Genres: Heavy Psych, Garage Rock, Psychedelic Rock, Traditional Doom Metal

Label: In the Red

Location: Wellington, New Zealand

Imagine, if you will, stepping into a vast and uncharted forest at dusk, where the air is thick with fog, the ground soft with moss, and the faintest whispers of forgotten spirits linger. This is the experience that Great Haunting, the latest album from New Zealand’s Earth Tongue, offers—a mystical journey that feels both unnervingly familiar and eerily otherworldly.

At its core, Great Haunting is a blend of the hauntingly serene and the chaotically raw, like a dream you can’t quite piece together, yet somehow never want to leave. The record’s essence isn’t confined by genre—there are no neat labels here. Earth Tongue walks the line between doom metal and psychedelia, carving out a soundscape that might not quite fit in any one box but certainly leaves a lasting impression on the listener’s mind.

Track one, “Out of this Hell,” sets the tone—a dense, psychedelic intro that beckons you into the wilderness. Earth Tongue’s mastery of atmosphere is immediately apparent: the reverberating bass, the fuzzy guitar, and the ethereal vocals weave together in a trance-like cadence, drawing you deeper into a sonic forest where everything feels just slightly out of reach. The title Great Haunting feels less like an album name and more like an invitation to an ethereal realm, a realm where time is both suspended and somehow irrelevant.

But don’t be fooled. This isn’t just a slow, creeping crawl through the woods; Earth Tongue has a knack for balancing that eerie, dreamlike atmosphere with bursts of fiery aggression. “Nightmare,” the album’s third track, erupts with ferocity—dissonant guitars crash through like thunderclaps in a storm, only to retreat back into the murk with the subtlety of shadows. It’s a tension that keeps you on edge, like a shifting fog that could either lift or swallow you whole at any moment.

What stands out most on Great Haunting is Earth Tongue's ability to fuse dissonance and melody in ways that should feel jarring but instead create a sublime, almost meditative effect. “The Mirror” is the perfect example: a track that layers hypnotic riffs over a groove so thick you could sink into it. The vocals, airy yet oddly commanding, drift in and out of focus like whispers in the distance, leaving you unsure whether they’re part of the music or a figment of your imagination.

Then, there’s the moment of unexpected beauty: “Reaper Returns,” a track that’s less about wallowing in darkness and more about embracing it. A slow-burning ballad wrapped in a fuzzed-out guitar haze, it evokes a strange sense of comfort, like resting in the arms of a long-lost lover who may or may not be a figment of your subconscious. Earth Tongue doesn’t shy away from the darkness; they invite it in, make it dance, and make you wonder if maybe the abyss isn’t so terrifying after all.

At times, the album feels like a conversation between light and dark, between the comfort of familiarity and the fear of the unknown. It’s neither a record that demands a singular interpretation nor one that you can easily unpack on your first listen. Great Haunting offers layers—mysterious, dark, yet deeply moving—that reveal themselves slowly, like a puzzle that takes its sweet time to form.

What truly sets Earth Tongue apart, however, is their ability to leave you unsettled yet content. In the end, Great Haunting doesn’t just linger—it haunts you in the best possible way. The closing track, “The Reluctant Host,” distills everything that came before it: the riffs, the whispers, the tension, the release—like a dream fading as you wake, but the feeling of it, that elusive grip on your soul, remains.

So, if you’re looking for a straightforward listen, you might want to look elsewhere. But if you’re in search of something that lingers, something that takes you by surprise, something that invites you into the depths of your own psyche, then Great Haunting is exactly what you need. Just be ready for it to stick around longer than you expect.

Genres: Heavy Psych, Hard Rock

Label: Tee Pee

Location: San Diego, CA, USA

If you listen close enough to Retrieval, Sacri Monti’s latest cosmic offering, you might just hear the echoes of forgotten spaces—those places you’ve never been but feel you’ve known forever. The album sounds like a transmission from the moon after its party has long ended, drifting in eerie reverb and fuzz as if it were seeking to explain itself, but can't. Here, in the dust and static, everything is strangely familiar but impossible to grasp—like trying to recall a dream you had during an acid trip from a decade ago.

