Arcade Fire fully embrace the synth and sleaze of their new direction.
Under the slightly sterile lighting of the Assembly Hall the closeness of their sound gets lost, and that’s a shame.
Top-heavy with dense electronica, a subdued sonic sensibility and clean production wrangle sanity back from the brink in a considered second act.
Grant Bailey marvels at the wonder of Adam Betts live
For the most part Lowly are content to sound effortless.
Hang sees Foxygen at their manic apex, languishing in a mould of by-gone pomp-pop
Graveyard of Good Times is a likeable release that turns its half-baked moments into opportunities for insight.
The Madness of Many is another technically-bewildering slab of djent from Animals As Leaders.
Detractors will say it‘s all triggers and software, but it’s hard to deny Colossal Squid’s intelligent design
In Deepak Verbera, Spencer Stephenson has shaken the restraints of beats and bars and moved into borderless Kosmische country
"For all the hype surrounding Death Grips and the artifice they build around themselves, it’s undeniable that they are worthy of the adoration they receive."
Tonight the band are tight, almost to a fault.
The Bronx don’t do off-nights, but right now they’re on blistering form.
Beach Slang's latest is the difficult sophomore: awkward and a little familiar, the choice is made too often to rest on the strengths of previous material
Now in its fourth iteration, Arctangent Festival is quickly consolidating its status as a Mecca for fans of all things post-, math- and alt.
Tobacco is back to melt your VHS tapes and morally corrupt your 80s nostalgia with another wave of heat-warped electro, Sweatbox Dynasty infested with glittering earworms
The dusky romance of their previous releases might feel absent here, but what it lacks in noirish mystery it makes up for in their tastiest jams yet
Their presence is a dangerous blend of confrontation and intrigue, their output dizzying in its sheer volume.
If tonight’s back-and-forth chatter is any indication, Toronto’s BadBadNotGood still can’t quite believe their luck.
Like a sober FIDLAR emerging from a weekend bender into the crisp Toronto daylight, this latest iteration of Greys feels jubilant and grubby
A meeting of the bare-bones nihilism of post punk and dirt-speckled rock ‘n’ roll glamour that is White Lung’s own