15. Whores. - War.

From the moment you hit play on War. by Whores., it’s clear you’ve stepped into a sonic battlefield, but don’t expect to find any valorous heroes or clean-cut narratives. This is the sound of war as it’s really experienced: ugly, chaotic, and utterly relentless. The Georgia-based trio, masters of noise rock and sludge metal, don’t just create music—they create an atmosphere so oppressive, so dense with aggression and unease, that you can almost feel your chest tightening with every riff.

Opening with "Malinches," you're met with a tsunami of distortion, and it's like the album is throwing a punch before it even gives you a chance to blink. You’ve heard noise rock before, but not like this. Imagine an oppressive weight settling over your soul, with feedback creeping into every crevice, dragging you deeper into the mire. It’s not just dissonance—it’s a masterclass in how to turn every mistake, every irregularity, into something vital, something that feels more like an experience than a song.

The album’s tone can only be described as a perfect storm of rage, existential dread, and the ceaseless, grinding march of a machine that doesn’t care if you survive the ride. The sludgy, grimy guitar tones are dense like quicksand, and the drums hit like anvils being dropped from a great height. Vocals? Oh, the vocals are an incessant scream, a plea for something, though it’s hard to say what. Whether it’s pain or apathy, it’s buried beneath layers of fuzz and feedback that make it feel almost suffocated.

But here’s where War. surprises you. The band doesn’t rely on traditional song structures. There’s no resolution to be found, no catharsis, and no light at the end of the tunnel. Each track on this album seems to be constructed like an experiment in madness—will these waves of noise collapse into themselves, or will they tear apart the very fabric of reality? Spoiler: they don’t collapse. They rip. This album is less about melody and more about attitude, and that attitude is the relentless desire to crush everything underfoot, including itself.

Tracks like "Quitter's Fight Song" and "Hieronymus Bosch Was Right" continue the relentless assault, with rhythms so punishing they leave bruises on your psyche. Yet somehow, amidst all the chaos, there’s a strange beauty to it. It’s in the raw, undiluted emotion. Whores. doesn't just want to make you headbang—they want to see if they can pull you apart piece by piece. This is art that demands you listen, but it doesn’t care if you’re comfortable with what you hear.

But don't think it’s all a wall of noise—War. finds moments of cruel grace in between the spikes of aggression. There are these tiny windows where the band pauses, if only briefly, to give you a glimpse of melody before shoving you back into the abyss. It's like the album understands that you can’t be punished without a brief respite, but even those moments feel suffocating, as if you're never really safe.

The production on War. is another beast entirely—it's as filthy and abrasive as the music. Everything sounds like it's been dragged through a meat grinder, but it works. It works in ways you didn’t think possible. The mix feels less like a polished album and more like an artifact from the underworld, unearthed and dropped into your lap for you to contemplate while your soul begins to erode.

Is War. an easy listen? Absolutely not. Is it an enjoyable listen? That depends on your taste for brutal, uncomfortable honesty. But what it is, unequivocally, is a masterstroke of noise that makes you feel. Whether you walk away from it bruised, battered, or just plain overwhelmed, one thing is for sure: Whores. didn’t make this album to make friends. They made it to make an impact.

So, if you’re ready to abandon your need for safety and want to sink into something profoundly ugly and exquisitely loud, then War. is the battleground you've been searching for. Just don’t expect to leave it unscathed.

14. Dool - The Shape of Fluidity

If you’ve been waiting for something in progressive rock that feels like it came from another dimension—a place where jagged edges are smoothed into something both elusive and transcendent—then The Shape of Fluidity by Dool is that otherworldly experience. But it’s not one you simply stumble into; it demands an intentional dive, a willingness to let go and follow the unspooling thread of sound. This album isn’t progressive rock in the usual sense—no sprawling symphonic epics, no rigid time signatures for their own sake, no need to impress with technical wizardry. Instead, it bends reality through mood, texture, and a performance that bleeds with raw, visceral energy.

