It’s wild to think that Twilight as Played by The Twilight Singers has been drifting through the ether for nearly 26 years. Released in September 2000, this record didn’t just mark a shift for its architect, Greg Dulli; it felt like a weird, late-night transmission from a different dimension.

Believe it or not, the seeds of the project were sown long before The Afghan Whigs officially disbanded. Dulli began recording demos for what would become Twilight as early as 1997, feeling creatively hemmed-in after a decade of the Whigs’ high-octane, soul-drenched rock. He initially viewed these sessions as a low-stakes escape—a space to experiment without the heavy expectations of his primary band. Once that chapter finally closed, he didn’t just form a new group; he built a clubhouse for the disaffected and the musically adventurous.

for context, revisit another recent Flashback Friday post about the record that preceded the early stages of this one: https://www.audiotoxicity.com/p/flashback-friday-black-love-by-the

Dulli’s original vision for the group was ambitious: he wanted a collective where he could rotate lead singers and collaborate with other frontmen. If the Afghan Whigs were a tight, street-fighting gang, The Twilight Singers were a late-night lounge act comprised of the coolest people you knew from other, better bands.

Dulli, ever the ringleader, pulled in a fascinating cast, including the closest thing to the “voice of 90s rock” from the Pacific Northwest indie-soul scene, Shawn Smith (Brad, Pigeonhed). His presence on this record provides a huge component of the secret sauce that made this record so good. Harold Chichester (Howlin’ Maggie) was also a key collaborator who helped steer the ship into those synths and moody beats territory. It’s the interplay between these three voices that really makes the record so special.

However, as Dulli famously noted later, when you put three lead singers in a room, things can get a bit volatile. The process was rocky. The songs he had written were more “fragile” and introspective than the aggressive, muscular output of the Whigs, and balancing three strong personalities with different creative sensibilities made for a chaotic, albeit interesting, studio environment.

Released in the autumn of 2000, Twilight dropped into a pop-culture landscape that was... let’s just say “confused.”

Culturally, it was a weird time to be an indie rocker. The internet was still a frontier, and the “CD rack” was the ultimate arbiter of coolness. Twilight didn’t really fit in with the garage-rock revival that was just about to break (looking at you, The Strokes and The White Stripes), nor did it belong with the fading giants of the 90s.

The world was busy obsessing over NSYNC’s No Strings Attached and the tail end of the “Teen Pop” explosion. Meanwhile, rock radio was being choked by the post-grunge slop of Creed and 3 Doors Down. While the charts were obsessed with shiny, over-produced polish or jingoistic angst, Twilight was doing something else entirely: it was sweating in a dark room. It was an “audaciously intriguing” concept album about the friction between love and hate.

By the time the Afghan Whigs officially broke up around 2000, Dulli returned to these shelved 1997 demos. He realized they needed a sonic overhaul to reflect where his head was at. He handed the tapes over to the British remix and downtempo production duo Fila Brazillia (Steve Cobby and Dave McSherry).

They were tasked with “treating” the songs—enhancing the grooves, adding those signature bubbling synths, and sharpening the production to make it sound more contemporary for the turn of the millennium. It was this partnership that pushed the record into that strange, moody, electronic-meets-soul space that makes it sound so different from anything else in his catalog.

It stood alone as a “slow-burning side project” that proved Dulli was far more interested in his own dark curiosities than in chasing trends. Critics at the time were largely intrigued, though some fans were left scratching their heads, wondering where the driving rock riffs went. Looking back, the electronic experiments and the focus on “mood” over “hook” make it a precursor to the more ambitious, sprawling work Dulli would perfect later on albums like Blackberry Belle and Powder Burns.

For Dulli, this record served a dual purpose. It was the “goodbye” to the decade he’d spent in the Whigs, but it was also a “rebirth” that allowed him to stop chasing the rock-band format.

Unfortunately, the tour to support the album didn’t go nearly as smoothly as the recording process. Dulli reportedly hated the experience, feeling a lack of connection with the touring band he’d assembled. It’s a classic Dulli story: the “side project” was born from a desire for total freedom, ended up being a source of significant friction, and ultimately paved the way for him to tear it all down again and build the much more cohesive version of the band that produced Blackberry Belle a few years later.

What makes these tracks special nearly 26 years later is that they refused to age. Because Twilight didn’t try to sound like the “Cool Rock Band” of 2000, it didn’t get pinned to the mast of that specific era’s sonic tropes. It remains a weird, singular document of an artist letting his guard down.

Twilight is a time capsule from the “Year of the Transitional Pop Trend.” It’s an album that captures that specific millennium-turning melancholy—the feeling of the 20th century slipping away and a slightly more digital, slightly more cynical 21st century taking its place. It’s not the record you put on at a party, but it’s exactly the one you play when you’re staring at the ceiling at 3:00 AM wondering how you got here.

In essence, Twilight wasn’t a destination; it was a transition. It was Dulli essentially saying, “I’m not the guy you knew from the 90s anymore, but I’m still figuring out who I am.”

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/twilight-as-played-by-the-twilight-singers/186391537

The Videos

“That’s Just How That Bird Sings” live from Rockpalast in 2011

“Love” Live (with a little John Lennon shout out in the vocal)

The Band

https://www.thetwilightsingers.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

A Great Day In Newcastle finds Knats at a pivotal juncture in their discography, marking a distinct shift away from the tentative experimentation of their early output toward a more assertive, deliberate identity. They’ve traded in some of the polite restraint of their earlier work for a sprawling, unkempt energy that suits them far better, and demonstrates a newfound confidence in structural tension and instrumental interplay. It is the kind of progression that makes you wonder if they finally stopped taking advice from people who care about “cohesion” and instead are carving out a niche that relies on unpredictability and structural risk-taking..

The musicianship driving A Great Day In Newcastle is defined by a sophisticated tension between the band’s technical prowess and their commitment to a raw, regional aesthetic. What began as a rhythm-heavy duo between bassist Stan Woodward and drummer King David Ike-Elechi has blossomed into an expansive ensemble that defies the limitations of traditional jazz. The rhythm section remains the engine room, providing a complex, driving foundation that allows their collaborators the necessary freedom to navigate intricate improvisational passages. The inclusion of poet Cooper Robson further complicates and elevates the band’s musical identity.

The record dances through genres with the grace of a caffeinated toddler in a room full of breakables, but for me, the peak of this delightful madness is “Wor Jackie.” This track isn’t just an outlier; it is the resident alien of the album. It sits there, stubbornly refusing to obey the laws of rhythm or good taste, opting instead to let those frictions define the listening experience. While the rest of the album is content to explore standard musical avenues, “Wor Jackie” takes a sharp turn into a cul-de-sac of pure, unadulterated absurdity. It stands out because it manages to be simultaneously annoying and impossible to skip, and serves as a litmus test for the listener’s willingness to follow the band into their most abstract territory.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/wor-jackie/1893347586

Live performance of “Never Gonna Be A Boxer” on Later… with Jools Holland to get an idea of just how good this band is

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/a-great-day-in-newcastle/1893347579

The Band

https://knats.bandcamp.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

If you’ve been following the Muse saga for the last two decades, you know the drill: expect heavy helpings of space-age melodrama, falsetto-laden angst, and enough synth-rock bombast to power a small planet. With their tenth studio effort, The Wow! Signal, the band seems to have finally stopped trying to out-weird their own back catalog and instead decided to embrace the absurdity of being a stadium-filling rock trio in 2026. It’s an album that manages to be both a sonic “greatest hits” of their own tried and true songwriting techniques, and a surprisingly fresh pivot, thanks in large part to the studio influence of Dan Lancaster, who apparently gave Matt Bellamy the “permission” to stop producing every single squeak himself.

