The Church’s new single “Sacred Echoes” is nothing short of a revelation. From the first shimmering notes, it’s clear that the band has tapped once again into that deep well of introspection and mystery that has defined their most transcendent work. The track unfolds with a hypnotic, shuffling beat that anchors a swirl of Gothic-tinged textures, creating a mood that feels both haunted and sublime.
What truly astonishes here is the musicianship — nuanced, fluid, and utterly immersive. Each note seems to drift in from some parallel dimension, reflecting the band’s uncanny ability to make the ethereal feel tangible. It’s a reflective piece, filled with the kind of emotional depth that has always been The Church’s calling card.
Listening to “Sacred Echoes” evokes memories of Priest = Aura — that same narcotic, psychedelic pull that invites you to slip the bonds of this reality for a few minutes and inhabit theirs instead. In an age of constant noise and anxiety, The Church continue to offer sanctuary through sound — a transitory escape into something greater, more profound, and beautifully uncertain.
Little has been revealed about whether this single heralds a new album on Cooking Vinyl, but if “Sacred Echoes” is any indication, we’re in for something extraordinary. The Church have not just revived themselves — they’ve reaffirmed their relevance. This is music for those who still believe in the transformative power of a song.
Last night at Le Poisson Rouge, Earth held court in New York City, performing their complete album Hex; Or Printing in the Infernal Method before a nearly sold-out audience. The experience felt less like a concert and more like a ceremony—a slow, seismic meditation in tone, weight, and the deep spaces between notes.
From the first reverberations, the music didn’t just unfold—it breathed. It opened up canyons of sound that drew us in, letting us drift through their depths and feel a greater oscillation in the world. Mighty and tragic, solemn and transcendent, this was music of reckoning and renewal.
My friend Bryan mentioned after the show concluded how wonderful it was that there were no lyrics, no voices—just sound itself, raw and infinite. He was right. The absence of words let the music move through us freely, connecting us in a shared quiet understanding. It was a rare and beautiful thing in a time so filled with noise and discord: to be united in listening, to feel small yet bound to something immense.
Before Earth took the stage, the evening began with a mesmerizing opening set from the band’s trombonist— Professor Steve Moore—who spent half an hour delving into the philosophy and mechanics of sound. He spoke about its mathematics, its simplicity, and its uncanny power to connect us. His insights set the tone perfectly: that what may appear minimal is, in fact, spiritually vast.
As Earth played through Hex, each piece seemed to linger in suspension, a slow procession through desert skies and empty plains, filled with reflection and sorrow yet threaded with resilience. The music didn’t drain or overwhelm—it left us inspired, as if we had endured something together, crossed some invisible threshold, and come out the other side a little more aware of our place in the universe.
When the final note dissolved, there was no rush to fill the silence. The audience sat still for a moment, breathing the same air, feeling the same weight and wonder. It was as though Earth had reminded us that within stillness there is movement, within repetition there is revelation—and that sometimes, simply listening can be a radical act of connection.
There was a palpable sense of reverence in the room last night as Martin Dupont took the stage at Le Poisson Rouge. The long-running French ensemble, whose origins stretch back to the early 1980s, were greeted with warmth and affection — a welcome that felt less like a typical New York crowd and more like a reunion among kindred spirits. From the first notes, it was clear that their music retains a rare, timeless quality: atmospheric, elegant, and quietly powerful.
The interplay between Alain Seghir and Sandy Casado was particularly moving. Their connection—part telepathy, part tenderness—anchored the set’s emotional core. Seghir’s understated vocals and Casado’s ethereal presence created a hypnotic vibe that felt like a calming salve for a fractured world. The projected visuals behind the band deepened the spell, evoking memories of Massive Attack’s cinematic use of imagery to heighten mood and meaning.
Across a career-spanning setlist, Martin Dupont conjured a soundscape both cinematic and precise, echoing faint shades of Siouxsie and the Banshees and Kraftwerk — yet never losing their singular identity.. Their nocturnal chill and delicate rhythmic undercurrents shimmered with both melancholy and grace. At Le Poisson Rouge, the band’s interplay felt effortless — electronic pulses breathing alongside live instrumentation, creating an atmosphere that was simultaneously intimate and cinematic. It was a reminder of how much emotional terrain can exist within restraint, each song unfolding like a whispered secret from another era, rediscovered in the present moment.
When the band returned for an encore, the moment was quietly transcendent. They seemed humbled, even surprised, by the outpouring of love from the audience — a love that flowed right back toward them in waves. It was one of those rare nights where the boundary between artist and audience dissolved completely, leaving only shared gratitude and beauty. Martin Dupont didn’t just perform last night; they reminded us of music’s power to heal, connect, and endure.
