music reviews

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.

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.

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.