Where recent outings often felt like the band was auditioning for a soundtrack to a dystopian blockbuster, The Wow! Signal lands with a bit more human weight. It captures the frantic energy of Origin of Symmetry and the prog-pop confidence of Black Holes and Revelations, but filters it through the lens of a band that is, quite frankly, just a bit more mature. The production is thick, but sharp, the riffs are thankfully back in the driver’s seat, and for once, the inclusion of pop-centric collaborations doesn’t feel like a cynical attempt to chase the algorithm.

The undisputed highlight—and the track that actually justifies the band’s penchant for theatricality—is “Be With You.” While the rest of the album is busy trying to out-run an asteroid, “Be With You” slows the pace down to something resembling a sincere, heart-on-sleeve moment. It’s an electro-gospel ballad anchored by a church organ that avoids the usual pitfall of being overly saccharine. It serves as the emotional anchor for a record that might otherwise float off into the vacuum of space. But, I’m gonna let my buddybandmate, and HUGE Muse fan, Kevin deliver the last word on this song:

So much amazing music here! 4 times through and every song has something magical about it but I’m going to stick with “Be With You” as the track that I’m going to have in constant rotation. It has everything Muse is known for and would be the track I would use to introduce a new listener to them. Starting with the church organ and the stunning vocal melody that builds and leads into the blistering guitar. And then that drop, damn! What an epic sound. Killer hooks and strong lyrics make this a memorable 4 minute journey.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/be-with-you/1885607727

“Be With You” Live at 02 Academy

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/the-wow-signal/1885607338

The Band

https://www.muse.mu/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

It’s hard to believe it’s been a decade since Rich Robinson dropped his first “real” solo album, Flux. Looking back at the summer of 2016, the music landscape was a weird, neon-soaked haze of synth-pop dominance. Streaming algorithms were just starting to really flex their muscles, and there was a general sense that “traditional” rock music was being relegated to the back of the record store. Into that environment came Flux, a record that essentially served as Rich Robinson’s “I’m still here, and I don’t need my brother to make a racket” manifesto.

By 2016, The Black Crowes had imploded… Again (aaaaand of course, as of this writing, the cycle has repeated itself, the hatchets have once again been buried, and the Robinson brothers are out on tour with the Crowes in support of their recent release A Pound of Feathers). For Rich though, Flux wasn’t just another solo project; it was the first proper post-Crowes statement of purpose. He wasn’t just “the other guy” in the Robinson equation anymore; he was the guy holding the pen, the guitar, and the keys to the kingdom.

At the time, the industry was obsessed with the “next big thing” in indie-pop, and here was Rich, delivering thirteen tracks of soulful, blues-tinged, psychedelia-dipped rock that felt like it had been aged in a whiskey barrel somewhere near the Tennessee-Georgia border. It wasn’t trying to chase a trend; it was busy trying to find a heartbeat.

Rich didn’t go it alone, of course. The record featured a tight-knit group of conspirators including drummer Joe Magistro and bassist Zak Gabbard, who brought a locked-in, organic feel to the music. You’ve also got keyboard wizardry from Matt Slocum, Marco Benevento, and Danny Mitchell, who collectively ensured that the record had that warm, analog glow. Special mention has to go to Blackberry Smoke’s Charlie Starr, who hopped on the lead single “Music That Will Lift Me.” It’s a track that feels like a summer drive with the windows down—a reminder that, even in a changing world, a good hook is still a good hook.

When Flux arrived in June 2016, it was met with a collective sigh of relief from the faithful. The critics generally tipped their caps, noting that Robinson had successfully stepped out from the shadow of the Crowes’ history. It was a “pro’s pro” record.

Culturally, however, it sat in a strange pocket. It wasn’t topping the Billboard 200, but it didn’t need to. It was competing with the massive, hyper-produced hits of the day, yet it offered something the modern charts were mostly missing: room to breathe. It’s a record about transitions—hence the title—and it holds up today as a testament to someone who decided that even if the band is done, the music doesn’t have to be.

Ten years later, Flux remains a cool slice of classic-minded rock. Tracks like “The Upstairs Land” and “Eclipse the Night” still pack that punch, while “Which Way Your Wind Blows” feels even more poignant in retrospect—a bit of sonic closure for anyone who spent the ‘00s wondering if the brothers would ever figure their shit out.

It’s a record that reminds us that music doesn’t always have to be groundbreaking to be essential. Sometimes, you just need a great player, a solid band, and the confidence to stop worrying about the “what ifs” and just press record.

On Flux, Rich treats his vocals more like another layer of the arrangement. While Chris is the quintessential frontman—that wild, kinetic force of nature whose voice is a direct descendant of Otis Redding’s grit and Rod Stewart’s swagger—Rich’s approach is fundamentally different. He’s not trying to “out-shout” the guitar riffs; he’s trying to weave his voice into the tapestry of the track. His delivery is generally mellower, more internal, and leans heavily into those Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young-style harmonies. He’s effectively using his voice to create the kind of atmospheric tension you’d find on a George Harrison or Pink Floyd record, rather than trying to lead a revivalist tent meeting.

Flux is essentially the Rosetta Stone for understanding what was actually happening inside the Black Crowes’ engine room all those years. For decades, the public narrative was laser-focused on the chemistry—and the volatility—between the brothers. But when you listen to Flux (and Rich’s other solo records) with the benefit of hindsight, the “Rich Robinson sound” becomes unmistakable.

While Chris is deservedly credited with providing the theatrical flair for the Crowes, Rich was the one creating that massive, shimmering, cathedral-like soundscape. We learned that those iconic, drone-heavy, open-tuned riffs that defined Southern Harmony and Musical Companion weren’t just a byproduct of the band; they were the specific DNA of Rich Robinson. On Flux, he takes that signature style and strips away the “blues-revival” pressure, revealing that his true love is really just pure, unadulterated tone and texture. It wasn’t about the blues; it was about the atmosphere.

In the Crowes, Rich’s songwriting often had to share space with the bombast of a big rock ensemble. Flux reveals that he has a much softer, more melodic center than we gave him credit for. He’s a pop-songwriter at heart who just happens to play through a wall of fuzz pedals more often than not. We learned that while his brother was busy selling the attitude, Rich was busy obsessing over the intervals. That pop-sensibility—the way a melody sticks in your ear—was very much his contribution to the hits we all grew up listening to.

Ultimately, Flux taught us that The Black Crowes’ sound wasn’t just a sibling rivalry played out in music; it was a collision between a master performer (Chris) and a master architect (Rich).

Without the friction of his brother, Rich didn’t “fall apart”—he just turned the volume down on the spectacle and turned the volume up on the craft. We learned that the “soul” of that band was a shared project, but the sound—that swirling, kaleidoscopic vibe—was almost entirely the result of Rich sitting in a room, fiddling with his guitar, and waiting for the right mood to strike.

