it fought against the current and Faye watched as the view of the sea through the window became a view of the churning grey-green sky. She removed the harmonica from her lips and stuffed it into the pocket of her bibs. Rain beat against the glass. Silence flooded into the cabin.
The Ginny crested the spine of the wave and Faye’s stomach dropped as they descended. The Sea Cow was still there, and standing on her deck one could make out the forms of three orange crew members, each gripping a part of the railing that wasn’t already submerged. The ship was going down, dragging her loot with her.
Faye cursed. Captain Shepp pushed the throttle onward.
By the time they reached the ship it resembled a beached whale. The stern was beneath the surf, the crew each hanging on as the rain lashed their drooping shoulders. Faye exited the main cabin and, tying one end of rope to the Ginny’s side, tossed the other end to Dom. She hurled a second rope over to one of his two brothers, a patchy bearded greenhorn that was either named Torren or Warren. She couldn’t remember which was which. Once the boats were drawn and lashed together, Dom and his brothers dragged themselves over the rail and onto the deck of the Ginny.
Faye grabbed a five gallon bucket and hopped to the other craft. The live pot was already submerged. Crabs floated in the knee deep surf around it. Faye scooped up a bucket of water and crustaceans, and made her way back to the Ginny.
“The hell are you doing?” Dom shouted over the gale, water spraying from his lips. Faye dumped the water and crabs into the Ginny’s live tank and went back over the rail for another bucket.
“Think we came all this way just to save your skinny dicks?” she shouted over her shoulder, taking in another draw of salt water and crab. “Grab a bucket and help.”
Their hunched forms hadn’t moved as Faye made the return journey to their boat, nor had they moved when she went back a third and a fourth time. The water was getting close to the level of her hips. She had to move quicker.
“It’s fucking impossible,” Dom shouted at her as she prepared to make her sixth trip. “You’re talking about moving thousands of crabs. The Cow doesn’t have that long. We need to cut our losses now!”
She hopped back off the rail and took in a hefty scoop of crab. Each one worth eight dollars. A hundred dollars in her bucket.
“Don’t fuck me on this Dom. Grab a bucket or I-“
“FAYE!” her name sounded over the loud speaker. Turning towards the wheelhouse, Faye struggled to keep her heart out of her throat.
Looming above the vessel, drawing them infinitely upwards, was a massive swell, a wave that rose up into the low hanging clouds. Water tugged at her legs, and her boots slipped against the metal deck. Wrapping her left arm around the railing, she held onto the forty pound bucket with her right. The rain fell in sheets, and Faye felt a chill that permeated her skin, her muscles, her blood. Staring up into the sky was like staring into the maw of some ancient horror, a sea beast rising from the depths to entangle them in its clutches and drag them down. The craft reached the top of the wave. The bow sank and they were careening downward riding the pitch of the wave into the open gullet of the ocean. Faye had time to scream an obscenity before the boats slammed into a wall of water. It came over the bows and swept around the men. Off balance from the weight of the bucket, and unable to keep her grip on the wet metal, Faye was thrown forward and into the cold waters of the Pacific.
Beneath the waves the sea was surprisingly peaceful. Faye drifted suspended in the foaming surf, her body encompassed by an icy chill. Her left hand beat for the surface. Her right still clutched the bucket, an anchor dragging her downward. In the darkness a window bloomed. Its warm yellow light illuminated silhouettes of two figures sitting on a carpet. A familiar scene. Somewhere near and somehow distant, a shape plunged into the water behind her. Arms wrapped around her chest underneath her arm pits. The window remained, and a third figure entered the frame.
Faye opened her right hand and let the bucket go.
With her free hands she undid her coveralls and kicked off her boots. Then, together with her savior, she made her way up to the surface. When she inhaled the air was fire, and it stung her lungs. Rain and sea water ran down her face and she spat out a mouthful of salt. A second pair of hands reached down and grabbed her, and she allowed them to help her up into the rocking fishing vessel. A figure squatted down next to her. “Syd’ll appreciate her mother. Not a new pair of shoes.” Shepp growled into her ear. Faye spat, turning to watch as the brothers hauled Dom into the boat. Beyond them, freed and floundering off into the distance, was the gradually sinking, cash-filled corpse of the Sea Cow.
Genre: Suspense Event: Impossible Character: A Deckhand
So it came to be that, following the refreshments and tour of McKinnon Manor, but before the mingling with the local upper echelon at the annual Lily Society Community Charity Event, the gaggle of elderly ladies and Lewis found themselves standing in front of a fireplace where the portrait and urn of the late Terrance McKinnon rested. If Lewis felt any sort of way about being courted to public events by his Nona, he didn’t express it. He knew better than to speak out of turn.
