Home Is Where – Hunting Season | Album Review

Wax Bodega

Until recently, Home Is Where’s bio across streaming services read simply, “our band could be yr neighborhood.” It was a fun play on a classic Minutemen line that gave an entire book on indie rock its title, but together with the band’s name, it always resonated more as a mission statement. This is hardly a surprise: both myself and all four members of the group are from Florida, and I cannot think of a rock band that has rendered the Southeastern United States with such pinpoint accuracy. Whenever I’m listening to the whaler, I can practically feel the August humidity pasting my shirt to my back while I mow my mother’s lawn at 9 am. The line “Grass scabs over cracks in your driveway” from “Sewn Together from the Membrane of the Great Sea Cucumber” could have been written while staring at my old carport torn up by tree roots. 

That detail is just one example of lead singer and songwriter Bea MacDonald’s keen eye for the grotesque sutures holding 21st-century southern life together. Animal carcasses, the living dead, and brutally functional man-made structures dominate the imagery of the band’s first two records; part body horror and part post-apocalypse in their depictions of her home state. She’s acutely aware of the sins and contradictions foundational to certain subsets of the cultural landscape of America, but there’s an effort to understand in MacDonald’s writing that many would-be critics stop short of. Even as a trans woman alienated from her home by its government, there’s a warmth at war with the ugliness on display in her songs. That conflict is the beating heart of Hunting Season, guiding Home Is Where through their most winding, sensitive, and tangibly southern set of songs yet. Well, that and 13 different Elvis Presley impersonators’ lives flashing before their eyes as they die in the same massive car wreck. 

If you’re confused on that last bit, don’t worry: Home Is Where have never been ones to let an outlandish concept interfere with their visceral emotional punch. “artificial grass” is the only track to name-drop the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll outright, but the focus is still on the pretender to the throne’s identity crisis and his dying revelation that “every king is a thief.” It’s also the only moment on the record where MacDonald’s scream is front and center, relying more than ever on her natural drawl to wring the emotion from these songs. For the majority of the record, guitarist Tilley Komorny trades emo tapping and fiery post-hardcore riffs for delicate pedal steel and fleet-fingered acoustic strumming. Even the electric tracks like lead single “migration patterns” have more in common with The Band or alt-country darlings Wednesday than they do with the band’s emo peers. This is by no means a betrayal of their scene: if anything, Hunting Season is the most themselves Home Is Where have ever been. 

Photo by Texas Smith

The album offsets all these new sounds with a slew of recurring motifs from throughout the band’s catalog. Opening track “reptile house” echoes the whaler in both its folk-heavy sound and gruesome imagery, with fatal car crashes and suburban decay standing in sharp relief to the natural order. MacDonald literally self-immolates in a haunting refrain before once again bemoaning Western civilization’s unwillingness to let things die. “The end of the world is taking forever” from “daytona 500” has been simplified to the passive, “Oh! The end goes on and on and on,” as the band plays her out. It’s not the cheeriest start, but MacDonald spends the record’s thirteen songs scanning the most hostile backroads and small towns for signs of happiness, however hard their surroundings try to snuff that joy out. 

Throughout Hunting Season, MacDonald identifies with drifters wandering through scenes of an American dream melted like plastic in the sun. “milk & diesel” features a philosophical exchange on memory and meaninglessness between two of history’s most infamous traitors, Pat Garrett and Judas himself, while “mechanical bull” sees MacDonald share her own take on meeting the devil at a crossroads. Tales of cowboys and outlaws have long brought comfort or at least a sense of self to those in exile, and that holds true even a quarter of the way through the 21st century. Many across the country, including MacDonald and Komorny, have been forced to either live a lie or leave the states where they were born and raised thanks to increasingly aggressive anti-trans legislation. When the former sings, “No matter where you go, you’re still on the run” on “the wolf man,” it’s enough to make someone whose own migration was more intentional feel a sting of homesickness. 