At the core of this journey is Raven van Dorst, Dool’s charismatic singer and the band’s most potent force. Raven conjures moods like an alchemist wielding the elements. Raven's voice seems both ancient and contemporary, at once commanding and vulnerable, floating between tension and release with an ease that feels almost supernatural. The first thing you’ll notice about Raven's voice is its uncanny ability to be both delicate and overpowering—sometimes within the span of a single phrase. On tracks like “Venus In Flames” and “Evil In You”, Raven's vocal performance borders on the theatrical, but it’s always grounded in raw emotion.

But Raven’s voice isn’t just a vessel of expression—it's the weather pattern of the entire album. Raven doesn’t simply carry the band, Raven shapes it. When the guitars swirl like dark clouds on “Self-Dissect”, Raven's vocals provide a sharp, magnetic pull, guiding the tempest through a melodic storm. When the music falls into quieter moments, as it does in “Currents”, Raven's voice softens, becoming a whispering presence, tender but never weak. You can hear how Raven engages with the music and becoming part of it, bending to its atmosphere, never forcing it but letting it breathe.

Now, as for the rest of Dool—let's just say that they're far more than mere accompanists to Raven’s vocal spectacle. The band moves with a fluidity that matches the title, but their movements are subtle and complex. Guitarists who seem to play as if they’re pulling sound from the ether, delivering riffs that twist and writhe like smoke, often unspooling into cosmic chaos. The rhythm section—especially the bass—anchors the music in a way that’s almost hypnotic, providing an undercurrent that flows beneath the more dramatic heights.

Tracks like “House of a Thousand Dreams” and “Hermagorgon” show off the band’s skill at blending post-metal, shoegaze, and prog. The drumming here doesn’t just keep time; it pulses, throbs, dances just ahead of the beat like it's anticipating something that’s about to happen, keeping you on edge. You never quite know where the songs will take you, but you’re willing to follow them into the unknown.

And yet, for all the layered textures and complex musicality, The Shape of Fluidity never feels like a “difficult” album. It’s an album that challenges expectations, yes, but it’s one that also invites you into its world. Dool might shift from ethereal calm to explosive rock fury, but they never alienate the listener. Even in the strangest and most experimental moments, there’s a sense of narrative, a propulsion that never lets you lose sight of the journey.

Perhaps that’s the trick: fluidity. Not just in the music, but in the way Raven van Dorst embodies the emotional depth of every song. Raven's voice dances through these landscapes like a shadow, merging with the tones—becoming the fluid shape of the sound itself. There's an untamed beauty here, a kind of sacred recklessness that feels so authentic you can't help but be swept along by it.

So if you’re coming for a neat, polished experience, you won’t find it here. What you will find in The Shape of Fluidity is something far more unpredictable—something that stretches the boundaries of what progressive rock can be. Dool has crafted a record that doesn’t simply move forward in time, it flows, and Raven van Dorst leads the charge with a vocal performance that is nothing short of transcendent. It's a shape-shifting album for a shape-shifting world, and it will leave you questioning the nature of sound itself long after it’s finished.

13. Bad Nerves – Still Nervous

If you’re looking for an album that’s like a rollercoaster ride through a haunted funhouse where the ghosts are all surprisingly good at guitar and the clowns have serious existential crises, then Still Nervous by Bad Nerves is the soundtrack you didn’t know you needed. The title alone suggests a certain endearing panic, and let me tell you: it lives up to the name. This album feels like you’ve got your foot on the gas, but the brakes keep mysteriously malfunctioning, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

From the first track, it’s clear: Bad Nerves has captured the essence of being just enough out of control. Every note is a mix of nervous energy and swagger. It's the kind of music that makes you want to shake your fists at the sky, but also, maybe check if the sky’s okay because you’re not sure if it’s about to fall down.

The album opens with "Don't Stop", and within the first 30 seconds, you’re already questioning your life choices. It’s like being shoved into a mosh pit, but the moshers are all wearing finely tailored suits. As the track builds, the tension is palpable, like waiting for the elevator to reach the top floor, but the elevator is also a sentient being and might drop you off wherever it feels like.

