OLIVIA J. BENNETT

JONATAN

Yung Lean



Cloud rap’s Swedish sadboi laureate Yung Lean returns with Jonatan, an album convinced of its own depth, even as it drifts from what once made him compelling. It opens with ‘Might Not B’, a Frankensteinian splice of lyrics—Bill Withers, ABBA, and a Gil Scott-Heron nod: “Might not be such a bad idea if I never…” By the end, you might wish he’d taken his own advice. On ‘Horses’—a flogged nod to The Rolling Stones—shoegaze guitars and syrupy strings reach for transcendence but land in vapour. “Wild horses / Keep pulling me away from you”, he mumbles. Throughout, his vocals are under-enunciated and affectless—conversational to the point of disinterest. There’s this pompous genius-at-work energy: a Charli XCX co-sign and a shared visual world that once felt sharp and surreal. But where BRAT burned with clarity and control, Jonatan drifts—listless, self-impressed, and hollow. The mood feels like a half-baked Casanova suffocating you with second-hand epiphanies. Ultimately, this record drags the culturally cringe, indie twee sensitivities of his jonatan leandoer96 projects into the Yung Lean mythos—killing off the persona that once made him vital. 

CRISIS KID

Corbin



Over a decade and 13 million views since his genre-bending breakout ‘Without You’, Corbin (née Spooky Black) still lingers in the murky middle ground of alt-R&B heartbreak. Crisis Kid picks up where his bashful ballads left off, tracing an alliterative spiral of nihilism—’Cry Out in Pain’, ‘Curse of Creation’, ‘Clown on a Stage’. ‘Carbon Monoxide’” is the standout, carried by a bouncier bassline and a nimble drumbeat courtesy of longtime collaborator Psymun. Corbin’s voice claws its way through the haze: “You can see all the walls I put up caving in / Slowly creep in my lungs, you're my carcinogen.” It’s a rare moment of urgency on a record otherwise steeped in slow, grey collapse. Elsewhere, “Comedy Divine” turns the gaze outward, teasing clarity from a contradiction: “Why do we pay for the sins of evil men? / Nobody wins when we self-destroy.” A faint, flickering guitar line keeps it just shy of despair. Corbin’s world is dimly lit and emotionally maxed out. But maybe that’s the point—it’s music for when the feelings are there, but the energy to explain them isn’t. 

MAYHEM

Lady Gaga



Her first solo album in 5 years, Little Monster leader Lady Gaga returns with Mayhem, a record made for reviving the worn linoleum of an RSL dancefloor, or soundtracking the leathery, glitter-streaked fixtures of Mediterranean party islands. All 14 tracks congeal into one giant glob, a bouncy, synthetic formula for fabulousness that could pass as either a product or prototype of AI-generated pop. Don’t get me wrong, Gaga’s crystal-clear pop thematics and ultra-slick production smooth the grooves in your brain—effective, if only because it goes down easy. On ‘Disease’, falsetto “Ah aaahs” lure a club bad boy with ham-fisted I can fix him-style lyricism: “Poison on the inside / I could be your antidote tonight”. 'Garden of Eden', plays on the Genesis trope—and, shock horror, it’s not an apple but a boy who’s the temptation: “I could be your girlfriend for the weekend / You could be my boyfriend for the night / My excuse to make a bad decision… Poisoned apple, take a bite (oh)!”. More algo-pop than artpop, Mayhem trades chaos for calculation—but if all you want is a basic beat to bang your head to in a Zara change room, you’re in luck.

EVERY LINK IS A BROKEN PROMISE


This tendency to perform progress while sidestepping its material implications is everywhere. An art university without an art gallery is as senseless as software without hardware. Just like a digital art collection with no evolving archival strategy, both suggest an infrastructure that no longer serves its cultural purpose. 

THE VICES—BEFORE IT MIGHT BE GONE


Joking aside, Jonathan [Kruizenga] clarifies, “We’re probably the least rock and roll band if you think of it like that. We don’t drink at shows. We don’t use drugs. We try to stay healthy.” The idea of vice, for them, has always been about something else—not indulgence, but obsession. “It’s about letting music take over your whole life and sharing that with others,” Jonathan says. It’s a force that pulls you under, something you willingly surrender to. Like a wave, it builds, grows and carries you forward before you even realize it.

Photography: Matt Weinberger. 

