We’re falling out of place

| Michelle

Hello again from the void.
It’s been years since I last posted. The truth? I couldn’t get back into my account. A bad breakup sent me spiraling, and instead of fixing it, I just… didn’t. I ghosted this space, this voice, this part of me. But here I am now—resurfacing. Ready again to talk about the only thing that ever really makes sense to me: music.

And what better way to come back than with something massive—something bigger than I’m even comfortable holding. TURNSTILE’s latest album, NEVER ENOUGH, is more than just a record. It’s a goddamn cultural moment. A love letter to sound. A blueprint for survival.

Here in Phoenix, TURNSTILE shows are packed. Overflowing. Exploding. You step into a room and you’re immediately swallowed by this chaotic, melodic, physical force. They don’t just play—they move you. Frantic, thrashing, emotional propulsion. And what’s wild is how they’re built: each member feels like they don’t match, like they wandered into the wrong band… and somehow that’s what makes it perfect. They’re the audio equivalent of strangers becoming family during a power outage. That kind of imperfect unity? That’s how I want to see humanity survive—learning to speak the same language through noise, through music, through presence.

Their last album, GLOW ON, was the spark. It landed like a meteor. It felt like a culmination of everything we needed right then: catharsis, chaos, beauty, truth. It marked the moment they weren’t just “around”—they became essential. And now with NEVER ENOUGH, they’ve refined that urgency into something even sharper. This album flows like a great vinyl—built with intention, with emotional pacing. It doesn’t just slap you track after track. It ebbs. It swells. It lets you breathe just before it knocks the wind out of you again.

It jumps genres without asking permission—swinging between 80s drum machine shimmer and hardcore sweat. One moment, it’s The Breakfast Club ending scene: strangers, fists in the air, bonded by pain. The next, it’s pure, glorious fury. That’s the genius of this record. It doesn’t want to be labeled—it wants to be felt. And that’s exactly what we need right now. Not algorithms. Not purity tests. Not posturing. Just music that dares to let different energies coexist.

TURNSTILE gets it. They’re what empathy sounds like when it learns how to scream. They remind us that misunderstanding doesn’t have to be the end of the conversation. It can be the beginning.
All you have to do is show up.
Be loud. Be soft. Be real.
Listen.

…shouldn’t talk about it…

| Michelle

I was unconsciously listening to this band—half-distracted, multitasking my way through homework—when something caught in my chest and made me stop. I paused everything and listened to the whole album start to finish without even realizing I had surrendered to it. There’s something drunkenly beautiful about hearing something you weren’t prepared for. No build-up. No anticipation. Just impact. And with all the mental quaffs I’ve poured myself this week, I’d say this band hit the top shelf.

It’s a short album, but every second feels steeped in honesty and quiet desperation. It doesn’t beg you to like it—it just exists, wide-eyed and open-palmed. It’s the sound of someone telling the truth even when it doesn’t help them. That kind of emotional exposure hits hard, especially when you’re not asking for it. This album doesn’t show off—it shows what I already know: that we try.

We try to love, and more often than not, we already know the outcome before it begins. Every new connection comes laced with an echo of its ending. We can sense it, deep down—feel the warning in our chest, hear the murmur in our own gut. But we ignore it. Because we want to be surprised. This album plays like that moment of quiet clarity you get after the chaos, when you realize how often you’ve hurt someone just by not being ready.

It’s a slow collapse wrapped in melody. A kind of emotional post-mortem. There’s guilt in these songs, and grief, and also an exhausted kind of hope—the kind that still bothers to show up even when you’re certain you’ve screwed it all up. This isn’t background music. This is a mirror you don’t want to look into, but can’t quite turn away from. It’s beautiful because it’s cracked.

And maybe that’s the point. That some of the most moving music doesn’t fix you. It just tells you you’re not the only one who’s broken in this exact shape. And for right now, that’s enough.

Can’t Stay Dry

| Michelle

Well… thank you.

Thank you, The Cave Singers. Once again, you’ve made my Grinch heart grow three sizes. I don’t know how one band can make me feel like I’m living in a 1970s Wes Anderson flick, but you do it every single time—washed-out tones, strange pacing, golden light, and that feeling that something meaningful is unfolding whether or not I fully understand it.

I inhaled this band with the Seattle air they came from. Their sound embedded itself into the fog, the cold, and the in-between years I didn’t know how to narrate. It felt like they saw me growing—and somehow grew alongside me. And even though they’ve stayed consistent with that folk-driven, stripped-down soul, it never bores. The guitars hit like a good old-fashioned at the end of a really shitty day of work—earned, grounding, quietly potent.

Banshee opens with the classic Cave Singers vibe: earthy, steady, familiar. And then it happens—electric fuzz kicks in. It pulses through the background like a heartbeat wrapped in static. That kind of grit always gets me. I hear it, and I don’t question it. Like any good fuzzed-out guitar line, it grabs hold—and I’m gone.

If I were a fish, this band would be the worm that finally got me fucking hooked.

So thank you, Cave Singers.
Once again, I’m a cross-eyed, oxygenated water-breather for you.