Only someone who truly loves Florida could describe the state in all its strange glory. Everything from discarded McDonald’s bags, fire & brimstone billboards, and a gorilla advertising a Harley Davidson sale litter the medians of the album’s highway. It seems absurd or alien on paper, but each one of these sights reminds me of the biannual 8-hour drives down I-75 my family would make to Tampa for holidays. MacDonald describes these scenes with the same detached mix of wonder and bewilderment as a ten-year-old child viewing them from a backseat window, but also the fondness of an adult who’s lived around them, left, and come back. “stand-up special” captures these bittersweet memories like mosquitoes in sap, with Bea’s voice backed up by Shannon Taylor of awakebutstillinbed as they get stuck within their own warped scenes of Americana. The band glides through the song’s folksy bounce, halting only to devastate at the end with the revelation, “I’ve been exploding my whole life!” 

If anything keeps the record’s spirits high, though, it’s Home Is Where’s unified efforts as a band to make the most impassioned and close-to-home music of their lives. Both “stand-up special” and its sister track right before, “black metal mormon,” are such breezes to listen to that it’s hard for my face not to break into a soft smile while listening. The embrace of songs structured around a strong chorus leads to some of the sweetest melodies the band has offered yet. “shenandoah” is a gorgeous torch song and the most direct nod yet to the band’s longtime muse Bob Dylan, harmonica and all. Even a song as layered in its heartbreak as “milk & diesel” gives Komorny the space to rip a solo worthy of Neil Young himself. The most furious jam comes on “roll tide,” a steady, slow burn more than half the length of the band’s first album. It begins slow and sparse, gradually building into a wall of dissonant guitars, rolling drums, and wordless shouts before unraveling into vocal samples by the very end. 

The track was also the most impenetrable on the record to me. Not due to its length or a lack of hooks - the humming of the titular phrase was one of the first things from the record to get properly lodged in my brain - but maybe because of just how much I’ve heard those words. I spent my middle and high school years in Alabama, and I can’t tell you how many hundreds of times I heard “roll tide!” spoken, spat out, or screamed by devout college football fans during that time. It was meant as a rallying cry, but I could only register it as an ominous sign of domination. That perspective made this penultimate track read more as a dirge, and to be quite honest, for as good as the song is, it bummed me out. It wasn’t until several listens in that the verses began to reshape it for me.

I saw how the wind blew through
The trees and the leaves and the fruit
Were not moved

Well, it dawns on me, it’s late enough
To call it morning; all we need
Is the light

These images paint a picture of perseverance and, if you dare, hope. In southern vernacular, ‘roll tide’ has outgrown its place as a sports team’s trademarked battle cry: it’s used to mean everything from “have a good day” to “keep carrying on.” So much so that during a recent visit with family, my partner, who grew up on the West Coast, was completely lost hearing it for the first time. I’m choosing to believe MacDonald has appropriated it further as a call of queer resilience in the places where it’s needed most and people understand it the least. If nothing else, this band got me to join in a chant of “roll tide” for the first time in my life, and that’s a miracle in and of itself. 

For all the death, destruction, and bitter memories within, Hunting Season is not a record that wallows in defeat. Home Is Where identify resistance and community as the only ways forward, so we may as well all be from the same neighborhood. They kicked us out of the old one. To quote the coda that the band finally etched into wax in the final moments of the record: “Home Is Where forever.”

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Wes Cochran is a Portland-based writer, worker, and listener. You can find them @wacochran on Instagram, via their email electricalmess@gmail.com, or navelgazing their way up and down South Portland.

Maria Somerville – Luster | Album Review

4AD

It’s not often that I find myself spellbound. I expect so much of myself and my life that I’m constantly moving, churning away, always attempting to get my boulder to the hilltop. Even when I’m motionless, my mind is picking up where my body left off, working a double on the factory line of anxiety and self-consciousness, never letting tranquility in.

As a music fan, this is akin to a viral infection that plagues me, keeping me from taking a beat to absorb new material. If I'm not giving up on songs mere seconds in, then I’m forcing myself to get through entire records while not being in the proper frame of mind. I’m penalizing the music for not meeting me where I am when it should be the other way around. I need to accept the work for what it is.