“I would have liked to acquire some of his charity,” Dorris winked to the circle straggling behind the main group. Two other women giggled and reprimanded their friend. Lewis’ grandmother was silent. She had told him in the car ride over that her fat friend was as loose as her tongue and that’s why she never could hold down a man. “Oh… don’t look at me that way Agnes. He was a handsome man.”
Lewis felt the warmth of a presence crouch behind him.
Wouldn’t have fucked her… the wind carried the dead man’s voice. Too fat.
“If you’d been around fifty years earlier you might have had your chance,” the skinny lady Lewis’ grandmother referred to as “that dying bitch” said. “He never remarried after all the health problems of his wife Elizabeth, poor thing.”
…Drop of arsenic… daily in her tea… A hiss. Nothing more.
“Nona,” Lewis asked, “what’s arsenic?” Her hand clutching the collar of his shirt tightened. The cloth pulled against his neck. The unseen presence remained behind him.
“At least he took care of her sister Bethany after,” Dorris nodded.
…Took care of her most nights…
“-and adopted his nephews when her husband abandoned them…”
…Three blows to the back of the head… Buried him beneath the willow…
“-raised himself up from nothing.”
“Nothing my behind. You know he inherited both sisters’ money after Elizabeth died and Bethany was institutionalized . You don’t suppose he…”
…I did… a brothel of a family…
“Nona, what’s a brothel?” Lewis asked. The cluster of hens around him went silent. The cloth collar choked his neck. Without glancing at him, Nona spoke.
“It’s where your father was seduced by your mother. Lewis, do you need to use the bathroom before we join the rest of the party?”
Head drooping, Lewis nodded. Nona offered a smile to the others who, clucking and shaking their heads, finished their drinks and exited the room. After they disappeared Lewis was rocked forward by a slap to the back of the head. Tottering off balance, a heeled shoe kicked his behind and sent him sprawling. His chin hit the hardwood floor. Crawling away from the woman, he curled up next to an armchair by the empty hearth.
The full warmth of an invisible hand fell upon his shoulder.
The figure of his Nona loomed between him and the door. A chill ran up Lewis’ spine.
“A good little boy is…” she said, clutching her purse in front of her.
“Seen… not h-h-h-eard,” he stammered.
“Good. Now do you need to go to the bathroom again before we leave here?” Lewis shook his head. And although he still didn’t know what the word “arsenic” meant, he wished he had some, just enough to make his grandmother stop.
After she exited the parlor Lewis picked himself up and shuffled after her. The stinging in his knees quickly abated, as did his tears. The weight of the hand on his shoulder, however, did not.
***
The night progressed as the Lily Society had planned. One by one, boys from the McKinnon program took to the outdoor stage and talked about how the funds from the program had swept them off the streets and into the McKinnon Home for Boys.
“It is because of your generosity that young men, like myself, are given a second chance,” said a dark skinned boy with tight dreads, “and your actions serve as a reminder of Mr. McKinnon’s words: ‘I give, for I see in their faces a reflection of my own. Thank you.”
He dismounted the stage to the muffled applause of gloved hands. Lewis clapped. His grandmother did not. Instead, she removed a cloth from her purse and wiped her forehead. The night was cool, but Lewis noted her growing discomfort. She shifted in her seat, as if sitting on something sharp.
“Pour me some water Lewis.”
Eyes downcast he reached over to the glass pitcher at the center of the round table. There was a thump and the empty glass to his right toppled onto its side. Sharp nails pinched his leg under the table. Grimacing, he righted and filled the glass. The bony fingers imparted one last pinch. Nona picked up the chalice and brought it to her red lips. The rim touched them. There was a pop.
Shards of glass tinkled against her china plate. Nona stared dumbfounded at the stem in her hand before drawing in a sucking breath. Her other hand rose and wrapped around her withered and bleeding thumb. The women from the table turned to her and she offered them a polite nod before turning to her grandson.
“Look what YOU did,” she growled, letting go of the hand that still held the stem to point at him. “You-“ she inhaled sharply and clutched her breast. Scrunching her face in pain, she turned from him and exhaled.
“Agnes, are you alright?” one of her friends whispered as the next speaker took the stage.
“Just a spot of indigestion. I think I’ll take a walk.” Nona rose. There was a crack and the back left leg of her chair snapped. Gasps bloomed in the crowd as she sprawled out onto the lawn and the speaker paused to glance in her direction. A young man from the next table rose and came to her aid, placing his hands under her arms to right her. She said nothing, turning instead to the brown-haired boy next to her.