They Did Me In

| Michelle

Some albums don’t hit you right away.
They sit there—quiet, waiting—until the moment your head and heart line up just right. This one came out about a year ago, but like all the best things, it needed time to find me. And when it did? It took me apart gently. Grime Kings is a phenomenal band out of Ontario, and their record Comp 1 (which I stumbled across on Bandcamp) hasn’t left my ears since.

They sound like a darker version of The Beatles that got lost somewhere along the coast—drifted into the grunge tide and picked up a few surf rock scars along the way. Their sound unfolds slowly, almost sleepily, but with this tight control underneath it all. Fuzzy, bobbing bass lines keep the whole thing anchored, while the guitars sway between nostalgic and eerie. The grooves are unreal—sharp when they need to be, lazy in the best way, and completely hypnotic. It’s unlike anything I’ve heard in a long time.

Truthfully, I had a hard time writing this review. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because I don’t want to move. This album makes you want to sink into a deep chair, close your eyes, and let your skull become a drumhead for every tone bouncing between your ears. I’ve caught myself swaying, foot tapping, lips twitching to hum along, and I just keep thinking—this is what sound was meant to do to a body.

If Sparklehorse had a dark child raised on fuzz pedals and shoreline melancholy, it might sound something like this. There’s something broken and beautiful stitched into these songs. Something that vibrates in your bones more than your brain. Comp 1 feels like a transmission from a different plane—low-powered and buried in static, but still somehow more alive than anything on the surface.

Put on some headphones. Let go of time. Let it carry you.

grime kings

Candy Mountain

| Michelle

Two reviews in one week? Who even am I?
Tuesdays give me time again—real time. Space to breathe, dig, fall apart, and get rebuilt by something unexpected. Music fills the void. It’s not just a hobby—it’s a second job I don’t clock out of. I sift through hours of noise, generic production, paper-thin vocals, and algorithm-spit garbage. But sometimes? Sometimes I find a diamond buried in the trash.

And this one—this little two-song single by DILLY DALLY—is sharp enough to cut me wide open. I’ve had it on repeat for hours. Obsessive doesn’t even begin to cover it. Her vocals—Katie’s vocals—don’t just hit. They bend me. Melt me. Whip me around like a leaf caught in some thick fog of musical bullshit and mediocrity. Her voice feels like it crawled out of somewhere deep and raw. If Björk and Dolores O’Riordan had the nerve to scream through their own ghosts, you might get something close. But Katie? Katie shreds them. She rips a new dimension open just by opening her mouth.

I can’t believe this was released in 2014. How did I miss it? Maybe the holidays sucked the soul out of me. Maybe I wasn’t ready to hear something this messy, this pure. But I’m here now, and this little time bomb of a single showed up right when I needed something feral and real.

The guitars are slack and sludgy—messy in all the right ways. Like a bedroom you haven’t cleaned in months, but it still feels like home. The melodies are buried under dust, but that dust has weight. It’s beautiful chaos. It doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. And my heart? It’s all in. Head over heels in a pile of sonic trash that somehow feels like treasure.

So yeah—love it or hate it, this site is just my personal signal flares from the trench.
And this one? This one’s burning bright.

Nothing Will Be…

| Michelle

Last night I had one of those dreams.
The kind that leaves you suspended—adrift in a half-formed ship, or maybe no ship at all. I was lost in the deepest part of the ocean, no land, no horizon. Just black water and 50-foot swells tossing my body like paper. The sky was gone. The tide turned my stomach. The kind of dream where hope doesn’t just fade—it never existed in the first place.

And then suddenly, this burst of sea rose up like a cannon beside me. I turned and saw an eye—easily the size of my head—staring back at me. A blue whale. Towering, breathing, present. I could feel its lungs underneath me, the rise and fall of ancient rhythm. And for a few perfect moments, I was no longer drowning. I was riding. Floating on something impossibly strong. Hope cracked the surface.

That’s exactly how the opening track of Father John Misty’s newest album, I Love You, Honeybear, feels. It’s the breath you didn’t know you were holding. A lift out of the dark, into a haze of major chords, winded horns, sweeping acoustic guitars, and unexpected electronic color. It’s a sonic swell that carries you if you let it. The production is rich—rounded, alive. This album breathes. It holds you. For a while, it even feels like it loves you back.

But like all calm eyes at the center of storms, it doesn’t last. As the album progresses, the edges fray. Familiarity creeps in. It’s clear Josh Tillman’s past in Fleet Foxes hasn’t fully left him—nor has the comfort of his usual tricks. Oohs and aahs, tambourines, soft wit, and major key safety. He evolves in inches. Not leaps. By the time the record ends, it’s more of a circle than a journey. Pleasant, yes. Surprising? Not really.

It’s not a bad album. It’s warm, textured, and at times genuinely moving. But for me, it didn’t earn a spot on the shelf. I won’t be chasing it down on vinyl.
Some rides are worth remembering—but not all of them are worth replaying.

All I Wanted Was To Love You Better

| Michelle

The holidays take it outta me.