This is where the new Maria Somerville album, Luster, comes in. A thirty-eight-minute sound bath of bliss, Luster is an astounding achievement from the Irish musician. On her debut for 4AD, Somerville challenges the listener to embrace presence through her meditations on nature, personhood, and longing. In her lyrics, she mentions swimming in caves, walking through fields, and even long-forgotten mythical heroes in a way that suggests her music is attempting to reach beyond the veil for something that can’t be seen or might be lost in time. On the standout track, “Garden,” Somerville grapples with her longing for someone or something but is seemingly never able to speak it into existence. 

Sonically, Somerville’s songs fall on the dream side of dream pop. Many of the tracks are enveloped in an electric haze that is befitting of her native Connemara along the western coast of Ireland. What’s most impressive is that she manages to avoid the monotonous one-noteness that often befalls dream pop acts. Each song contains a distinct element that allows it to slip into your mind long after you’ve stopped listening. On “Garden,” undulating drums pulse behind Somerville’s shrouded vocals, whereas tracks like “Stonefly” and “Violet” find her embracing elements of pop and shoegaze. 

All of this connects with what Somerville is trying to say on Luster. There’s a longing to make sense of time. Can we truly let go of the past, or are we doomed to be trapped in a prison of memory? On “Projections,” she tries to make sense of a lost relationship and what could have been done differently, all while knowing that what’s done is done. Other tracks like “Corrib,” “Halo,” and “Spring” find Somerville sifting through her personal sands of time as she grapples with whether or not she can or even wants to let go of her past pains. 

For many, I can imagine that deciphering meaning in these lyrics would be a frustrating task, as Somerville writes in a way that can come across as withholding, details left out, moments distilled into sapphic fragments. But I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s this constant demand to decode and establish meaning that makes today’s existence so fraught with exhaustion. We spend every waking minute attempting to determine meaning as we hamster wheel ourselves into the grave. Ferris Bueller was right, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

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Connor lives in the Bay Area, where he teaches English at a community college. Free Palestine.

Charmer – Downpour | Album Review

Counter Intuitive Records

Although native to Marquette’s isolated and jagged shores, Charmer is not defined by their surroundings. The group’s third full-length, Downpour, is their first in five years and features the unit ditching their quintessential Midwest noodling for gain-drenched riffage. While they have mostly retired their habitual twinkles, the “woe-is-me” slant of their writing remains in the best way possible.

The Midwest collective has unleashed a slew of releases across their near-decade-long run, but the last extensive bout we’ve heard from them was the blighted sophomore LP, Ivy. Released in April of 2020, the band had no idea the precipice that society was teetering on. The release was largely successful, featuring some of the best emo of the 20s, however, the inability to capitalize on its potential with a tour suddenly brought the group’s headway to a halt. Forced to put their momentous plans on hold due to the worldwide pandemic, Charmer had little say in watching their hard work wither. 

In a dimly poetic way, Ivy suffers from the very fate it was built on. The jinxed album plays like the inability to let things go—gripping to every last part of youth-imbued relationships because an existence without them appears too damn bleak. While Ivy is about the grueling skirmish with the refusal to let old flames burn out, Downpour is a record about shouldering the weight of new obstacles while old ones never truly settle.

Charmer’s introduction to the release capitalizes on that very idea, as track one, “Linger,” is upfront with the idea that old wounds seldom heal without scars. It begins with a modestly catchy melody that's trailed by a euphoric blanket of reverb and feedback. The true commencement of the album comes 30 seconds into the song when the group swings into view. Amidst the completely necessary berating of the snare and kick drum combo, vocalist/guitarist David Daignault beckons, “I’ll leave this bloody mess buried in the winter, I’ll let this linger.” As blistering of an opening as any, the emotional weight of Downpour lingers from side A to B.

The band’s sharp pivot from sometimes awkward and quirky sitcom-inspired Midwest emo to punchy, anthemic punk is on full display throughout the work. Gems like “Arrowhead,” “Blue Jay,” and “Medicine” make for a savage combo to start the album. While the aforementioned tracks play similarly, each offers unique catchiness and replayability. In the avian-themed cut, “Blue Jay,” we hear Daignault plead, “Swallowed by the south beach, can you hear my heartbeat slowly? Northern downpour missed me.” In the inspiring chorus, the lyrics divulge a vital moment in time, which is repeatedly dwelt on, drop by drop. “Blue Jay” tips the listener off on Downpour’s climatic theatrics – the LP is less about the weather and more about how sharply our forecast on life turns dark.