Words and Photos by Jonathan Levitt ( Instagram: El Chingon Photography)
Thee Oh Sees don’t just play shows—they detonate them. At Warsaw on October 25th, John Dwyer and his feral crew turned the venerable Greenpoint hall into a furnace of sound, sweat, and sheer willpower. From the first note, the set was a muscular, fever-pitched assault—tight, brutal, and unapologetically alive.
Anchoring the chaos were the band’s twin drummers, whose synchronized barrage delivered not just rhythm but propulsion, pushing the audience into a kind of ecstatic delirium. Their double-barreled attack didn’t merely lend heft—it animated the room, turning the pit into a cyclone of limbs and laughter. Few bands can summon that kind of collective madness; Thee Oh Sees make it feel elemental.
Dwyer, the kinetic nucleus of it all, remains a force of nature—a punk polymath channeling the same unrelenting drive that Henry Rollins once embodied in Black Flag and the Rollins Band. His guitar, held at armpit level, looked less like an instrument and more like a weapon. Each riff hit like shrapnel, every break a reload.
The setlist drew generously from the band’s latest record, whose jagged energy translated perfectly live. And when they tore into “Tidal Wave,” my personal favorite, the room erupted in shared mania—a perfect collision of band and believers.
Midway through, Dwyer paused just long enough to deliver one of the night’s finest Fuck You moments: recounting how Sam Smith and Live Nation had asked him to move the show to another date. His response? A flat, glorious “No” and “Fuck Sam Smith.” It was the kind of middle finger to the corporate machinery that makes us love Thee Oh Sees even more.
By the end, ears rang, bodies ached, and hearts pounded. Thee Oh Sees left Warsaw scorched—proof that rock’s raw nerve is alive and still kicking.
-Jonathan Levitt 10/30/25
(all photos by Jonathan Levitt Instagram: El Chingon Photography)
There are few things more electrifying than stumbling upon a band for the first time and being utterly floored. That’s exactly what happened on July 24 at Le Poisson Rouge in Manhattan, when I witnessed the transcendental, mind-bending performance of Free Whenever, a group that—until that night—hadn’t been on my radar. Now, I can’t stop thinking about them
Opening bands rarely have it easy. Playing after the opening band and before the headliner? That’s a whole other level of challenge. Yet Free Whenever stepped into that role not with hesitation but with presence, fluidity, and an unmistakable spiritual energy. This wasn’t just a warm-up act. This was a full-on initiation ritual—an invitation to a dimension where funk grooves, psychedelic explorations, and tight-as-nails musicianship merge into something deeply emotional and totally alive.
From the moment the first note rang out, it was clear: this band has chemistry. Not just the kind you get from logging hours in a rehearsal space, but the rare kind that feels alchemical, intuitive, almost telepathic. The interplay between guitar, bass, and drums wasn’t just locked in—it danced, pushed, pulled, and exploded in real time. Every passage was a journey, each build-up carefully sculpted until it burst into something ecstatic, something almost cosmic.
What sets Free Whenever apart isn’t just their chops—though make no mistake, these players are virtuosos. What truly elevates them is their ability to channel feeling into every riff, every break, every improvisational left turn. There’s joy in their sound, but also tension, curiosity, and a deep respect for the space between notes. You could tell the crowd felt it too—those who gave themselves over to the experience were transported, as if the music had briefly opened a portal.
I saw that they have a new LP, and after catching a few words with the band post-show, I can’t wait to hear it. If this performance is any indication, we’re looking at a group on the verge of something special—not just another NYC act fighting for attention, but a band with the rare power to move people, body and soul. Here’s hoping Free Whenever gets the ears they deserve across the city—and far beyond. Catch them while you can. They won’t stay a secret for long.
There’s a key midsong moment during funk/soul/psych maestros the Black Pumas’ signature hit song “Colors” (recently included on 2024’s Live From Brooklyn Paramount album). Cofounder and guitarist Adrian Quesada steps up to take his solo, but rather than break the mood with unnecessary fire, he purposefully strokes the melody with delicious accents and insinuations. Well, maybe some fire, too, but you get the idea. The performance is on YouTube if you require visual proof.
Aside from my and global devotion to the Pumas, Quesada has been looming large of late – and for me, personally, too. I was privy to a special solo deejay set he mounted several years back in Austin at a small club during the annual South By Southwest music festival. I’ve been a huge fan of his music and production work ever since. In 2022 he dropped solo album Boleros Psicodelicos (ATO Records), which was appropriately billed as an homage to ‘60s/‘70s Latin America psychedelic ballads. That gem now gets a glimmering sequel, Boleros Psicodelicos II (ATO).