They always do. It’s a soul-sucking blur of deadlines, expectations, travel, noise, and spending money you don’t have on things you’re not sure matter. Everyone rushes to finish the year strong, whatever that even means. I get caught in it too. But what saves me—every damn time—is the cold air and winter wind. That first real breath you take when the madness quiets down. That’s when I finally have a minute to breathe. And this time, that breath came wrapped in the sound of TV on the Radio’s latest album.

SEEDS has been on repeat for me—this is my third listen today alone. I’ve followed these cats since their debut, and they’ve never missed. Every album leaves me feeling weightless. I float. Like a cloud pushed forward by something invisible and gentle. I move, but there’s no pressure. No suffocation. No congestion. That’s everything the holidays aren’t. They clog your brain and drain your spirit. SEEDS clears all that out like smoke through an open window.

TV on the Radio makes music that feels like a heartbeat. Constant. Reassuring. Rhythmic. There’s something holy in how grounded and alive it makes me feel. Like the holidays should make us feel—connected, still, present. The kind of quiet joy we talk about but rarely reach. The kind that doesn’t come from sale racks or family tension, but from warmth, love, and letting yourself feel something honest. SEEDS cracks the shell of this season open and lets something real crawl out.

If you’ve been feeling overwhelmed, cornered, exhausted by the expectations this time of year dumps on us—this is your reprieve. This is your reset. Go listen to SEEDS. Let it fill your chest with something bigger than obligation. Let it tempt you back into feeling human again.

Because that’s the kind of temptation worth giving into.

The Void in the silence

| Michelle

I have never established where I have lived.

I mean, I’ve had addresses—mail gets delivered, Amazon finds me, bills still show up—but where I live? That’s been harder to name. I’ve also never established where I belong. And I’ve done everyone a favor by not pretending otherwise. I belong nowhere—nowhere but here. This moment. This breath. This beat. Everything else feels like guesswork.

There are a few reviews I haven’t written lately, and not because I didn’t try. I just couldn’t fake it. The albums didn’t move me. I didn’t want to force a take, twist up some performative opinion just for the sake of a post. So I waited. Sat with the silence. And then something hit me—not an album, but a feeling. Music at its core.

I just finished watching the Sonic Highways episode about Los Angeles. I’m from the Southwest. And god, that episode hit like a goddamn desert thunderclap. It cracked something open. I wanted to fist-pump the air, shout something ugly and joyful. People talk about LA like it’s a vibe or a brand. But the desert that surrounds it? That silence? That absence? That’s the real song. If you were born here, or raised near it, you know what I mean. It’s dry and dusty and brutally honest. You don’t find melody here—you dig for it. You carve it out of the void.

The desert asks questions. It dares you to answer. It holds nothing and everything at once.
To see the beauty in the dust.
To see the fullness in the empty.
To see the life in the rust.

Those are the people I belong to. The ones who don’t need much. Who don’t thrive on glamour or noise or padded resumes. We’re the musicians and makers who crave substance. Who need life beyond the job title, beyond the algorithm, beyond the applause. You don’t choose this kind of hunger. You’re born with it—or maybe you’re shaped by it. You grow up where the sun tries to kill you and the land forgets your name, and you still write songs in the sand like someone might read them.

The desert makes you breathe harder. Makes you tougher. It leaves a silence so loud you have to fill it with meaning. Some of the strongest hearts I know were raised in this kind of emptiness. We survive where things shouldn’t. We create where nothing is handed to us. And yeah, maybe we’re pests to the cities. But to ourselves?

We’re fucking invincible.

https://youtu.be/6pTrwP2Ksv4?si=zuYcP-fcIMKwef8C

Where Have All the Virgins Gone?

| Michelle

Hello again, digital fake world.

Glad to see you’re still glitching and glowing and pretending everything’s fine. I’ve been avoiding dates lately—not because I don’t want connection, but because I keep finding new guitars that feel more honest than anyone I’ve met. I bury myself in work, and most mornings are spent debating whether I should do yoga, take a shower, or crawl back into myself. Today, the shower won.

But let’s talk about something that did show up for me: the new album by Death From Above 1979. I’ve appreciated this band for years, but honestly, their earlier albums had started to wear out their welcome. The classic dirt was still there, but I knew every corner of it. I wanted something with the same bass-heavy chaos and cymbal whip, but with new blood.

This album delivered—and then some. I plugged it in and it didn’t just play at me, it snarled. It crooned between the screams, delivering hooks with this bitchy, confident swagger that cracked open my focus. My brain lit up. I drank coffee like it was medicine. I typed this post, wrote a project proposal, texted a friend, felt my own blood move inside me. It didn’t just slap—it dilated my eyes. There’s a Trent Reznor energy running through this one—slick and haunted, soaked in tension. The vocals are dipped in some beautifully corrupted filter and wrapped tightly around tracks that feel deeply intentional. Every song earns its place.

It’s a monster—but a soft one. A tiger curled next to you, vibrating with threat and beauty. It could kill you. Maybe it will. But you want to touch it anyway. You want to feel the danger in its breath and see the warmth in its eyes. You know better—and still, you press your hand to its chest. That’s this album. It’s balanced brutality. Tender destruction. You’ll love it even as it bares its teeth.

So don’t just listen. Approach it. Carefully. But definitely.