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/flux/1442917431

The Videos

“Music That Will Lift Me” Live acoustic performance - Paste Studios, New York, NY

“Surrender” Live with the band (part of a full show)

“Time To Leave” Live with the band (from the same show as above)

“Sleepwalker” also from the same show

And for good measure… The Crowes’ “Wiser Time” Live in 2016 (with Rich singing)

The Artist

The URL www.richrobinson.net exists, but there’s no site there… so here’s the next best thing:

https://theblackcrowes.com/

Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

Best known as the guitar player in Tom Petty’s Heartbreakers, Mike Campbell and his Dirty Knobs are back at it, and frankly, it feels like they’re having entirely too much fun to be taken seriously—which is exactly why it works. The band has spent the last few years shedding the polished veneer of their lineage to embrace a sound that is delightfully unbothered, and this record feels like the natural, slightly rebellious teenager phase of their discography. Campbell has settled into a comfortable, conversational vocal delivery that suits the material perfectly. There’s a spooky familiarity here too—if you’ve spent decades listening to the Heartbreakers, you’ll occasionally catch a phrasing choice or a tonal inflection that feels like a ghost in the machine, reminding you of exactly who he spent those years standing alongside.

Where their previous outings were content to flirt with classic rock sensibilities, Mission Of Mercy puts its feet on the coffee table. The tracklist is essentially a map of Campbell’s “why not?” phase. You’ve got the dust-kicking Americana of album opener “No Regrets,” which feels like a nod to the past without turning into a museum piece. Then there’s “Bongo Mania,” which features Kate Pierson of The B-52s; it’s exactly as weird and wonderful as that pairing suggests. On the darker end of the spectrum, “Armageddon” brings a heavy, storm-cloud atmosphere that stops just short of being a buzzkill, showing the band can handle gloom without losing their sense of humor.

But, the song I keep coming back to is “Wrecking Ball.” While the rest of the album is mostly content to cruise down a scenic highway, “Wrecking Ball” (as the name suggests) is the precise moment when the band draws a line in the sand and starts calling people out on their shit. The swagger in the guitar work here isn’t just good; it’s practically offensive in the best way possible. It doesn’t rely on technical acrobatics or overblown production tricks to get its point across; it just shows up, causes a scene, and leaves everyone else wondering why they bothered trying to be so sophisticated.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/wrecking-ball/1885029092

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/mission-of-mercy/1885028969

The Band

https://www.thedirtyknobs.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

Ok, not quite everything, but close… Celebrating its 20th birthday this year, Benny Greb’s Grebfruit is a fantastic example of showing off… In the weirdest way possible. It’s also the kind of record that makes you want to put your drumsticks down, sit on your hands, and reconsider your life choices. While some drummers treat their solo albums as an excuse to play as many notes as humanly possible until the listener begs for mercy, Greb approached this project with a cheeky grin and a surprising amount of musicality (I’m supposed to add “for a drummer” to the end of that sentence but I’m not going to!). It’s an album that manages to be technically absurd while still being fun enough to listen to without a degree in rhythm theory.

While the drumming is crazy good, the most fascinating element is his vocal work. Forget standard lyrics; Greb uses his voice as an extension of his percussion, employing it as a rhythm section, a melodic synthesizer, and a rhythmic texture all at once. His vocals aren’t there to tell you a story; they are there to lock in with the kick drum or provide a counter-melody to a hi-hat pattern. It’s essentially melodic beatboxing evolved into a high-art form, and the perfect solution to the problem of, how does a drummer write melody if they’re not also a maestro on guitar or keyboards? This is how.

The real showstopper, unsurprisingly, is the title track, “Grebfruit.” It stands out because it perfectly encapsulates the album’s mission statement: high-level musicianship that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Rather than leaning on a traditional band structure, Greb essentially turns his kit into an orchestra. He treats the drum set as a multi-tonal palette, meticulously coaxing varied textures from his snares, cymbals, and percussion toys. The groove is absolutely locked in, yet it’s filled with those tiny, clever flourishes that serve as a reminder that Greb is playing on a level most of us only dream of. It’s the anchor of the album, providing just enough structure to keep the experimental elements from floating off into space while striking the perfect balance between silly and serious.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/grebfruit/125403352

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/grebfruit/125403033

The Artist

https://bennygreb.de/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

Fucked Up has spent the better part of two decades making a career out of being the loudest, most intellectually dense, and occasionally most exhausted band in hardcore. With Year of the Monkey, they once again remind us that they are allergic to the concept of a simple, straightforward record. While their earlier years were defined by pure, unadulterated aggression—a sonic assault meant to level a small building—their recent output has leaned heavily into the kind of prog-rock theater that would make an aging prog-drummer blush. This album is another chapter in their sprawling zodiac series, and honestly, if you were hoping they’d return to the two-minute, face-melting anthems of their youth, you’ve come to the wrong circus.

The band’s evolution has been nothing if not a slow-motion descent into madness, albeit a very well-orchestrated one. Where they once sounded like they were fighting their instruments, they now sound like they could meticulously decorate an artisanal cake with them. They’ve swapped the frantic, basement-show energy for a grander, more bloated ambition that somehow manages to hold together by the grace of sheer willpower. Year of the Monkey feels like a culmination of that transformation: it is grand, occasionally baffling, and undeniably loud, yet it maintains that trademark Fucked Up sincerity that prevents the whole thing from collapsing into a pile of self-indulgent rubble.

The undisputed highlight is “Looking For Heaven and Not Finding It.” The song opens with guitar harmonics that mimic the striking of a temple bowl and a vocal chant—a deliberate, meditative nod to its Buddhist-inspired narrative roots—before immediately spiraling into a polyphonic chaos that feels less like a rock song and more like a fevered, symphonic narrative. The structure is intentionally fluid; not relying on the standard “verse-chorus-verse” rigmarole; instead, it swells, fractures, and reforms. The brilliance of the track lies in its vocal architecture. Damian Abraham’s unhinged shouting countered by Tuka Mohammed’s sweet soaring voice provide the emotional backbone, but the rotating cast of guest vocalists transforms the song into a vivid, tangible epic.

The Song

This album is not on Spotify for some reason so I’m providing Bandcamp links instead

Bandcamp:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/looking-for-heaven-and-not-finding-it/6776935342

The Album

Bandcamp:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/year-of-the-monkey/6776935341

The Band

https://www.fuckedup.cc/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

The Bobby Lees often find themselves in the conversation with bands that share their penchant for high-octane garage-punk, raw swagger, and a disregard for strict genre boundaries. If you were worried that they might have lost their sharp edges after their brief hiatus, New Self is here to prove that they haven’t just kept their teeth—they’ve sharpened them.

Since their 2018 debut Beauty Pageant, the band has been sprinting through the garage-rock scene with a frantic energy that usually makes other bands look like they’re moving through molasses. While Skin Suit and Bellevue established them as a force of nature, New Self finds the band in a more efficient, lethal form. They’ve trimmed the fat, tightened the screws, and emerged as a trio with an album that feels like a targeted strike.

New Self is a fascinating study in what happens when you stop trying to be “the next” anything and simply become the best version of your own chaos. Where earlier records were defined by a certain ramshackle charm, this one feels intentional. The band has clearly spent their time off thinking about the impact of their sound rather than just the volume of it. They still play with the frantic spirit that endeared them to fans in the first place, but there’s a new sense of control at the wheel. They’ve successfully traded in their “barely holding it together” aesthetic for something much more dangerous: a band that knows exactly how to break things and, more importantly, how to put them back together again better than they were in the first place.