Put simply, it’s truth-in-titling. Each of the 12 tracks spotlights the Latin vocals of Quesada’s handpicked vocalists, many of whom I and fellow gringos probably have not heard in the past. But as the Spanish language is suffused in nuance and melodicism, each singer delivers the goods, from Monsieur Perine (the lush “Agonia”) and Gepe (“Te Vas y Yo Te Dejo”) to Natalia Clavier’s soaring, deeply romantic “Tu Poder.”
There’s also a spine tingling, mostly instrumental Quesada composition, “El Diamanté,” that fully showcases his fretwork alongside his gifted – at times, gritty – ensemble.
The album may have its origins at the Southern border – Quesada operates out of his Austin studio and is of Texas/Mexico heritage, and won a 2011 Best Latin Rock Grammy with Grupo Fantasma – but it’s as soulful, jazzy, and, yes, at times, as psychedelic as it comes. Ain’t no ICE agents gonna keep its subversive charms at bay.
Fred Mills
Ex-Tucson/current NC resident
( Fred, I can’t wait to see him perform next month at Brooklyn’s Prospect Park-ED)
The Mekons stormed the Bowery Ballroom on July 17th, delivering a raw, unforgettable set that tore through their decades-deep catalog and left the sold-out crowd awestruck. It wasn’t just a concert—it felt like a reckoning, a celebration, and maybe even a farewell all rolled into one.
Onstage, they were loose, loud, and full of fire. John Langford, ever the sardonic prophet, cracked that they’d been “checking out graves” on the way to NYC, a wink to the band’s longevity since forming in 1977—and maybe a nod to the fact that nothing lasts forever, especially in times like these.
The weight of the present hung heavy in the room. Langford didn’t shy away from calling out the political darkness in the U.S., how hard it is now to be a working artist under a regime that feels increasingly hostile. And yet, the band’s defiance, humor, and humanity turned the set into something cathartic, almost communal.
They played for about an hour and 45 minutes, with plenty of love for their newest album Horror, just out on Fire Records in both the UK and U.S. The crowd skewed older with fans in their—50s, 60s, and maybe even a few in their 70s—but age didn’t dull the energy. These were true believers, and the band gave them everything. They mirrored that energy back to the band.
One of the most powerful moments came from Sally Timms, who told us that a few dear friends couldn’t be there due to I believe illness. Throughout the set, she’d been trying to reach them via WhatsApp. Finally, she got through. She held the phone up to the mic so the room could say hello, and then gently placed it down so they could hear the rest of the show. It was a small, tender, and deeply moving moment—the kind that reminds you why live music still matters.
When the lights came up, people didn’t rush out—they lingered, smiling, shell-shocked, grateful. The Mekons are more than a band. They’re a living archive of punk soul and radical empathy. No wonder Fire Records signed them—they’re not just legends. They’re essential.
Death And Vanilla summon ghosts of the past in their latest sonic séance.
Known for their lush reinterpretations of vintage cinema, Swedish dream-weavers Death And Vanilla return with a spectral new project: a re-envisioned score for Whistle And I’ll Come To You, the haunting 1968 BBC ghost story that once chilled black-and-white television screens. The trio now turn their analogue wizardry to this Jonathan Miller-directed cult classic—an eerie tale of a fastidious professor, a cursed whistle, and the unseen forces it awakens. Described by Mark Duguid of the British Film Institute as “A masterpiece of economical horror that remains every bit as chilling as the day it was first broadcast”
Captured during a spectral evening at Malmö’s Hypnos Theatre, this performance unfolds like a haunted transmission. Flickering with degraded tape loops, mechanical heartbeats, and melodies that hover just beyond memory, the set conjures a dreamlike descent into the uncanny. The opener stirs like a ritual barely remembered—half-static, half-summoning. ‘Nightmares’ arrives, wind and whispers spiral into a low-grade panic, giving way to the séance-like finale, ‘Evidence Of Spiritualism’—a moment where the boundary between the living and the dead almost disappears.
As modern audiences embrace occult folk, drone-laced ambience, and haunted nostalgia, Whistle And I’ll Come To You feels perfectly timed—a relic reanimated for a world hungry for ritual and resonance.
In an era marked by political polarization, disinformation, climate anxiety, and post-pandemic disillusionment, many people are turning away from traditional institutions in search of deeper meaning, symbolism, and ritual. The resurgence of interest in the occult, folk mysticism, and spectral aesthetics reflects a broader desire for spiritual grounding in uncertain times.