EUSEXUA

FKA twigs


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FKA twigs makes her long anticipated return with her third studio album, EUSEXUA, an ecstatic, otherworldly plunge into avant-dance-pop. Her fluid, meditative vocals weave through percussive highs and lows, vibrating with a soft yet full-bodied confidence—somewhere between Björk’s elastic range and Madonna at her most ethereal. The album breathes—rising, falling, pulsing—drawing from techno and acid house’s hypnotic beats, ambient and baroque pop’s grandeur, trip-hop and experimental R&B’s murky sensuality and the sharp, kinetic rhythms of ballroom and vogue. ‘Girl Feels Good’ is hypnotic in its simplicity: “When a girl feels good / It makes the world go ‘round”. ‘Death Drums’ pounds with SOPHIE’s hyperpop aggression and Death Grips’ digital hardcore before dissolving into a whisper-soft plea: “Drop your skirt to the floor / Tear your clothes, body torn”. On 24hr Dog, warbling, polyphonic vocals coil around fuzzy guitar, surrendering completely: “Please don’t call my name / When I submit to you this way / I’m a dog for you”. An all consuming vision of femininity, EUSEXUA feels everything, everywhere, all at once–desire and destruction, surrender and power, ecstasy without limits.

PERVERT

Ethel Cain



Ethel Cain’s long-anticipated sophomore album Pervert is a pivot so strong, so well visioned, reminding die-hard fans that world-building comes at the expense of easy listening. Alongside the more palatable poetess of Lana Del Rey, Cain pushes in her stake to claim a new gothic romanticisation of the American South. Pervert’s languid composition layers deeply downtrodden ambient sounds with her characters’ subdued cries and siren calls. Red rusting strings, the fervent fuzz of thirsting electrical towers and the learned comfort of slack-handed chord progression. “I love you. I love you. I love you…” monotonously meditates ‘Houseofpsychoticwown’ into soft, sludge-filled oblivion. ‘Vacillator’ turns an outro drum tempo into a long drawn edge that only Cain can satisfy, but chooses to deny: “If you love me, then keep it to yourself.”  It’s an album that washes into you, rather than over you. Uninvited but unconsciously welcome, Pervert inspires a feeling of deep peace that can only come from skulking a rock bottom untoward faith—a place where very few dare to dance. 

SIREN SONGS

Sacred Hearts




This debut EP delivers devilish post-punk with a nod to the waterways and wayward ways of a not-so Sunshine State. Opener ‘Is It Cold?’ cuts through mist and mud, with heavy power chords and a wall of wails slicing through chilling synths and a relentless drumbeat. In ‘Concrete Bikini’, Ophelia is invoked as the protagonist sinks into the Enoggera Reservoir: “Seduced by the murky brown water/So I let it sink into me, I knew my fate.” Drawing from The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees and Joy Division, yet remaining distinctly their own, the tracks revel in a timeless tug-of-war between so-called good and evil. ‘Virgin/Whore’ twists the complexities of feminine experience into a swampy death roll. Meanwhile, ‘Crocodile Tears’ picks up the pace, closing the EP with an industrial Prodigy-like rage: “Take the silver spoon from your mouth/Replace it with tetanus and rust.” The EP’s pulsing, tachycardic heart thrums with raw cathartic energy–like an electric shock for those ready to ignite their rebellion. 



LURE


Lures are confusing. They’re mimetic in how they try to replicate the amphibious and memetic in the shapeshifting play they engage with. At first cast, their performance feels calculatedly vulnerable, even as their purpose remains crystal clear. It’s this very calculation that slips through your fingers—a chasm of desire and denial ignited by the anxious churn of choppy water, with Bundy rum sloshing in the boat’s bowels and the chum, both fish and friend, surfacing along the way. 

Exhibition text (Front). Retrieved from Outer Space website. 
 Image Courtesy of the artists. 
Exhibition text (Back). Retrieved from Outer Space website.

YOU, ME & EUGENE


It’s the same loop of never-ending think pieces blaming social media for our alienation—"the internet controls everything," then, "the internet isn’t real life." Well, which is it? The Code forces these anal-gazing auteurs to confront themselves, answering back with: "You signed up for this, remember?"

Still from The Code (2024), dir. Eugene Kotlyarenko, featuring Peter Vack and Dasha Nekrasova.