Charmer – Downpour | Album Review

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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. 

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

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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.  

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

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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. 

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

Cathal Francis – Snowblind | Album Review

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Self-released

Cathal (pronounced “ka-hill”) Francis lives in Londonderry (or Derry if you’re familiar). Not a small city, but not a massive metropolis, it sits on the river, surrounded by gentle currents of green hills and what I’m assuming are mostly grey skies. I’m telling you this, however, primarily to dash it all away. The background, the landscape, and the imagery can only be found in bits and pieces when zoomed in on Cathal himself. His words, his timbre, his guitar-playing mannerisms —all flashes of his home and city, glimpses of an environment viewed in fleeting succession, like a series of windows down a long hallway. On his latest EP, Snowblind, the 24-year-old walks us down this hallway, not minding the invasive gazes both at him and the scenery.

It feels a touch trite to bring an Elliot Smith comparison to this review, as his work feels largely synonymous with any and all who make quiet tenderness their home, and all the same, Francis’ hearth undoubtedly has that glow. “Severance,” the EPs opening ballad, feels like a gloomy yet bright countryside stroll, and there are more than a few phrases that sonically harken back to the Wolfman himself, but still, Cathal finds his own course. Even with the clear line of influence found on tracks like the strummy hum-along melody that dots the hillsides of “Pattern” or the quiet ballad as soft as ripples on a small pretty loch, ala “Arrangements.” The EP builds its own world and wraps you up in it, but as tender as all the sound and thrum feels, it is very much still an album of despondency.

“Saccharine” launches a dreamy, slow meander through stormclouds brewing soft and sweetly before the cacophonous thunder-crack of its middle section, band joining in at full volume, storming around you as Francis sinks into a deceptively sugary refrain:

Is innocence a dying art?
How do you mend a broken heart?
You fill the void that’s in between
With Phenergan and Sertraline
If love is just a losing game, then why did you give me a name?
All good things come to an end
But that’s okay, ‘cause you’re my friend
Is it saccharine purity or naive immaturity that makes me wake up the way I am?

The hush following his final line feels as expansive, sweeping, and empty as a tempest-battered countryside, bleak and oppressed. 

I've always felt enamored by the singer-songwriter type. From the late great Elliot Smith all the way to the still, mighty, and true Will Sheff, something about a voice and guitar alone feels so powerful while bravely vulnerable all at the same time. Cathal Francis feels green in these ranks, but if there's one thing that the Snowblind EP indicates, it's that he'll be of familiarly kept company soon enough. 

Southern California born and raised, Elias can often be found at the local gig, be it screamo, emo, hardcore, or online @listentohyakkei begging people to listen to the MANS Summer 2007 demo. Their time in the scene is patchwork but their dedication to it and the music that makes it has made up the last few years of their life. They love this shit with the whole of their heart and will talk your ear off about it if you let them. Screamo for fucking ever.

Love your friends. Die laughing.

Apes of the State – What’s Another Night? | Album Review

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Self-released

When I first heard “Punk Rock Shows in Heaven,” I had to search for Laura online. She had been one of my best friends in high school, and I long had thought she was also trans, so it was no surprise when she came out within a month of us seeing Against Me! at the end of sophomore year. She always said school wasn’t for her, so it also wasn’t a surprise when she dropped out of high school the following year. I didn’t want to lose touch with her, but that’s just the way shit goes when you’re worried about taking the ACT and qualifying for nationals in debate while your friend is in the work force and getting her GED. Life has its way of tearing friends apart when you’re just thinking of yourself. It was a surprise, though, when I heard that she started doing heroin at some point in senior year.

The last time I saw her was in December 2019 at our friend Henry’s wake, only four years after we had graduated. Henry had seizures all the time, and they are what inevitably took him. Laura was good, she was clean, she cried on my shoulder before she had to leave for work. No one I’ve kept in touch with since high school mentioned her in the intervening years, and I hate to admit that I never asked because I was worried the answer would be that she died. 