It’s hard to choose a standout track on an album with a 20 minute run-time, but for me the clear standout of the collection is the opener, “Give.” It’s a track that doesn’t bother with an introduction; it simply kicks the door down and expects you to be ready. It assembles itself before your ears—hyperactive bass-drum notes laying the foundation, bass stepping up to the front and locking in, guitars searing the edges—as if the band is showing off how easily they can construct a wall of sound. It’s not just a song; it’s an exercise in pacing that sets the bar so high the rest of the album has to scramble to keep up. Sam Quartin’s vocals here are less of a performance and more of a dare, delivered with a casual confidence that suggests she could do this all day while barely breaking a sweat.

The Song

The entire record in one video (and honestly, probably the best way to experience this awesome record)

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/give/1860695019

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/new-self/1860695018

The Band

https://www.thebobbylees.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

For an entire generation of music fans, Phil Collins is simply the affable, balding, pudgy frontman who sang soft-rock love songs, dominated MTV, and occasionally hit that one massively famous, gated-reverb drum fill on “In the Air Tonight.” Because his solo career leaned so heavily into massive, radio-friendly pop hits—often built around drum machines and simple 4/4 beats—his reputation as a pop star completely eclipsed his history as a rhythmic powerhouse. It’s easy to assume the guy singing “Sussudio” is just a standard pop timekeeper, which is exactly why Unorthodox Behaviour by Brand X is such a shock to the system for a lot of people. It is the ultimate proof that before he was a stadium-filling, Disney-aligned pop idol, he was a fearsome, odd-meter-playing titan of the progressive scene.

But let’s take a step back in time to the mid-70s… A time when musicians decided that playing “normal” songs was far too easy and that what the world really needed was a frantic, math-heavy jam session that lasted for an entire side of an LP. Enter Brand X, a band whose very name sounds like a placeholder they forgot to change, yet who delivered one of the most high-octane, “don’t-try-this-at-home” jazz fusion records of the decade: 1976’s Unorthodox Behaviour.

If you think Brand X sounds like a group of guys who just kind of... materialized in a rehearsal space, you aren’t far off. The band was a loose collective of session wizards—bassist Percy Jones, keyboardist Robin Lumley, and guitarist John Goodsall—who had been crossing paths while working on projects for the likes of Brian Eno and Eddie Howell.

Then, there was the “hired hand” in the corner: a guy named Phil Collins. Yes, the same Phil Collins who was simultaneously trying to keep Genesis afloat after Peter Gabriel jumped ship. While the press at the time desperately tried to brand the group as “Phil’s little side project,” the reality was far more collaborative. They were essentially a bunch of elite musical nerds who, after finishing their “real” jobs, decided to spend their free time playing things that would make a conservatory student cry.

Side Note: For more context on what was going on for Phil and Genesis at this time you can refer back to this FBF post from earlier this year:

Unorthodox Behaviour is essentially a high-wire act with no safety net. It’s an all-instrumental assault that bounces between “oh, that’s quite lovely and melodic” to “how are there this many notes happening in one second?” Goodsall and Lumley were the atmosphere architects. On tracks like “Euthanasia Waltz,” they provide that lush, sprawling progressive rock texture that stops the whole thing from turning into a pure headache.

Jones and Collins were the engine room, providing the kind of frenetic, stuttering, and deeply percussive backbone that defines tracks like the opener, “Nuclear Burn.” If you want to know what Phil Collins sounded like when he wasn’t singing about 80s politics or lost loves, this is it—it’s fast, it’s angry, and it’s arguably some of his best drumming ever.

Culturally, the record captured a specific moment of transition. It was an era where “virtuosity” was held in high regard, and listeners often sought out music that challenged conventional structures. Brand X didn’t aim for the charts; they aimed for a level of musical complexity that rewarded repeat listens.

It stands as a document of a time when seasoned players felt free to step out of their usual roles to see how far they could push their collective ability. It remains a record that feels less like a product of the industry and more like a high-level conversation between friends who just happened to be world-class musicians.

For Phil Collins, Brand X represented a vital “musical playground” during a period of significant uncertainty with Genesis. In 1975, following Peter Gabriel’s departure, Collins found himself with unexpected downtime and a desire to challenge himself beyond the structures of progressive rock. For Collins, this project wasn’t just a side gig; it was a space where he could fully indulge his love for jazz-fusion and complex rhythmic exploration.

In contrast to his work in Genesis, where his playing had to serve the song’s narrative and atmospheric needs, Brand X allowed him to lean heavily into the fusion style championed by drummers like Billy Cobham and Tony Williams and bands like The Mahavishnu Orchestra. He embraced a “knitting” approach—a term he later jokingly used to describe the frantic, intricate flourishes and patterns that were much denser than what he could get away with in more mainstream rock contexts.

Interestingly, Collins credited his ability to navigate the album’s demanding odd-metered compositions to his background as a singer. He didn’t approach complex time signatures by counting mathematically; instead, he would “sing” the rhythmic patterns in his head. This helped him maintain a sense of “feel” and flow, ensuring the music never sounded stiff or overly academic.

Following Unorthodox Behaviour, the band released Moroccan Roll (1977) and then pretty quickly entered a period of continual flux. Collins’s increasing Genesis commitments led to a revolving door of drummers, including the highly respected Kenwood Dennard and Chuck Burgi. By the time of 1978’s Masques, the band had shifted toward a more streamlined, fusion-heavy sound, and by 1980’s Do They Hurt?, the original creative chemistry had largely dissipated. The band officially dissolved in 1981, as the members moved on to solo projects and session work although reunited occasionally with top session players as needed.

Unorthodox Behaviour remains one of the most respected showcases of technical prowess for all the members, but especially Collins. His work on tracks like “Nuclear Burn” displays a level of intensity and precision that even seasoned fusion players found impressive. It proved that he was a world-class drummer capable of keeping pace with the most demanding instrumentalists in the scene.

So yea, Phil could actually play drums. If you’re still skeptical, just listen.

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/unorthodox-behaviour/723752520

The Videos

“Running on Three” - live at the Marquee Club 1976 (Audio Only)

Not from this record, but this a great up-cycled video of the song “And So To F” where Phil even does a little singing:

The great Steve Hackett (former Genesis guitarist) on Brand X, Phil and Percy Jones:

The Band

https://officialbrandx.com/

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Australian alt-rock, blues, folk, country singer-songwriter William Crighton returns with Colonial Drift. This sprawling collection of songs shifts away from his earlier, more focused studio efforts, seeming to be a deliberate attempt to broaden his sonic footprint. Defined to a large degree by its restlessness, it marks a clear evolution from the earnest, narrative-driven folk of his past catalog into something far more eclectic, suggesting that Crighton is currently more interested in testing the limits of his songwriting than maintaining a singular, cohesive sound.

The album leans into a dense aesthetic that contrasts with the more contemplative moods of his prior releases. Where he once utilized a focused lens to explore the weight of the Australian landscape, Colonial Drift experiments with textures that are intentionally unconventional. This expansion is ambitious, and creates an interesting uncertainty about the trajectory of his career, leaving listeners to wonder if he is leaning toward further avant-garde experimentation or if this is merely a temporary detour. It is a complex addition to his discography that suggests an artist still in the process of defining his next chapter.