As nightmarish and unrelenting as a downpour might feel, oftentimes we curse the ground we roam in a feeble attempt to fathom the things we cannot control. Downpour is not only a commentary on the trials and tribulations of silently bearing adult responsibilities, but also a reflection on how we unconsciously project our frustrations onto our surroundings. Charmer does not blame their misfortune on the rugged cliffs of Marquette; instead, they took the opportunity to submerge themselves in Lake Superior and be born anew. Because this record feels like a debut to the members, it comes with the head-rushing excitement of something fresh.

Despite the forceful shift in sound, Charmer leans on their twinkle-emo roots in some capacity throughout the album. Latter half highlight, “Watercolor,” is a standout in this sense, with whiny, nostalgia-infected lyrics declaring a yearning for the naive past, “Remember when we were young? Do you miss being 21?” The combination of sounds is fondly reminiscent of the 2010-era Run For Cover roster that spearheaded the new wave movement of youth, music, and culture. 

The same can be said for single “Rose Thorns,” which snuck its way onto this album but blends in seamlessly. Steered by crashing cymbals and overdriven guitar pedals, the band’s rather grotesque and murky tilt lyrically spells out the slow but sure process of getting over someone: “Rose thorns weave through my eyes, dull bloodshot blue skies.” The track was initially released as a one-off in October of 2023 when all we’d seen from the band was a much gloomier and spacey EP in Seney Stretch from earlier that year. This track, in hindsight, was a smoke signal from the group that they were not nearly done. Again, Charmer consistently refers to their surroundings in the context of their conflicts: “Falling in the lake, count the state signs to stay awake.” It’s in this case where Daignault largely looks to his hometown for solace amid an agonizing affair with relinquishing connection.

 Seemingly condemned to the isolating town of Marquette in the upper reaches of Michigan, maybe Charmer is defined by their surroundings. Perhaps they are shaped by the weather, much like the rest of us. Against our delusions that suggest we have power over our atmosphere or how it can affect our lives, those factors influence our every step, for better or worse. Like Charmer, we should strive to reinvent ourselves; to evolve and seek inspiration even in isolation. When the group swings, they seldom miss – and if another world-shifting event were to roll in tomorrow, there is little doubt that Charmer would rally, pulling inspiration from their lives and the seclusion of their town. 

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Brandon Cortez is a sometimes-writer/musician and a frequent emo-enjoyer nestled in the West Texas city of El Paso with his fiancée and two cats. In a futile effort to escape EP’s blistering heat, you can find him perpetually adjusting his fantasy football lineups and smothering his shortcomings in homemade Americanos. Find him on Twitter @numetalrev.

Afloat – Special | Single Premiere

Head Above Water Collective

At this point, the word “emo” is not super helpful as a descriptor for what a band actually sounds like. When you hear that a band is an “emo band,” you start to ask yourself, are we talking early post-hardcore emo? Noodly twinkle stuff? Sad power pop? In our current era, the answer usually ends up being a mix of all of the above, maybe even with some skramz or butt rock influences thrown in for good measure. As someone who is a big fan of the genre and its many permutations, I’m pretty happy about this; I love seeing how new bands take this wide set of emo ingredients and mix them up to create something totally their own. 

One group whose take on the genre I particularly enjoy is New Jersey’s Afloat. I was introduced to the band about a year ago through their EP Where I Stand, a great collection of songs with a post-hardcore edge and melodies that are pure pop. I’ve been waiting somewhat impatiently for new music from the group, and I’m happy to report that they’re back with the new track “Special,” which serves as one half of a split they’re putting out with Dummy Pass on May 23rd. This split is being released by Head Above Water Collective, a group started by Afloat’s Gabby Relos back in 2022 to provide performance opportunities for Jersey bands after a venue many had been playing at shut down unexpectedly. Now established in the live show world, Relos and bandmate Josh Rubeo are expanding the collective’s mission to include recording and demo distribution, hoping to put on for a scene that is sometimes overshadowed by their neighbors in Philly. This split will serve as the collective’s first official release of original music. 