“Whistle And I’ll Come To You,” with its ghostly overtones and psychological ambiguity, becomes a mirror for our own unsettled realities—suggesting that the past is never truly past, and that old hauntings still echo in the present.
The Inspiral Carpets were one of the most iconic bands to emerge from the Madchester scene of the late 1980s and early 1990s. Their distinctive blend of psychedelic rock, pop and punk, coupled with the unmistakable vocals of frontman Tom Hingley, made them a household name and a firm favourite among music fans all over the world.
Fast forward to March 2023, and I found myself lucky enough to be in attendance at their gig at the O2 Academy in Oxford. As soon as I stepped into the venue, I could feel the excitement building in the air. The atmosphere was electric, and it was clear that I wasn’t the only one who had been eagerly anticipating this moment for months.
The Inspiral Carpets formed in Oldham, Greater Manchester in 1983, and quickly became one of the leading lights of the Madchester scene. Alongside other seminal bands such as the Happy Mondays and the Stone Roses, they helped to define the sound of the era and were instrumental in shaping the musical landscape of the time.
Their early singles such as “Keep the Circle Around” and “Joe” showcased their unique sound and attracted a loyal following of fans. It wasn’t long before they were signed to major label Mute Records and releasing albums that would go on to become classic records of the era.
Their debut album, “Life”, was released in 1990, and was a critical and commercial success. Featuring hit singles such as “This Is How It Feels” and “She Comes in the Fall”, the album established the Inspiral Carpets as one of the most important bands of the era and helped to cement their place in music history.
As I looked around the O2 Academy in Oxford, I could see that the band’s legacy had endured. The crowd was made up of a mix of die-hard fans who had been following the band since their early days, as well as younger fans who had discovered their music through their parents or through their own exploration of music history.
Despite the fact that the band hadn’t released any new material in over a decade, the enthusiasm for their music was palpable. As soon as the band took to the stage, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause, and it was clear that everyone was ready for a night of nostalgia and musical magic.
The band launched into their set with “Joe”, one of their earliest hits, and it was clear that the years hadn’t dulled their energy or their passion for their music. As they moved through their setlist, playing hit after hit, the crowd sang along to every word, their voices rising up in unison to fill the venue with sound.
It was clear that for many of the dads in the audience, seeing one of Manchester’s seminal bands live was a real treat. They sang along to every song, reminiscing about their youth and the memories that the music had helped to create. But it wasn’t just the dads who were enjoying the show – the younger fans were just as enthusiastic, and it was clear that the Inspiral Carpets’ music had lost none of its appeal over the years.
The band’s musical style is difficult to categorise, but it can best be described as a blend of punk, pop and psychedelic rock. Their music is characterised by catchy melodies, driving rhythms and Hingley’s distinctive vocals, which have a raw, emotive quality that perfectly captures the energy and spirit of the era in which they emerged.
As the band moved through their set, playing classic tracks such as “Two Worlds Collide” and “Dragging Me Down”, it was impossible not to be swept up in the music. The crowd danced, sang and cheered, creating a sense of community and connection that is all too rare in the modern world.
When I think of the band Come, what first comes to mind is pain, and not the sort of pain that’s fixed with a shot of whisky but rather the sort of pain that festers for years and simply finds no salve. Traumatic, visceral and narcotic is how I’d describe Come’s music to the uninitiated. Thalia Zedek has always been able to connote raw pain through her voice and that is on dramatic display on this record especially on a track like “Off to One Side” where the bluesy guitar transforms into a gust front of pummeling aggression. Thalia sounds as if she’s been through a harrowing adventure and lived to tell the tale. “Wrong Side” is imbued with a wrenching sadness that turns into a vengeful anger that is pure Thalia and devoid of any cliche or sugared veneer. I’ve heard this song live and it left me devastated.
Moving on, one of my all time favorite songs, “Mercury Falls” sounds even more tense here than the album version. Throughout the entirety of the record Thalia’s voice is literally burning the proceedings to the ground. Take for example album opener “Dead Molly”, on this song the band builds things to a tormented crescendo, which like molten lava obliterates everything in its path leaving only remnant memories that eventually disperse into the ether. Most bands mine a well worn musical seam, but this has never been the case for Come. They’ve always set their sights on conveying emotions that are conflicted, raw and pitched on the edge of human tolerance. This album is an absolute gem that shows a band working with incredible confidence and musical dexterity that to this day has never faded.
Jonathan Levitt -February 15, 2022- 4/5 stars
USA buyers can click the below link to purchase the album.