Yet, amidst the sprawling energy, “Horizon” stands out as the most enjoyable track on the album. It is the moment where the project stops trying so hard to be complex and simply settles into being a great piece of music. The song breathes in a way the rest of the record refuses to; the melody feels earned rather than calculated, and the arrangement is blissfully free of the unnecessary sonic clutter that crowds the surrounding tracks. It captures the expansive longing that Crighton has always been capable of, but here it lands with a precision that makes the rest of the album seem like it’s still trying to organize its own ideas.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/horizon/1853445375

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/colonial-drift/1853445221

The Band

https://store.williamcrightonmusic.com.au/

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Modest Mouse has always felt like the musical equivalent of a junk drawer filled with loose springs, antique skeleton keys, and a half-eaten lollipop—you’re never quite sure what you’re going to find, but you’re usually glad you looked. An Eraser And A Maze finds Modest Mouse settling into a comfortable, if idiosyncratic, middle age. It is a record that balances the polished production of their later career with the nervous, erratic energy that defined their formative years. Isaac Brock continues to lead the charge with his distinctive, conversational vocal delivery, grounding the band’s increasingly complex arrangements in a sense of urgent, sometimes frantic, sincerity.

In the context of their broader discography, this album functions as a more refined iteration of the experimental tendencies they began to embrace after reaching mainstream audiences. It feels less like a radical departure and more like a focused exploration of their already established toolkit. They no longer need to prove their versatility; they are simply utilizing it to build denser, more atmospheric soundscapes. The production is sharp, allowing for a clearer distinction between the layers of interlocking guitars and the rhythmic experimentation that has always been the foundation of their best work.

The most interesting option from the album’s cohesively weird flow is “Picking Dragons’ Pockets.” As the album’s opening track it serves as a statement of intent, with melody duking it out with layers of weird semi-musical sounds, all wrapped up in a fragmented structure (and the video is also super-weird and leaves you wondering WTF you just watched). While other tracks rely on traditional song architecture, “Picking Dragons’ Pockets” discards these norms, favoring an off-kilter, wandering composition that feels disjointed even by the band’s standards. By prioritizing an abstract soundscape over conventional melodic progression, the track demands a different kind of attention, standing out to me as the most polarizing piece of music on the record.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/picking-dragons-pockets/1885992018

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/an-eraser-and-a-maze/1885991734

The Band

https://www.modestmouse.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

Sublime’s Until The Sun Explodes lands with the sonic equivalent of a 90s era beach party that was frozen in time and then re-animated mid-rager! It is a record that manages to be both a nostalgic lap around the block while also a breath of fresh air; sowing the seeds for what this band was always meant to become.

When Bradley Nowell passed away in 1996, the band’s story was abruptly silenced at its peak. For fans of Sublime, the presence of Jakob Nowell on the mic 30 years later is more than just a personnel change—it is a rare, full-circle moment in rock history. After decades of varying iterations and the eventual dissolution of the Sublime with Rome project, Jakob’s arrival in 2023 alongside founding members Eric Wilson and Bud Gaugh finally provided the “blood-tie” legitimacy that many purists felt was missing from the band’s post-Bradley era. By stepping into his father’s role, Jakob has effectively acted as a bridge between the generations of fans.

When you weigh this against the rest of their discography, the state of the band is clear. Eric and Bud are now elder statesmen of the Long Beach music scene and the rock-solid musical foundation on the record reflects that. But Jakob is only a couple of years older than his dad was when he died. That youthful energy presents this new record as if it was a legit continuation of the band in its heyday, and they haven’t sacrificed that signature refusal to pick a lane stylistically. It feels familiar to anyone who grew up with their sound, but there’s enough maturity here to feel like it’s a significant move forward.

There are a lot of options for today’s Song of the Day on a 22-track record, but I like “Figueroa” because it lets Jakob’s personality shine. While the rest of the album flirts with various moods, this track locks into a pocket so deep you’ll need a rescue crew to help you find your way out (especially if you’ve been enjoying some “herbal supplements”). There is a specific, sun-baked urgency in the arrangement that feels like the truest heir to the band’s aesthetic—it’s punchy, effortlessly cool, and carries the kind of laid-back confidence that can only be earned by living the life. It captures the essence of the band’s lineage while proving that the new iteration is more than capable of carving out its own territory.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/figueroa/1886811320

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/until-the-sun-explodes/1886810990

The Band

https://www.sublimelbc.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

For those that don’t know, Goose is a Connecticut-born rock outfit that has spent the last decade evolving from a scrappy, basement-level project into one of the most compelling forces in the improvisational music scene. Featuring Rick Mitarotonda (vocals/guitar), Peter Anspach (vocals/keys/guitar), Trevor Weekz (bass), and Cotter Ellis (drums), the band has built a reputation on a genre-defying sound that stitches together indie-rock sensibility, funk grooves, and expansive, trance-like improvisation. The band has maintained a distinct “indie-groove” aesthetic, balancing thoughtful, songwriter-driven hooks with an electrifying live energy that has earned them headlining slots at some of the most storied venues in the country, from Red Rocks to Madison Square Garden.

For years, the “Goose-verse” operated under a rigid, binary code: the studio was a place for pristine, radio-friendly distillation, and the stage was the untamed wild where those same songs were often expanded to 20-minute deconstructionist jams. Their past studio efforts, while excellent, have felt like painstakingly curated museum exhibits—bespoke versions of tracks meant to provide a mere framework for what would ultimately be the real event… You would listen to the record to learn the melody, then wait for the live show to see what it would actually become.

BIG MODERN! Begins to dismantle that wall of separation. The band has finally stopped treating their studio records as mere trailers for their live shows. They have invited the listener into the “jam” process, allowing tracks to sprawl, breathe, and have also included instrumental passages of varying length that occasionally wander off into the weeds. I see this as an act of confidence; they are betting that the audience is finally ready for their undiluted vision.

Some reviewers have used the term “overproduced” to describe BIG MODERN! but I don’t think that’s the case. Rather, it is an intentional, bold step forward that proves the band is less interested in repeating their past successes and more focused on creating something new and interesting to them, and in doing that they’ve leaned heavily into a very 80s vibe. The album includes the song “MEDIA” which I reviewed a few months ago when it was released in its live form and while I also love the full studio treatment, the pinnacle of this record for me is “Good2B.” This track is the sweet spot where studio polish meets actual human feeling, perfectly capturing the improvisational spirit they’ve so far not really been able to “bottle up” into a studio record. But it seems now, they have finally succeeded.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/good2b/1883133156

“Good2B” live from St. Augustine, FL April 18, 2026

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/big-modern/1883133136

The Band

https://www.goosetheband.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

Released in 1996, L. Ron serves as the final studio statement from New York’s sludge-infused noise rock trio Barkmarket. It is an album that marks the end of a decade-long trajectory, capturing a band at the peak of their sonic refinement just as their frontman, David Sardy, began his transition toward becoming one of the most sought-after producers in modern rock.

By 1996, the landscape of heavy music had shifted dramatically. The “grunge” boom that had briefly made abrasive, underground-adjacent bands commercially viable was cooling, and the industry was consolidating.

For Barkmarket, L. Ron was a departure from the chaotic, “frenzy” style of their earlier work. While they had built their reputation on a jagged, unpredictable blend of punk, jazz, and noise—frequently compared to The Jesus Lizard, Sonic Youth, or Butthole Surfers—L. Ron felt like the work of a band that had learned how to discipline their own chaos. It was, as some critics noted at the time, arguably one of the best-sounding (and HEAVIEST) records of the time, showcasing a cleaner, more muscular production aesthetic.

The band’s core was a remarkably stable unit for such a volatile sound… David Sardy (Vocals/Guitar/Songwriter) was the architect of the band’s sound. Sardy’s vision for Barkmarket was always marked by a high degree of “art-rock” intelligence, favoring tension and atmosphere over standard tropes.