Sacri Monti has always been known for walking the fine line between heavy psych and stoner rock. But Retrieval doesn’t just strut that line—it burns it, pulls it apart, and remixes it into something that feels more like a sonic hallucination than a typical genre exercise. Gone are the usual sun-baked riffs that you can ride in a slow-motion haze. Instead, what we get here is like some cosmic beast, dragging its heavy, distorting sound across the heavens, coming back down to earth with footprints in the clouds.

The opener, “Maelstrom,” serves as the first glimpse of this transcendence. It starts with slow, deliberate rhythms—just enough to give you a sense of what’s to come—but then veers into realms of spiraling guitar riffs that pulse like heartbeats in an alternate dimension. It’s as if the band’s members are communicating not with each other, but with whatever far-off force has grabbed hold of them, bending the strings into unsettling shapes.

By the time “Desirable Sequel” arrives, you might already be questioning whether this is still the same album you started listening to. The track shifts from a drifting, meditative intro to a crescendo of grungy, distorted guitar work that’s half stoner rock, half alien transmission. It’s as though you’re halfway between waking and dreaming, the rhythms pushing you forward while everything around you keeps blurring into a haze of psychedelia. It’s deliberate, sculpted madness. And it’s beautiful. Each note is a stroke, each fuzzed-out riff a layer of meaning that you can’t quite uncover, like an abstract painting where the more you look, the less it makes sense.

This is the essence of Retrieval. It’s an album that can’t be easily pinned down or categorized. It’s something that starts in one place but always seems to move outward, slipping through your fingers as you attempt to define it. Songs like “Intermediate Death” or “Moon Canyon” present a beautiful paradox: music that feels both organic and alien, riff-heavy and yet completely ungrounded. You think you’re about to catch onto something—an old-school riff, a familiar rhythm—but then the universe flips, and you’re thrown into another dimension, your mind grasping for something solid that’s just out of reach.

And yet, perhaps that’s exactly the point. Retrieval isn’t an album for the casual listener. It’s a soundtrack for a journey, one that you can’t plan for, but must be willing to take. It’s like staring at a psychedelic painting while simultaneously being part of the painting. Time doesn’t matter here—there’s no beginning, no end. The tracklist is an illusion; each song is a ripple in an endless pool of sound.

The final track, “More than I,” might be the best summation of what this album is all about: a slow burn that never quite reaches the surface, a meditation on what it means to be in motion without ever truly arriving. It’s as if Sacri Monti knows that the only way to truly grasp the universe is to stop trying to understand it altogether.

Retrieval doesn’t offer answers. It doesn’t even ask questions. What it does is make you feel the pull of the cosmic unknown and, for just a moment, makes you believe that maybe you don’t need to know where it’s going. It’s not about the destination—it’s about the journey, and the journey here is one that’s worth getting lost in.

Genres: Progressive Rock, Post-Rock, Post-Metal

Label: Season of Mist

Location: Bristol, United Kingdom

If you were to take a deep breath and swallow the sounds of a darkened forest in winter, you might experience something similar to Crippled Black Phoenix's latest offering, The Wolf Changes Its Fur but Not Its Nature. It’s a journey that begins with a cold, unsettling silence and gradually transforms into a sprawling, multi-textured landscape, where beauty and chaos walk hand-in-hand.

First things first: this album isn’t interested in pleasing you, not in the way a radio hit or a straightforward rock song might. It isn’t about an easy groove or catchy hooks. No, Crippled Black Phoenix revels in mood—the kind that hovers between melancholia and defiance, comfort and discomfort, like the silence before a storm or the moment right after it passes. It’s the kind of music that asks, “What if everything you thought was familiar is just a layer of fur on the wolf’s back?”

Opener “We Forgotten Who we Are” immediately sets the stage for an album that isn’t afraid to stretch itself out, to make you wait, to make you listen. At first, it may seem like a slow burn. But then you realize—it’s all about atmosphere, building, deconstructing, and then building again. It’s as if the band is daring you to settle into its groove, but only under the condition that you must earn it. You’ll notice a steady hum of existential dread, wrapped in shimmering guitar lines and subtle electronics, lulling you into a trance of reflection.