Then there’s "Antidote", which feels like what would happen if Blur had a panic attack at a carnival while riding a Ferris wheel. It’s got a rhythm that makes you want to move but not quite in any coordinated way. It’s more like your body is trying to escape its own awkwardness, and honestly, same.

As you move through the album, it starts to become clear that Bad Nerves has a unique ability to blend chaos and melody with all the grace of a cat that’s figured out how to play piano. The guitars are fuzzier than your grandma’s knitted sweater, and the bass? Oh, the bass rumbles like it’s trying to tell you a secret you’re just not ready for. By the time you hit "Plastic Rebel", it’s as if the universe itself is jittering, vibrating, and possibly on the brink of a nervous breakdown—but in the best way.

And let’s not forget "You've Got The Nerve", the track that simultaneously encourages you to give up on everything and try even harder. It’s like listening to a pep talk from someone who has no idea what they’re doing, but they’re doing it with style. It’s unclear if this track is supposed to be about staying strong or collapsing under the weight of your own decisions, but at this point in the album, you’ve already accepted that the only way out is through the rhythm section.

In conclusion, Still Nervous is an album that will make you feel like you’ve had three too many coffees, but instead of crashing into despair, you just keep riding the wave of wildly unpredictable joy. Bad Nerves have crafted something that simultaneously makes no sense and makes perfect sense. They’re the kind of band that makes you want to dance while simultaneously questioning your life choices—and really, who could ask for more?

If your nerves aren’t already still by the end of this album, you’re either an unshakable Zen master or secretly a robot. Either way, you might want to give Still Nervous another listen, because let’s face it, you could use the chaos.

12. The Mystery Lights - Purgatory

Imagine you’re walking through a tunnel in a dream, the sound of a distant guitar strumming echoes off the walls, blending with the hum of fluorescent lights flickering like ghosts trying to tell you secrets. You’re not sure whether you're in the 1960s or the far future, and the beats seem to pulse like a heartbeat caught somewhere between a kick drum and a whiplash of distorted energy. This is "Purgatory," the New York band's latest musical spell, and it’s as much a time-bending trip as it is a state of mind.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: "Purgatory" is not an album for the easily bored. It’s gritty, blurry, and refuses to stay in one place long enough to settle into something safe or recognizable. The Mystery Lights’ sound is, if anything, mercilessly unpredictable—sometimes the band sounds like they're trapped in a psych rock fever dream, with guitars flaring up like lightning strikes that don't care for your comfort zone. Other times, it feels like they’re channeling punk rock’s sneering energy, drenched in reverb and spiraling with every riff. What stands out is that "Purgatory" isn’t merely an album, but an exorcism of sorts. Not of the demons themselves, but of the mundane expectations of what a modern rock record should be.

It’s as though the band set out to shake the dust off their instruments and let the chaos do its thing. The result? A record that doesn’t let you listen passively. Tracks like “Mighty Fine & All Mine” and “In The Streets” come at you like speeding trains, and you’re either jumping on board or standing aside. But that’s the thing: they don’t care whether you stay on track with them or not. They’re too busy splitting the walls with fuzzy basslines and swirling synths to worry about your comfort.

But don’t mistake this for a disjointed mess. There’s a thread that ties this album together, even if it feels like it's buried underneath layers of distortion. There’s a certain thing pulsing under all the raw fuzz and reverb: a rebellion against the sterile, the polished, the formulaic. And yet, there’s a sense of purpose beneath the chaos—a melody that rises from the dark corners, evoking the feeling of being lost yet somehow found.

The irony is that for all its frenzy, "Purgatory" doesn’t feel like a state of confusion or despair. It feels more like a messy celebration of imperfection—a "holy" noise made in the exact moment before something truly transcendent happens. You may find yourself lost, disoriented, even a little alienated at times, but isn’t that the point? Isn't purgatory supposed to be a limbo, neither here nor there, strung together by moments of clarity that come and go in waves?