John Nowlin on Bass was often described as the “bulldozer” of the trio. Nowlin provided the thick, low-end foundation that allowed the guitars to remain angular and dissonant without losing the song’s momentum. Rock Savage, with a name as legendary as his drumming, brought a playful, polyrhythmic sensibility to the group, preventing their music from becoming too mired in sludge.

These three had worked together since 1987. By 1996, the synergy between them was absolute; they operated not as a standard rock band, but as a singular, grinding engine. However, the internal focus was shifting. Sardy’s burgeoning talent for engineering and production was beginning to pull him toward the studio console—a move that ultimately led to the band’s quiet dissolution in 1997.

In 1996, Barkmarket was competing in a crowded, difficult market. As discussed in other recent posts, the mid-90s were the era of “post-grunge” and the creeping influence of what would become nu-metal. The underground “noise rock” scene—which included peers like Unsane and Cop Shoot Cop—was struggling to find space as major labels pivoted toward more radio-friendly, “chugga-chugga” guitar dynamics.

L. Ron didn’t try to compete with the radio trends of the time. Instead, it leaned into the band’s strengths: aggressive, dynamic shifts, “strained yelling,” and high-fidelity noise. It also faced the challenge of being an “intellectual” heavy record in an era where the industry was looking for the next “accessible” heavy act, so no wonder no one really heard this record.

Retrospectively, L. Ron is viewed as a high-water mark for the band’s production values. It successfully bridged the gap between their experimental, noisy roots and a tighter, more “mainstream” heavy sound without selling out. For many listeners, the album remains a testament to what David Sardy was building before he famously went on to produce for the likes of Slayer, System of a Down, and score major films like Zombieland.

While the band never achieved the massive mainstream success of their contemporaries, L. Ron remains a fan favorite—a polished, punishing, and cynical sign-off from one of the most underrated groups of the 90s NYC underground.

L. Ron is often cited by enthusiasts as a masterclass in production, serving as the definitive realization of Dave Sardy’s evolving studio philosophy. By the time of this 1996 release, Sardy had moved far beyond the “lo-fi” or “raw-room” aesthetic that characterized many of his noise-rock contemporaries. Instead, he treated the studio as an instrument, meticulously crafting a sound that was both punishingly heavy and remarkably clear.

Frequently cited as a production masterpiece, the album’s opener “Visible Cow” is the perfect case study in Sardy’s methods. It begins with the low-fidelity crunch of a boombox recording, which then explodes into a high-fidelity, wide-screen sonic apocalypse. It showcases his ability to transition seamlessly between intimacy and overwhelming volume. When I first heard it, it was without a doubt the heaviest sound I had ever heard on a record at that point (and that’s saying something since I had already gone through an intense hard rock and metal phase by then).

Unlike standard hard rock of the mid-90s, the album isn’t afraid of “negative space.” Sardy utilized his skills in tape manipulation—a technique he honed through years of experimentation—to create odd, unsettling textures. You’ll hear everything from haunting delta-blues-style slide guitar on certain tracks to aggressive, serrated distortion on others.

As an engineer, Sardy focused on the physicality of the instruments. The drums and bass are mixed to feel like they are occupying the same physical space as the listener. The bass isn’t just a low-end hum; it has a mid-range growl that provides the “bulldozer” momentum necessary to carry the record’s heavier, more experimental moments.

Sardy’s vocals on L. Ron are less about traditional melody and more about serving the atmosphere of the song. He moves with ease between melodic crooning, providing a haunting, almost fragile counterpoint to the heavy instrumentation, to strained yelling, the familiar Barkmarket “scowl,” which carries a sense of urgent, cynical distress.

The lyrics, as noted by critics of the time, are filled with “distended poetry” and dark humor. They are often surreal and evocative, touching on themes of alienation and social decay with an undercurrent of irony. Lines like those in “The Visible Cow”—where he sings about a “handgun made out of glass”—perfectly encapsulate the band’s penchant for the absurd and the threatening.

In many ways, L. Ron was the final exam for Sardy. It was his last statement as an artist before he fully committed to being the man behind the board for bands like Slayer and System of a Down. If you listen to it today, you can hear the DNA of those future high-gloss, high-impact productions—it is the sound of a band that learned how to be “heavy” without relying on the generic, radio-friendly “chug” that was beginning to define the era.

It remains a rare document of a band that managed to stay true to its weird, experimental impulses while achieving a level of sonic fidelity that most of their underground peers could only dream of.

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/l-ron/1444087685

The Videos

“Visible Cow”

“Feed Me”

Live from the Dragonfly in LA

The Band

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100030791186963

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

It’s a funny thing watching a band grow up, especially when they’ve endured over two decades being told they’re just the “other” band from El Paso. With Cut A Silhouette, Sparta seems to have finally stopped caring about the ghosts of their past and started focusing on just being... themselves. If their debut Wiretap Scars was a rugged, post-hardcore scramble to establish an identity, and Trust The River was the sound of a band finding their polished, mature footing, then this sixth studio effort feels like a band finally feeling comfortable in their own skin. They’ve swapped the frantic, “look at us” intensity of their youth for a more self-assured, atmospheric sprawl that feels less like a struggle and more like a victory lap.

Sparta’s origin story is essentially a classic “post-breakup” tale, born directly from the ashes of the influential post-hardcore, industry darlings, At the Drive-In. When that group famously imploded in 2001, it left a vacuum in the El Paso music scene, but it also split the band’s creative energy in two distinct directions.

While former bandmates Cedric Bixler-Zavala and Omar Rodríguez-López went off to form the progressive, experimental outfit The Mars Volta, the other founding members—Jim Ward, Paul Hinojos, and Tony Hajjar—decided to pursue a different path. In June 2001, Hajjar and Hinojos met in Los Angeles to discuss starting a new project. They reached out to Ward in El Paso, and the trio began writing almost immediately. They practiced for only eight days before heading into the studio to record a demo that would eventually lead to their deal with DreamWorks Records.

That said, if you’re looking for a track that captures this evolution in a single moment, look no further than “Crater.” It’s easily the standout of the bunch. While other tracks on the album experiment with shimmering, almost U2-esque textures (“Mystery Of Missing”) and quiet, country-inflected ballads (“Glimmer”), “Crater” is where the machine really clicks. It’s a perfect example of what happens when you let the interplay between instruments do the heavy lifting rather than trying to force a “moment.” With My Chemical Romance’s Frank Iero’s fingerprints all over the songwriting (co-writing it with Jim Ward), the track creates this tense, anxious energy—like a spring that’s being wound tighter and tighter—but instead of snapping, it just lets Ward’s vocals drift across the top with an almost effortless swagger. It’s punchy, it’s precise, and honestly, it’s just fun to listen to a band sound this confident after so much time in the trenches.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/crater/1883176799

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/cut-a-silhouette/1883176795

The Band

https://www.sparta.band/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

If you’ve been following the Canadian prog-rock scene (and I know you have!), you’ve likely noticed the steady, slightly eccentric trajectory of Brass Camel. With their self-titled 2026 release—the third in a trilogy that cheekily spells out Brass, Camel, and finally Brass Camel—the band has managed to synthesize their prog roots, funk sensibilities, and classic rock bravado into something that feels entirely their own. While their previous records were full of promise and raw ideas, Brass Camel leans hard into a polished, high-energy aesthetic that feels delightfully out of time. It’s rare to find a group that can transition from the cerebral to the ridiculous with such ease, and if this album is any indication, they’re just getting warmed up.