“Lewis, I think you need to use the bathroom.”
There was no use protesting. The boy pushed his chair away from the table and followed the sickly scent of roses wafting from the old woman in front of him until, once again, he found himself in the dimly lit parlor of Terrance McKinnon.
Her fist pummeled his gut. Clutching his stomach, he collapsed.
“You ungrateful shit.” Nona snarled, towering over Lewis. A curtain billowed. The smell of fresh pipe filled the room.
Fat… old… bitch… came the rasping voice of the wind.
“I take you out of that shithole of a shack for a day. I put you in fresh clothes. I comb that nappy hair you get from your mother-”
The toe of her shoes found his bottom.
… get up… lad…
“And all I ask is that you shut your ugly, fat-lipped mouth and stand by my side like the good little boy your good-for-nothing father could’ve been.”
She crouched down.
“But you can’t. even. do. that.” She punctuated each word with a slap and, cocking her fist back, prepared for one final blow.
The door behind her slammed shut. The lights faded from a warm yellow to a burnt orange and wood groaned as if the room was drawing in on itself, on them.
It was then that he heard the tapping of feet, crossing the room to where he lay. A thickness filled the parlor, a warmth like the inside of a car on a hot summer day. It was hard to breathe. Lewis kept his eyes on the woman hunched over him. The footsteps stopped next to the boy. The room inhaled.
With a bang, Lewis’ grandmother was shoved backwards. Her head hit the mantle with a sickening crack. She collapsed forward onto her hands and knees and, through tendrils of sweat-soaked, grey hair, regarded her grandson. Blood flowed from the base of her skull to pool in the collar of her pink dress.
“Lewis, you cowardly shit. Get help you useless…” her eyes widened and her gaze rose to something behind the boy, something that he felt draw the hairs from the backs of his arms. “Useless” was her final word, and then with a shutter the large plaster urn on the mantle rocked back and forth before falling upon her head. The sound of the impact was a squelching thud, accompanied by a plume of ashes that billowed from the shattered urn. Nona’s eyes rolled back into her head and, encapsulated in a cloud of human remains, she collapsed.
The dust filled the room, floating through the air like bits of pyrite in an autumn river. It landed on Nona, whose face swam in a quickly growing pool of blood. It landed on Lewis, who could do nothing but sit and stare.
It did not fall on the man who stood in front of him, who remained watching the scared little boy until the staff of the McKinnon house found him, and ushered him to safety.
Genre: Ghost Story Event: Fundraising Event Character: Chaperone
It wasn’t until the wheels of my Cessna 185 touched ground, plumes of snow erupting from either side of the craft like salmon leaping upstream, that I exhaled. Dusk had fallen, and the gale that battered my craft for the past hour had seemingly come out of nowhere. Hands trembling, I released the yolk and dug into the pockets of my worn sheepskin coat, fishing for the flask of whiskey I kept there. The darkness and the solitude had a way of playing with a man’s mind, I rationalized. The hum of the aircraft and the quiet was different at fifteen thousand feet. It did things to a person. As I strapped on my jacket, and prepared to tie down the plane for the night, I replayed the image again in my mind.
The sudden, unexpected blizzard.
Me, looking at my map for a forgotten runway on which to wait out the storm.
The flash of lightning.
The shadow that seemed to rise and then sink below the churning sea of grey clouds.
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen or heard something strange I couldn’t quite comprehend. Voices in the Northern Lights. Aircrafts that seem to be flying next to you one minute before disappearing straight up into the sky the next. The reflections of deceased loved ones in the windshield glass… and yet there had been something different about this. Something seemingly more… concrete. It felt real enough that, when I identified the old Juniper runway tucked beneath the Wrangell Mountains, I decided to descend. The wind batted the aircraft back and forth but I finally managed to touch her down. Forty years and this old girl had about seen it all. Still, it was more than the weather that had set my nerves on edge.
I’d just finished hammering down the final tie when the hairs rose on the back of my neck. Lord knows I’d spent plenty of nights alone in the bush, listening to the huff of a bear as he plodded past my tent. This was it, that thrumming sensation one got when a pair of eyes were on their back. Turning, I thumbed the hammer of the .44 Frontiersman revolver strapped to my side.
The man stood ten feet back from me. He was bare from the waist up, and was lashed with scars that were somehow a shade of ivory lighter than him. His irises shone bright in the moonlight, and below his sunken eyes and crooked nose was a long, thin beard that swept around his shoulders and neck like seaweed. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of something that had been obscured by gusts of snow and ice. It was a small cabin, a hundred meters away at the edge of the wood. A tongue of yellow light glowed in the window. The pale man beckoned to me, a voice that shouldn’t have been audible above the wind.