By the time “You Put The Devil In Me” rolls around, you’re no longer sure whether you’re still floating through the fog of the opening track, or if the album has swept you somewhere new entirely. There’s a tension here, a tug-of-war between the towering echoes of doom and the occasional burst of orchestral light. The track feels like a battle, but not one you can fight in a traditional sense. It’s more about submission, giving in to the slow-motion catastrophe unfolding beneath the surface.

But don’t mistake “The Wolf Changes Its Fur but Not Its Nature” for a predictable exploration of dark, slow-burning melodies. Oh no, this album has its tricks. Moments of catharsis hit like violent weather systems, moments of peace shattered by the thunder of distorted guitars or howling synths. There’s a real sense that Crippled Black Phoenix is taking you by the hand, leading you toward something unknown, and then asking you to look away from it at the last second. The Wolf doesn’t need to be seen to be felt.

One of the most unconventional parts of the album is its refusal to stay in one lane for too long. “Song For The Unloved” sounds like it could belong to some obscure prog band from the ’70s, with its layered intricacies and spacious, almost cosmic feel. 

Crippled Black Phoenix is unapologetic about its meandering nature. It's easy to dismiss albums like this as self-indulgent or pretentious, but those who give themselves over to it—who follow the tangled thread—will be rewarded. At its heart, The Wolf Changes Its Fur but Not Its Nature isn’t just about music; it’s a philosophical statement. It asks, “What happens when we shed our skins? Does anything about us truly change, or do we only cycle back to the same place?”

By the end of this sprawling, wild ride, you might feel like you’ve been lost in the woods for days, and maybe you’re not entirely sure whether you’ve found your way out. Or, perhaps you realize: maybe you never were supposed to.

In the world of “The Wolf Changes Its Fur but Not Its Nature,” the only certainty is that everything is constantly evolving—except for the nature of the beast itself.

Genres: Noise Rock, Post-Hardcore, Punk Blues

Label: Ipecac

Location: Chicago, IL, USA

Is Rack the sound of a band unraveling or a force of nature violently awakening? Let’s take a ride on the terrifying carnival ride that is The Jesus Lizard’s Rack, a record where chaos doesn’t just reign, it hurls itself at you like a twisted carnival barker inviting you into an insane asylum.

Imagine being locked in a room, the walls closing in with the frantic energy of a band that is both teetering on the edge of brilliance and collapse. Rack feels like the desperate gasp for air of a band who has already been swimming in uncharted waters for years—only now, they're no longer sure if they’re sinking or just playing with the waves.

The Jesus Lizard’s signature blend of post-punk noise rock, aggressive rhythms, and serpentine vocals from David Yow is in full force here. Yet, there’s something fundamentally off, something deliciously disturbing that makes Rack feel like it's almost too much—like the sound of a band attempting to cross a line they might not survive on the other side.

Yow’s voice is always a unique character in the band's catalog, but here it feels even more unhinged. His delivery on tracks like "Hide & Seek" and "Armistice Day" sounds like a man descending into madness, each vocal line spitting fury or wailing in distorted, guttural tones as if he’s not singing, but channeling something darker. His words don't always need to make sense because the tone—grizzled, tortured, unrelenting—is the message. The lyrics are best understood as pieces of fractured glass, as sharp and jagged as the guitars.

The guitars themselves feel even more chaotic than before. If Liar was controlled destruction, then Rack is a disintegration that doesn't care for structure. Duane Denison and David Wm. Sims weave violent riffs and skin-shredding distortion into every corner of the album, constructing layers of dissonance that could make your head spin. One minute, it’s pure rhythmic assault—beating you into submission with unrelenting, tight punk rock beats. The next, you’re swept into a world where time warps and rhythms bleed together. There’s no safe place here.

As for the rhythm section, drummer Mac McNeilly doesn’t so much keep the beat as he tries to erase it. His drumming is the embodiment of chaos; it’s not just a backbone, it’s an unstable structure that threatens to crumble under its own intensity. He seems to be at war with the rest of the band, but in the best possible way, creating a cacophony that feels both out of control and somehow deeply intentional.