The record finds the band shifting closer to a more classic rock sensibility without abandoning their signature tendency to pivot into prog-funk insanity at a moment’s notice. It’s a tighter, punchier affair than its predecessors, moving away from the sprawling epics of the past to focus on songs that land with impact. Produced by the band with Kevin Comeau (one half of the duo Crown Lands) the record was mixed by Terry Brown—the legendary producer behind the knobs for Rush—resulting in a collection of songs with a crisp, authoritative snap that elevates the band’s eclectic shifts from chaotic to calculated.

While the majority of the record is preoccupied with displaying the band’s technical proficiency and blues-drenched swagger, “Why Bother” arrives like a prankster at a black-tie gala. It stands out because it pivots away from the record’s harder-edged, riff-heavy momentum into something startlingly pop-inflected. It’s jarring in the best way possible—a sugar-spun, Queen-esque harmonic detour that feels like it shouldn’t belong, yet somehow anchors the surrounding tracks by highlighting just how much range this band is willing to flaunt. The song utilizes a detached, almost sardonic vocal delivery that feels like a deliberate thumbing of the nose at the earnestness found in the preceding tracks. Lyrically, It’s a classic story of decision paralysis, told through a series of increasingly mundane, yet maddening, scenarios… or otherwise known as, you know, day-to-day life.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/why-bother/1873366387

“Why Bother” Live at the Meteor In Windsor on May 13, 2026 (Complete album performance)Meteor in Windsor on May 13, 2026Meteor in Windsor on May 13, 2026

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/brass-camel/1873366376

The Band

https://www.brasscamel.ca/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

Boogie Beasts have returned to the swampy, reverb-drenched basement of their own making with Don’t Be So Mean!, a tribute to blues legend R.L. Burnside, and an album that feels like it comes straight outta the North Mississippi Hill Country and not the Limburg region of Belgium. If you were looking for crisp, clean, sophisticated production or a polite sonic experience, you have clearly wandered into the wrong neighborhood. This record is a delightfully greasy slab of garage-blues that manages to be both grimy enough to stain your carpet and catchy enough to make you ignore the mess.

For the band, this record is all about further immersing themselves in the blues ethos from whence they came. While their earlier work toyed with pushing the boundaries of blues-rock, Don’t Be So Mean! doubles back to the source, but the connection to Burnside goes far beyond mere inspiration. The project is a genuine transatlantic summit, featuring an impressive guest list that includes Burnside’s own son, Duwayne Burnside, and his long-time guitarist, Kenny Brown. By bringing in folks who actually lived and breathed that Mississippi sound, the Boogie Beasts have managed to ground their own modern sensibilities in authentic tradition. It’s a smart move that lends the record an undeniable weight, proving that while they’re happy to experiment, they understand exactly where the roots of their particular brand of trouble are planted.

When it comes to the track list, the undeniable stand-out for me is their take on “Shake ‘Em On Down.” The inclusion of G. Love on the track is a stroke of pure, chaotic genius that arguably elevates the entire record. While the band is busy channeling the spirit of the Hill Country, G. Love arrives with his signature hip-hop-inflected vocals and unique harmonica style. He doesn’t just play along; he practically dismantles the track and reassembles it with a rhythmic swagger that feels like a collision between a dusty Mississippi porch and the dirty streets of Philly.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/shake-em-on-down-feat-g-love-special-sauce/1887473340

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/dont-be-so-mean/1887473327

The Band

https://www.boogiebeasts.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

Death Cab for Cutie has spent over two decades being the musical equivalent of a favorite, slightly worn-out but super-comfortable hoodie, and their latest record, I Built You a Tower, is the familiar vibe we didn’t know we needed in 2026. Instead of trying to reinvent themselves, the band treats their career like a long-running sitcom where you always know which character is going to say what. It is reliable, it is cozy, and it is a reminder that sometimes, you just want to listen to a band that knows exactly who they are without needing to pull any flashy stunts.

The album finds the guys leaning into that signature, polished, mid-tempo sound that makes you want to stare wistfully out of a rainy window. They aren’t throwing any curveballs here, and honestly, that’s great news for those of us who have been following them since the days of burning mix CDs. The production is sharp and clean, giving Ben Gibbard plenty of space to sing about his specific, slightly nerdy observations while the band chugs along in the background like a well-oiled machine. It is earnest, it is catchy, and it doesn’t try too hard to be the coolest kid at the party.

If you are looking for the absolute highlight, look no further than “Punching the Flowers.” The title is delightfully bizarre, and the song captures that very specific, relatable feeling of wanting to let out some pent-up frustration without actually doing anything truly destructive. Musically, it stands out because it breaks the album’s polished, mid-tempo pacing with a surge of energy that feels both tight and loose at the same time. It has a rhythmic bounce that makes it impossible not to tap your foot (hooray for REAL DRUMS!), providing a sharp contrast to the more meditative, slow-burn tracks that surround it. By choosing such a strange, vivid image for the central hook, the band manages to be self-aware and charming rather than just sad. It is the moment on the record where they seem to wink at the listener, proving they can still inject a bit of chaotic fun into their well-oiled machine.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/punching-the-flowers/1878362636

“Punching the Flowers” Live on World Cafe

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/i-built-you-a-tower/1878362451

The Band

https://www.deathcabforcutie.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

Originally released in November 1995, Fitzcarraldo stands as a pivotal, if tumultuous, chapter in the history of the Irish band The Frames. At the time of its creation, the band—performing under the moniker The Frames DC to avoid legal confusion with an American group of the same name—was at a crossroads. Following their debut Another Love Song (1992), the band was hungry for international success and caught in the orbit of ZTT Records, a label that, for better AND worse, exerted significant creative control over their output.

Also, the album’s rollout was famously bumpy… After an initial 1995 release, the band worked with producer Trevor Horn to refine the sound for a June 1st, 1996 re-release. This second version captured the band’s ambition more clearly, polishing the production without stripping away the grit that made them special.

While Fitzcarraldo didn’t result in overnight mainstream fame, it served as a declaration of intent and built a foundation, proving that The Frames could command a room with intensity and honesty, establishing the cult following and artistic independence that would define their career for years to come. For fans and the band alike, it is remembered as the record that truly solidified the group’s identity. It captured a raw tension, most notably in the track “Revelate,” where Glen Hansard’s performance moves from a near-whisper to a powerhouse vocal, embodying the band’s signature blend of vulnerability and intensity.

The mid-90s was a challenging time for a band like The Frames. The airwaves were crowded with the massive global reach of Britpop and the tail-end of the grunge explosion. While many peers were chasing catchy hooks and radio play, The Frames were doubling down on lengthy tracks that built intensity over time, prioritizing emotional payoff over instant gratification.

Within Ireland, they were evolving away from the “Celtic rock” sound that had previously defined much of the national output, positioning themselves instead within a more earnest, singer-songwriter-adjacent space that would later be championed by artists like David Gray.

The album’s title itself—a nod to Werner Herzog’s 1982 film about a man obsessed with pulling a steamship over a mountain in the Amazon—served as a fitting metaphor for the band’s own career: a display of immense ambition and the determination to overcome insurmountable odds in the music industry.