I wasn’t expecting to think of Laura when I was listening to Apes of the State’s third album, What’s Another Night?, but I had to know after I heard April Hartman’s voice twist like a dagger while singing about her friend’s Bad Brains t-shirt she wears to remember them. All I could think about were Laura’s Misfits and Fear tattoos. 

Apes of the State have always made music about what it means to survive, from the plea to love someone through the pits of desperation on “Strangers” to the nine minutes Hartman dedicates to the internal conflict that accompanies justifying your existence on “Dear Mom.” Now on What’s Another Night?, Apes of the State is concerned about honoring their friends, those who’ve made it this far, and especially those who haven’t. 

Throughout What’s Another Night?, Hartman draws on the dissonance of missing the “good old days” and knowing you can never go back there. The folk-pop-punk of “I’m Okay!” and both parts of “Hot Summer Night” draw me back to a memory of the night before junior year when all my friends were at Henry’s house, when we snuck out at 1 a.m. and wandered his neighborhood until we saw a loose street sign pole leaning on the concrete divider ahead of a roundabout when I accidentally pulled it out of the ground when I was just testing to see how stable it was when we all looked at each other before running back to Henry’s house with our shirts off because we had slung them around the pole so we could carry it by the ends of our shirts instead of covering it with our fingerprints when we got to Henry’s house he grabbed his tools and we took the “keep right of divider” sign off when ran the pole back to the roundabout and laid it next to it’s hole in the ground when the next morning while Laura was driving me home we went towards the roundabout and saw a guy from the fire department parked next to the stripped sign writing on a notepad and I just knew when he looked at us he could tell we did it, and when I’m finished reminiscing about that night, I’m reminded of the photo of Henry in a t-shirt with a skateboarding cat propped next to his casket. Things are easier when you’re teenage punks, when your biggest worry is asking your mom for money to get Chipotle while you’re skating 12 miles to the nearest mall. Things are easier before time has definite boundaries and you feel invincible.

But that’s where the hymns of remembrance that make up this record find their strength, in the fact that “time keeps moving forwards even though there is no way of knowing what direction I am facing.” What else is there to do but to keep going, to hope and work towards a better future?

What’s Another Night? isn’t just a set of songs remembering departed friends – it is those moments that Hartman directs to the people still with us that are my favorite on the record. I love the moment on “Little Things” when she so sincerely sings, “and to my friends who are here with me / I’m not saying let’s take life seriously / but I’m serious about you staying alive.” Truthfully, the scariest thing to me about being trans is the reality that all of my trans friends’ lives are made precarious by the disdain we face for existing. There are so many confounding variables in life that I worry I don’t show my love and care for my people enough, like Hartman admits on “Best Friends” or “Round 2” (an acoustic rerecording of the acapella “Fight Song” from Pipe Dream) when she sings, “sorry that I haven’t called you back / I’ve been busy trying not to lose my shit.” I know I am often a shitty fucking friend, I’m the type of girl to put her foot in her mouth with an ill timed joke, but that’s what makes me so grateful my friends still love me. Like Hartman sings, “I promise that I’m working on it.”

I’m worried that it was never clear how much I loved Laura. Right after I came out, I realized Laura didn’t know I was trans too. I’m sure she suspected it, though. Around that time, I found her Instagram account and requested to follow her. That was the first thing I checked when I was listening to “Punk Rock Shows in Heaven,” but three years later, that request is still pending.

When I Googled Laura, I misspelled her last name, but still, there she was. The top result was the page for her wedding in November. There was that close-lipped smile I knew, and a black beanie like always. I saw her holding her fiancée in her arms as Hartman sang “tell the kids that are hooked on heroin / we found a way down here to cope without that.” 

I’m happy that even though we weren’t facing the same way, we both moved forward with the time for another night.

Names in this review have been changed for the sake of privacy.

Lillian Weber is a fake librarian in NYC. She writes about gender, music, and other inane thoughts on her substack, all my selves aligned. You can follow her burner account on twitter @Lilymweber.