“Special” finds Afloat picking up right where they left off on Where I Stand; it’s a great-sounding song with killer bass lines, strong vocal harmonies, and cutting guitars that pull you in like a lasso. Because Relos has such a strong voice, Afloat is able to do some really cool things with the instrumentals and arrangements on the track without having to worry about her getting overpowered; it’s a song that rewards multiple listens, and I kept finding new things I liked about it each time I put it on.

Though the split doesn’t officially drop until May 23rd, we here at Swim Into The Sound are very excited to provide you with an early chance to listen to “Special.” Listen to the track below, and don’t forget to check out the full split with Dummy Pass when it drops on Friday.  

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Josh Ejnes is a writer and musician living in Chicago. He has a blog about cassette tapes called Tape Study that you can find here, and he also makes music under the name Cutaway Car.

Pretty Rude – Ripe | Album Review

SideOneDummy

There was an album that someone once described to me as so dense that the best way to understand it was if you were standing with the artist on the same corner of the same street on the same summer afternoon they were thinking about making the songs. An album so dense in layers of sound, lyrical twists, personal secrets, musical callbacks, and outra-artistic references that it would reveal more of itself with every listen, constantly morphing into a clearer picture. While I didn't agree with this assessment for that particular album, I think it perfectly describes Pretty Rude's debut album, Ripe.

If you find yourself digging through the digital indie rock crates, you're likely to encounter the name James Palko at some point. Palko is one of the most sonically recognizable producers of the 2020s, enveloping his work in rich sounds and big production. He’s culpable for the yacht rock bliss of Jimmy Montague, the muscular bark and wayward bite of Taking Meds, and the full sensory overload of one of emo’s most under-appreciated projects, Perspective, a Lovely Hand to Hold. 

The latter two bands ended somewhat abruptly, with Palko caught in the spin-out. The sudden change – a life built around writing, recording, and touring turning into a life without these reliable fixtures – led Palko to focus on Pretty Rude with longtime bandmate and epic drummer Matt Cook. Chronologically, Pretty Rude has been kicking around since 2021 when the group released a self-titled EP, but was mostly dormant until last summer when Palko re-shared the EP on the otherwise empty Pretty Rude Twitter account. Someone in the comments of the post asked what this meant, and Palko responded: “the ‘taking this seriously’ era has arrived.” And arrived it has. Now, Pretty Rude is back and more dialed in than ever for their debut album, offering an eight-song ripper that injects pure, electric power pop into well-loved Moby Dick references.

The album begins on an inhale—a final deep breath of feedback, sharp static, and a steady thrum that builds and builds before bursting into the exhale. “The Caller” is symphonic in its sound, swapping the whine of a violin for the hum of an electric guitar. The near-cacophony then begins to make room for the swing of Palko’s voice, alternating between his regular singing voice, his falsetto, and a choir. While his voice remains even, pointedly so, the song builds and falls, climbing around the bend of a competing electric guitar. Aside from Palko's voice, element that makes Ripe different from any other power pop indie rock record in 2025 is the band's use of a choir. In “The Caller,” this choir hums around the edges, adding an almost sinister depth to the song. 

One song later on “Things I Do,” the choir provides a secondary dialogue that questions Palko’s thoughts and plans by repeatedly asking, “Why do you?” Overall, “Things I Do” kicks ass, plain and simple. The song harkens back to rock’s most theatrical impulses with a tambourine ringing over Palko’s words, a hand hammering away at a keyboard, and Cook’s drums shuffling a groovy beat. But Pretty Rude are tricksters, not content to let any song move forward as expected. Halfway through, the track flips a switch, teasing a full breakdown before resurfacing into a hair metal bridge. 

There’s a palpable attitude that exudes from Pretty Rude, I mean, it’s in the name, they’re not only rude — they’re pretty rude. Sure, they never outright snarl at the listener, there’s an eye roll or a middle finger in there, but mostly directed at themselves. This likely originates from the man at the helm because Palko doesn’t mince words, ever. From the withering directness of Perspective to the shotgun combativeness of Taking Meds to the ever-incisive plea of Jimmy Montague, “don’t fuck me on this,” Palko picks projects that frustrate.