The recording of Fitzcarraldo was a collaborative effort involving several key members of that era’s iteration of the band. Frontman and creative anchor, Glen Hansard, whose ability to hold back tension and then unleash it became the emotional centerpiece of the album. Violinist and keyboardist, Colm Mac Con Iomaire, whose distinct instrumental contributions added a lush, folk-inflected texture helped further differentiate The Frames from their contemporaries (specifically reducing the frequency of comparison to another little Irish rock band called U2).

While it did not immediately launch them to the stadium-filling status they aspired to, Fitzcarraldo became a beloved, essential document in their catalog. It is often viewed as the “hard-earned” masterpiece that preceded their even more celebrated work, such as Dance the Devil (1999). Today, it is regarded not just as a collection of great songs, but as a landmark in the Irish rock canon—a testament to a band that survived the “hard way” to influence generations of Irish musicians that followed.

Speaking of those great songs, Fitzcarraldo is a dense and emotional record, defined by its struggle between raw intensity and the polished production of the era. Here are the songs that defined the album’s legacy:

Revelate

The album opener is widely considered the cornerstone of the band’s catalog. It serves as a fine example of how to build tension by consistent raising and lowering dynamic intensity. The song features quieter, more reflecting verses, before erupting into one of the most cathartic, high-energy choruses of the 1990s. Its lyrics about movement, urgency, and the necessity of “revelation” captured the band’s frantic, forward-moving spirit at the time.

Angel at My Table

This track displays a softer, almost folk-infused melodic sensibility. It highlights the band’s ability to layer textures, blending delicate instrumentation with subtle, moody arrangements. It was one of the tracks that helped pivot the band away from the more generic indie-rock of the early 90s, pointing toward the more nuanced, character-driven songwriting that would define their later work.

Fitzcarraldo

The title track is a sprawling, 6 minute, atmospheric piece that justifies the album’s name. It leans into a cinematic quality, with sweeping violin lines and a mid-tempo drive that feels like a long, arduous journey. It is a brooding track that highlights Colm Mac Con Iomaire’s influence, showcasing the band’s willingness to move away from standard rock structures toward something more expansive. Paul “Binzer” Brennan’s intricate drumming and musical interplay with bassist Graham Downey also stands out on this track.

Say It To Me Now

While it appears as a standout moment for the band’s emotional range, this track is a quintessential example of their “whisper-to-a-scream” dynamic. It captures a raw, confrontational honesty that would become a staple of Hansard’s songwriting. It is a sparse, urgent track that strips away the production gloss to reveal the core of the band’s artistic intent.

While Glen Hansard’s career is defined by a deep, unwavering commitment to music, it is punctuated by two major cinematic milestones that brought him global recognition without ever fully eclipsing his identity as a musician.

In 1991, Hansard’s first major brush with fame came through his role as the guitarist “Outspan” Foster in Alan Parker’s The Commitments. His involvement was somewhat serendipitous; he was cast after an audition process that saw the director sort through thousands of musicians to find an authentic group. While the film was a massive critical and commercial success, Hansard remained wary of being defined by it.

Then, in 2007, the film Once marked another significant evolution for Hansard. Unlike The Commitments, where he was part of a large ensemble cast, Once was built directly around his music and his real-life musical partnership with Markéta Irglová (together known as The Swell Season). Hansard was initially reluctant to take the role, fearing that—much like his experience with The Commitments—it might distort his career or feel inauthentic. He only agreed on the condition that the production remained low-budget, intimate, and that he be fully involved in the filmmaking process. The result? A smash hit!

Throughout his transition from the set of The Commitments to broader fame with Once, the constant in Hansard’s life was The Frames. Formed around the same time he was gaining visibility on screen, the band became his primary artistic vehicle. The Frames allowed him to cultivate a loyal, long-term following.

The album’s namesake, the movie Fitzcarraldo, is about a man who refuses to accept that the impossible is impossible. He drags an actual steamship over an actual mountain in the actual Amazon jungle, not because it is sensible, but because he has a vision and refused to abandon it. Ultimately, Glen Hansard was doing the same thing: building a music career on the streets of Dublin, losing a record deal, borrowing money from a pub, recording in a city not known for its studios, and eventually naming the album after an act of lunatic perseverance.

30 years later, the album holds up entirely. Fitzcarraldo is loud and tender, disciplined and full of abandon, Celtic and universal. It is a record that sounds like someone singing at full volume in an empty room and not caring at all who hears, made by a band that had learned, through considerable pain, what they actually sounded like.

They were pulling a heavy ship over a metaphorical mountain… It turns out the ship made it. Now go listen!

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/fitzcarraldo/1365511015?i=1365511019

The Videos

“Revelate” live in Sydney from 2007

“Fitzcarraldo” acoustic performance from Other Voices

“Angel At My Table” Live

“Say It To Me Now” Glen Hansard solo acoustic performance from the Artists Den

The Band

https://www.theframes.ie/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)

Escaping a legendary rock-and-roll parent’s shadow usually goes one of two ways: you either lean entirely into the family business or sprint aggressively in the opposite direction. On her debut full-length record, Be Sweet To Me, Violet Grohl wisely chooses a third path. She has essentially barricaded herself in the family attic, sifted through vintage flannel and obscure 1990s alternative records, and emerged with something that sounds less like a genetic inheritance and more like a beautifully executed heist. The album feels genuine because it rejects the neat, polished sheen of modern pop-rock. Grohl and her band sound looser, heavier, and far more eccentric than anyone expected.

To understand where Be Sweet To Me sits in the grand scheme of Grohl’s musical evolution, you have to look at her steady graduation from “nepotism-adjacent side-stage fixture” to a front-and-center force. She’s provided ethereal backing vocals on Foo Fighters tracks and delivered capable, if safely reverent, tribute covers of punk classics. This record marks the moment she stops acting as a historical preservationist for her father’s generation and starts forging her own path. It is a calculated leap from polite, acoustic-adjacent folk into a much weirder world of airy shoegaze riffs, dry 1980s pop hooks, and sludgy grunge that sounds like it was recorded in a damp basement.

Surprisingly, daddy Dave Grohl didn’t contribute a single thing to Be Sweet To Me—no stealthy backing vocals, no cameo guitar solos, and he wasn’t even allowed to touch a drum stick. In fact, one of the most impressive aspects of the record is how deliberately devoid it is of obvious celebrity or family-friend gimmicks. Aside from a feature by Shane Hawkins (son of the late Taylor Hawkins) playing drums on the final track, “Plastic Couch,” the album was kept entirely free of the extended Foo Fighters universe.

While the singles “THUM” and “595” lean hard into a calculated grit, it’s “Bug in the Cake“ that separates itself as the standout track for me. Written about moving into her late grandmother’s house and experiencing surreal, slightly haunted occurrences, the track manages to be both deeply personal and delightfully absurd. Musically, it is driven by a propulsive bass line and driving drum pattern that anchors a series of jagged, unpredictable guitar riffs. Her delivery of lines like, “Come on, Grandma, play me your favourite song,” avoids any sort of mawkish sentimentality, opting instead for a playful, deadpan charm. It is the most dynamically satisfying piece on the record, proving that her band can deliver infectious, upbeat melodies without sacrificing an ounce of their alt cred.

The Song

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/song/bug-in-the-cake/1880470542

Live performance in Los Angeles from a week ago… Hopefully her stage presence will develop quickly!

The Album

Spotify:

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/album/be-sweet-to-me/1880470537

The Band

https://www.violetgrohl.com/

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Be sure to check out the Audio Toxicity 2026 Bad Music Detox Protocol (AKA a playlist of songs covered so far…)