“Come.” He spoke. “It is cold… grows colder still.”
He did not speak again, but instead turned and staggered away. I looked back at my plane and thought about the long frigid night I would spend huddled in the cab, and when I turned the man had all but vanished. The shadow in the sky still imprinted on my mind, I snapped open one of the side storage compartments and grabbed my survival pack before turning and struggling through the knee deep snow after him. The man’s tracks had been swept almost clean by the gale, and all I had to follow were slightly sunken imprints until the cabin was once again in view.
It was a humble affair, a one room shack with a small table, two stumps of wood presumably used as chairs, a fireplace, a shelf with one book, and a cot. He was already carrying one of the stumps over to the fireplace as I entered the hut, and after sitting upon it began removing his lace-less, ragged boots. He nodded his head over at the table as I clomped the snow from my boots on the threshold.
“Bear meat,” he wheezed, “and whiskey.”
“Thank you kindly,” I smiled, the warmth of the fireplace already blooming on my wind whipped cheeks. “But I’ll stick to my own whiskey. Goods are hard to come by out here.”
The stranger shook his head and again gestured to the table.
“Guests… so few.” He said. When he spoke his voice was dry and husky, like the strings of a guitar long forgotten in a closet. “It would… do me the… honor of being a host.”
I looked down at the table and there, sitting across from each other, were two bowls, one full of meat and broth, the other empty.
“Is there someone else living with you? I don’t mean to intrude,” I began but the man shook his head and held up a hand.
“Torngarsuk provides… for all his guests,” he said.
“Well again, I appreciate you greatly Torngarsuk,” I said. I walked over to the man and put out my hand “Billy Alder.”
A gust of wind roared through the valley, strong enough to raise the hushed sighs of the trees to a thunderous exhale. The walls of the cabin shook. When it became apparent the man wasn’t going to take my hand I walked back over to the stump and sat at his table. I picked up a hunk of meat and tore off a corner before lifting the bowl and drinking some broth. It was steaming, and I could feel it make its way past my lips, down my throat, and into my stomach. The man whispered gently into the fire, and then carried his stump back over to where I sat.
I ate in silence. I tried to bury my growing unease in the warmth of the food and the sharp, homemade whiskey Torngarsuk had offered, but my mind kept returning back to earlier that day… the sudden winter storm… the looming shadow. I tried to avoid the fact that it felt like the man was watching me by diverting my eyes to the walls of the cabin.
There were no pictures or pieces of art, just a single bear pelt with strange Inuit markings on it. The head and claws had been removed.
I’d never liked killing bears. It wasn’t the killing I had a problem with. Skinning them, however, was a different matter. Once the fur was off, if you avoided the mandibles and four inch claws, they almost seemed… human. The one on his wall was smaller in stature, almost man-sized.
“So… What’s the deal with the runway? Last time I landed here there was more of an operation going, a family sort-of-deal. There was a boy… he had a little stuffed teddy I remember… and the little girl with French braids… They leave with the last flight out?”
The man did not immediately speak. I offered him a pull from the jug of amber whiskey, but he held up a hand and objected.
“They never left. Cold… food…” the man gestured indifferently to the room. I took a sip from the cup of whiskey. It was hot and almost metallic tasting, but it warmed the stomach and settled my raised hackles.
“That’s a damn shame. It wouldn’t be the first time the Klondike took a few unfortunate souls though. She isn’t forgiving.”
“No. He is not,” the strange man whispered. I tore another piece of meat from the slab on my plate. In truth it was stringy and sweet, but I swallowed it out of courtesy. I’d had my fair share of black bear and besides, it was food. The wind shrieked again as it slammed against the side of the cabin, and somewhere off in the forest I thought I heard a tree fall.
“Speaking of unforgiving,” I said, taking another gulp of whiskey. I gestured with my cup as I swallowed. “This storm might be one of the strangest I’ve ever seen. Built almost right over the mountain and came out of nowhere. I’ve seen this sort of thing over the Aleutian Islands but this… over the mainland…” I trailed off to allow Torngarsuk to speak and momentarily thought he wouldn’t fill the conversational void. He turned towards the only window in the cabin, gazed out into the maelstrom, and spoke.
“Torngarsuk is near.”
I set the slab of meat back down in the bowl and wiped my chin. The hairs on the back of my neck had begun to rise again, and the sense that every pilot has when they see a storm cloud on the horizon filled my stomach with lead.