Frustration is all over Ripe. After “Things I Do,” the album shifts into its final single, “Call Me, Ishmael,” a grungy track with an agitated bass line and even more agitated music video. It’s critical to mention that Palko has a strong visual eye and directed several music videos for this album, including one for “Call Me, Ishmael.” The video harkens back to the 00s days of sell-out culture and satirizing big music labels. In the video, a cartoonish record label executive swaps the band’s instruments for cooler ones, the band’s clothes for stylish ones, and eventually the members themselves for what Palko called “Hot Guys Of The Future,” aka labelmates Stoph Colasanto and Tommy Eckerson from Carpool. The tongue-in-cheek video makes Pretty Rude’s anxieties about committing themselves to music laughable right up until the end. It reminded me of that one Sum 41 video, but instead of getting Deryck Whibley’s lesson that record labels suck and being true to yourself rocks, the “Call Me, Ishmael” video finishes on a sour note — the hot guys take over the band and Pretty Rude are kicked out. 

Despite all the disillusionment, Pretty Rude find the time to soften everything with humor. In “The Work,” Palko reflects, “I should have been an athlete, I should have been a jock,” his rumination continues, wistfully imagining life as a finance bro and an actor. He ends with a pouty, “I’m a wreck when the work’s all gone, I’m just a mess, no fun.” In “Call Me, Ishmael,” Palko contemplates grifting himself, and in “Polish Deli,” he imagines seeing the rest of his life while waiting in line, the choir returning to monologue his inner thoughts. Between the funny videos and the project's sarcastic lyrics, Pretty Rude capture a vast emotional landscape, beating the listener to a self-deprecating joke before they even consider it. The jokes give way to honesty and insecurity in a way bluntness can’t capture. In other words, the humor of the project, like the Randy Newmans and Frank Zappas before them, protects its emotional depth.

But it’s not all laughs, “Unconfidence Man” (which, granted, is a funny phrase) opens with almost a straight minute of a razor-sharp electric guitar, alternating between the song’s earworm riff and a hard guitar chug, all one degree away from blowing out my speakers. This is one of two songs off Ripe that reference Moby Dick, the first being “Call Me, Ishmael.” Palko’s literary lyrics are central to Pretty Rude’s resounding cleverness, and his words are never inauthentic; rather, they’re crucial to the band, the conclusions of someone truly moved by literature using his interpretations of classic stories and characters to explain himself.

The literary references continue into “Debbie & Lynn.” Sonically, the song leans Weezerian, but like if Rivers Cuomo wasn’t a twerp with a fanbase that drives Cybertrucks and was instead, you know, a cool guy with a Twitter account. It’s a total power pop ride, kicking off with a whispered intro before Cook kicks in his dance beat. The song delves darker and deeper as Palko chants “No vacation” before soaring back into a guitar solo, like a diving plane pulling up before a crash. The song gets its name from Billy Collins’ poem “Traveling Alone,” which Collins describes as a work about “moving through a world of strangers,” a subject that seems to thematically match Palko’s continued processing of a new artistic life. Like “Call Me, Ishmael,” I would be remiss not to bring up the music video, which imagines two new flight attendants (Debbie and Lynn) and a drunken pilot, played by Palko, getting ready for work. 

The album ends with “No Moment,” a raw reflection on Pretty Rude’s career in music. In Palko’s words, “[No Moment] is all about how if this is how it ends, then nothing really came of it. Like, am I ready to be done with what I was doing? I was feeling a little bit chewed up and spat out by being in bands for the better part of the last two decades.” Pretty Rude is earnest in its honesty, even if the honesty is harsh. Despite these thoughts, and to have never had a “moment” in music, I’m glad Palko is still trying out new projects. I honestly don’t know where really cool rock and roll would be without him right now.

Every listen of Ripe reveals more and more, getting bolder and smarter with every replay; it even recommended me a poem. Each song has a new sleight of hand in its production that you didn’t notice before, and each lyric has a different meaning you didn’t consider on the last listen. Pretty Rude walks a constant maximalist line, fascinated with seeing just how much they can pack in. I feel like I’m on the street corner with them. Most importantly, I’ve never been more inspired to finally read Moby Dick. 

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Caro Alt (she/her) is from New Orleans, Louisiana, and if she could be anyone in The Simpsons, she would be Milhouse.