Rack isn’t an album you listen to for catharsis or comfort. It’s not a cozy evening soundtrack. No, Rack is for the odd hours of the night, the moments when the world feels like it's in decay and you’re along for the ride. It’s aggressive, yes, but in a way that doesn’t just confront you—it obliterates you. It's the sound of a band who has long ceased trying to appease expectations and instead just lets the distortion wash over you like a tsunami of anger and fear.

The record is filled with chaotic transitions—shifts between calculated violence and erratic abandon. It’s as if The Jesus Lizard knows they’ve reached the limit, but instead of retreating or slowing down, they’ve decided to push it further. The beauty of Rack is that it’s never comfortable. It’s unsettling. It leaves you questioning what you’ve just heard and whether you even want to hear it again. But you will. You can’t help it.

In the end, Rack isn’t about whether it’s good or bad; it’s about what it is. It’s a reflection of a band refusing to be anything other than themselves, however damaged, however imperfect. It’s a sonic wrecking ball swinging at your senses, and maybe you’ll come out the other side bruised but strangely enlightened. Or maybe you won’t come out at all. Either way, Rack will haunt you.

Genres: Traditional Doom Metal, Heavy Metal

Label: RidingEasy Records

Location: Los Angeles, CA, USA

Imagine this: a heavy fog, thick and immersive, wrapping around your mind, coaxing it into a trance. The air smells like an old leather-bound book soaked in rain. "A Sinner's Past," the sophomore album from Early Moods, is not an album, but a journey—a journey through forgotten regrets, hazy revelations, and the haunting silence that speaks louder than any words ever could.

On the surface, it’s easy to call it “doom” or “psych,” but these labels are a disservice. This record is a slow-burner, a mind-altering trip that slips beneath your skin like an uninvited guest, and once it’s in, it refuses to leave. From the opening track, A Sinner’s Past submerges you in a deep, brooding atmosphere, with guitars that seem to groan under the weight of an existential hangover. It's as if each note is mourning the sins of its creators—deep, sorrowful, but oddly cathartic.

But here’s the thing: "A Sinner’s Past" doesn’t beg for your attention; it demands it. It’s the kind of album that gets under your nails and into your veins. The melodies are like a distant dream, blurry but impossible to forget. You’re not just listening to the music; you’re losing yourself in it. The band has crafted something that feels less like a collection of songs and more like an emotional landscape—an echo chamber of lost souls and restless hearts.

There’s a notable contrast here between haze and clarity. Early Moods balances moments of chaotic, fuzzed-out distortion with fleeting flashes of crystal-clear melody. Think of it as a mirage: something elusive that you can almost touch but never fully grasp. In tracks like "Walpurgis" and "Blood Offerings," guitars rumble like thunderstorms on the horizon, while the rhythm section pulls you into its hypnotic, almost ritualistic trance. There’s a mesmeric quality to their groove, like they’re playing just outside the lines of time.

And then there’s the voice. The vocals on this album are less like singing and more like speaking the sins of the world aloud. It’s raspy, mournful, and enveloping—like a dark priest whispering in your ear, revealing forgotten secrets. You might not understand all of it, but you feel it deep in your bones. It’s a constant push and pull: is this music trapping you, or is it liberating you?

If there's any weakness, it’s in the occasional repetition that threatens to sink into monotony. But perhaps that’s part of the allure. In its looping melancholy, you find something oddly comforting. It’s like the album itself is seducing you into its world, forcing you to reconcile with your own past sins—mistakes, regrets, all of it. Every repeat listen reveals something new. A hidden detail, a forgotten nuance, a truth you weren’t ready to face.

"A Sinner’s Past" is neither a comfort nor a rebellion; it is, however, a reckoning. And while the rest of the world may be chasing fleeting pleasures, Early Moods is busy exploring the jagged terrain of their soul—inviting you along for the ride, whether you’re ready or not.

It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s not for those seeking a quick thrill. But for those who dare to lose themselves in the murk, it’s an invitation to stay forever.