“Is someone else coming? I was under the impression that you are Torngarsuk.” I felt the weight of my six shooter on my hip.
“I am Torngarsuk. This-“ He gestured to the air around us, “-is Torngarsuk. You… are Torngarsuk.”
“Billy Alder,” I said, shaking my head and gesturing to myself. “Torngarsuk is…?”
“The Bear King. The Eye of the Forest-”
“And this is his season? Is that what you meant by ‘he’s near’?” I let go of the grip of my pistol and relaxed. The man across from me swayed a little and I glanced away from him. The room was illuminated by the dancing flame of a single kerosene lamp and the low glow of the hearth. Despite the dim light from the fireplace the heat was warm, and that, combined with the spirits, made my head feel thick.
“When man was more connected to the Earth his soul was more connected to the gods. In that time they were as… tangible as you or me. They walked among us, towering overhead, a deity to behold.” I turned my gaze back to the man and found that his silver irises were locked with mine. He was unsmiling and the room turned sluggishly again. “But when man turned his back on the Earth the gods found that their power… too… was fading. They became shadows, then whispers. And the power of balance fell to man. It was his duty to protect their home mother.”
The storm outside grew violent. The wind moaned through the cracks in the door and within it I thought I could hear four distinct voices. Mother. Father. Son. Daughter. The earth trembled below us as if something terrible and monstrous were approaching. The man across from me raised his hand, and made a sign with it upon me. My visions swam, and I placed a hand upon the table to stable myself. The other one fumbled at my hip for the pistol.
“To restore the balance of power, sacrifice must be made. One hundred souls, bound to the Sky God Torngarsuk, to draw him forth from his mighty slumber. A pact… made of consumption and sacrifice. Flesh and blood. Received and gifted.”
Torngarsuk rose from his chair. The scars on his body seemed to glow bright in the growing darkness, and as I gazed upon his many lacerations I saw one, in particular, more raw than the others. A chunk the size of a fist was gone just below his rib. My stomach turned and I fell backwards from the table. The room expanded and contracted, swaying back and forth as Torngarsuk approached. I found the iron on my hip and drew it from its sheath, but my aim faltered as the room spun and darkened around me. There was the eruption of a gunshot in the growing dim, and the last thing before I left consciousness was his eyes, glowing like moonlight on a winter lake.
***
When I came to, the world was still. The trees that had previously been bent and trembling under the breath of the wind stood erect, forming shadows of jagged teeth around the edge of the runway. I sluggishly tried to move my arms and legs, but found them drawn out taut to posts on my left and right. The sky was ink in milk. It swirled and churned as I fought against the dull pool my mind swam in and the leather straps that bound me to those two warped, wooden posts. My mind cleared, and in the stillness I heard a sound.
It was a slurping and sucking and tearing. The sound of feeding.
In front of me, a trail of crimson led from the nearby woods to where I was drawn. I followed its path as it led to myself, and when I looked down I found Torngarsuk, the man, kneeling at my feet. In his hands was a bowl, thick and steaming, filled with the innards that spilled from my open abdomen and, as if feeling my eyes upon him, he looked up at me, his mouth dripping and red.
When he spoke it was of words not of man’s knowledge. They were guttural and ancient, the language of the gods long forgotten.
I felt something then, as the warmth left my body and something new, cold and dreadful took its place. It was the sensation that something was approaching, that a storm lay just on the horizon. I drew my gaze forward, and there, looming above the forest, was a terrible shadow. It stood sixty men tall and yet it made not a sound as it waded through the forest. Below Him, and just as silent, the other three waded through the snow. Mother, son, and daughter. All as pale, as scarred as the father.
Beneath the sickly green and gray sky the bear god approached, the absence of light save for one all-seeing eye in the center of His head. A force of being. A terrible will. To look upon Him and His form was to know true madness, and that was when I began to scream, my voice echoing in my head and yet dying silent upon the land. I screamed until He too fell upon me and began to feed. Bowl passed from mother, to son, to daughter, and they fed as well. The world faded, and I knew all.
***
I sent out the S.O.S the next morning, when the sky was gray but still and the sun had not yet climbed to the top of the trees. The first plane to arrive would do so by sundown, with fuel and a shovel or two to help dig me out enough to move my plane. We would work, and then they would feast, and when the time approached so would I. Bound to the mountain, bound to His being, we would clear the runway of snow and debris. And as more and more were drawn to Him by storm and wind we would take them all in, offer them our body, our blood. At night we would present the Great Bear ourselves. Our offerings. And with every sacrifice, draw the world closer to the gift of His true form.
Genre: Horror Event: A Detour Character: An Airman
The Word and The Song 