There’s a sense of beyond in "Purgatory." Not a grand or philosophical beyond, but an undercurrent of something stirring, a raw beauty in the unfiltered sound. You don't need to know where you're going, because the band is too busy dragging you along to care. It’s messy. It’s spontaneous. It’s exactly what happens when a band decides to burn down the rulebook and build a new one out of feedback and lost frequencies.

11. Gloomy Reflections - Oath of the Paladins

If there’s an album that seems to have risen from the depths of some long-forgotten underworld tavern, where flickering candlelight casts shadows on haunted stone walls, it is Oath of the Paladins by Gloomy Reflections. This isn’t just a record; it’s an invitation to embark on an auditory journey that feels as if you’ve stepped into a forgotten chapter of a medieval fantasy novel, rewritten by existential philosophers and accompanied by a symphony of guitars steeped in melancholy.

Let’s get this out of the way first: this isn’t a “fun” album. It’s the sonic equivalent of a long, grim winter. If you came here looking for complex melodies or any semblance of optimism, you’re in the wrong kingdom, my friend. Gloomy Reflections is a band that offers no promises of light at the end of the tunnel — only the acceptance of the tunnel itself. The “paladins” in the title, likely representing some kind of noble yet doomed warriors, are not the golden-armored champions of your RPG fantasies. They are battered, disgraced, perhaps even cursed. Their oath isn’t one of glory, but one of inevitable downfall.

The opening track, "As We Stand On The Hill," sets the tone with a galloping march of sparkling synths and triumphant vocals, like an ancient prophecy being read in a forgotten language. The rhythm is less of a beat and more of an omen. 

What stands out, though, is the contrast between what you expect and what you get. On the surface, you might expect an album like this to drown in despair, yet it offers something deeper. Take “Forged Iron,” where the synths become a weapon in a battle between melody and rhythm, tugging at your heartstrings like the final scene of a tragedy you knew was coming but couldn’t avoid. It’s almost beautiful — but just twisted enough that it feels like you’re staring into the void, not embracing it.

Vocally, Gloomy Reflections doesn’t provide the expected guttural growls or operatic wails that you might think are mandatory for this kind of thematic weight. Instead, there’s a kind of detached narration, as if the vocalist has witnessed these horrors but has somehow reached a state of emotional exhaustion. There’s no anger here, just a weary acceptance of the inevitability of everything. It’s as if the paladins have sworn their oaths, not to triumph, but to endure. And that’s where the record hits hard — its honesty. It’s about being beaten down, not about triumphing over the dark forces. It’s "I’ll keep going, but I’ll never win" wrapped in the guise of a grand fantasy saga.

The production is lo-fi but in a way that feels intentional. It’s like an ancient recording, a scratched disc passed down through the ages, whispering its secrets only to those patient enough to listen. No clean digital sound here, just rough edges and distortion, as though this is a forgotten relic from another time, too potent to be left in the past, yet too broken to return fully to the present.

“Blazing Spirits (Rising High)” might be the album’s emotional core, pulling listeners through an uncomfortable atmosphere of solitude, isolation, and an unspoken resolve. It’s less about epic battles and more about the quiet moments before the storm breaks, when the weight of promises made long ago starts to feel like too much to bear. The track doesn’t soar — it stumbles, unsure of its path, just like the paladins it speaks of.

In the end, Oath of the Paladins is an experience. Whether it’s a good one depends entirely on your willingness to journey through dark, uncertain landscapes where light is nothing more than an illusion. It’s a record that never asks for your approval, but it demands your attention. This isn’t something you can just put on in the background while you do laundry. This is the kind of album that makes you sit down, listen, and maybe — just maybe — reconsider the entire narrative of heroism you’ve carried with you.

But don’t expect to emerge from this album with any answers. Gloomy Reflections isn’t here to make things clearer. Instead, they offer you an oath — to live in the shadows, to accept the inevitable, and to listen as the paladins march toward their uncertain fate. It’s dark, strange, and oddly beautiful in its bleakness. Maybe that’s what makes it unforgettable.

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