The Velvet Isolation
The transition from collaborative sideman to solitary frontman required a fundamental unraveling of Rowley’s creative DNA. “It can feel a lot more daunting writing on your own and the process was completely different to working as a collective,” he confessed to us. “There was a lot more demoing and exploring options via recording as you can’t just play something through in a room to see if it works or not.”

However, this initial isolation eventually gave way to a shared, kinetic energy during the production phase. “When it came to tracking the songs for the album though it was a lot more collaborative and the feel of some of the songs changed from original demos.” The result is an album that feels alive, breathing through the lungs of 1970s Old Grey Whistle Test textures -conjuring imagery of suspended studio microphones and golden crushed velvet.

Twin-Guitar Ghosts and Celtic Shadows
While the record is bathed in West Coast warmth, there are ghosts of a different sort haunting the fretboard. Rowley’s reverence for Thin Lizzy - specifically the high-octane energy of Live and Dangerous and the intricate storytelling of Black Rose - is woven into the record’s instrumental DNA. You can hear it in the “jagged, wailing leads” that define the noir-heavy “EL CHAPO” and the rhythmic conviction of “Breakdown.” It isn’t a surface-level imitation, but rather a translation of that classic twin-guitar harmony and Celtic melodicism into his own “Northern grit.”

Grainy Portraits and Abstract Truths
The album oscillates elegantly between what Rowley calls “blunt force autobiography” and a more “abstract” storytelling. “There’s a bit of both throughout the album,” he explains. “Songs like ‘Tell Me What You Want’, ‘Something Strange’ and ‘The Struggle’ are all definitely autobiographical and very on the nose.”

In these moments, the lyricism is startlingly direct, dealing with desire, pain, and the heavy sensation of “slowly sinking.” In “The Struggle,” Rowley displays a raw, self-deprecating honesty that cuts through the production, singing, “I should have warned you... I can be such a miserable f****,” a line that captures the friction and weariness of a life lived in the professional slipstream.

Conversely, tracks like “Vegas in the Snow” and “Rite Time” adopt a more surrealist tone. Populated by characters like the “wolf man” and the “mess monster,” they paint a vivid picture of “glamour... filtered through the drizzle of Sheffield.” By utilising these dual approaches, Rowley builds worlds where the perspective shifts, allowing him to tell the truth sideways without losing the emotional weight of the record.

The Visceral Mantra of Heat
A recurring and visceral motif throughout the record is “Heat.” This word appears as a mantra in tracks like “Breakdown” and the 70s-crime-thriller-inspired “EL CHAPO,” which Rowley describes as having a “noir aesthetic” defined by “analog warmth and lyrical coldness.”

This intensity is often countered by a desperate search for relief, most notably in “Ice Cubes.” Over a soundscape that evokes “the wreckage of the earth,” Rowley’s voice carries a palpable thirst as he sings: “I like it hot but this is too much. Pass me the ice cubes.” It is the sound of sensory overload - the American light becoming too bright, the Hollywood shimmer becoming too hot to handle.

The Unvarnished Dialect
Despite the transatlantic influence, Rowley’s roots remain his immovable anchor. While the rest of the industry files down regional voices to something more palatable for mass consumption, Rowley’s delivery stays entirely uncompromised. “I really don’t think I could sing any other way,” he asserts. “Even when I sing other people’s songs I tend to revert back to the Sheffield accent.”

This refusal to sanitise his identity is what makes Moses and the Drones feel profoundly real. The album concludes with “The Night,” a track that captures a profound, bone-deep weariness. As the night “comes crawling away just like a long lost friend,” Rowley seems to find a moment of peace amidst the “communication breakdown” and “crossed wires” of the preceding tracks.

Moses and the Drones marks the definitive end of Rowley’s tenure in the background. It is the sound of a musician finally taking up the stage he has spent years of sharing with others.

Moses and the Drones is available on all streaming platforms now.

-Shelley D. Schwartz

Give it a listen here:

Mit seinem Debütalbum Moses and the Drones tritt Rowley nun endgültig ins Rampenlicht. Wir beobachten hier nicht länger einen Musiker, der einen Auftrag erfüllt; wir analysieren ein vollendetes Soloprojekt. Es ist eine Platte, die in analoger Wärme verankert ist – eine bewusste Abkehr von modernen, algorithmusgesteuerten Produktionen.

Der Entstehungsprozess im Alleingang

Der Übergang vom kollaborativen Sideman zum Solokünstler erforderte eine grundlegende Neusortierung von Rowleys kreativer DNA. „Es kann sich viel einschüchternder anfühlen, allein zu schreiben, und der Prozess war völlig anders als die Arbeit im Kollektiv“, gestand er uns gegenüber. „Es gab viel mehr Demo-Aufnahmen und das Ausloten von Optionen im Studio, da man die Songs nicht einfach mit einer Band in einem Raum spielen kann, um zu sehen, ob sie funktionieren.“

Diese anfängliche Isolation wich jedoch während der Produktionsphase einer gemeinsamen, kinetischen Energie. „Als es an die Aufnahmen für das Album ging, war es viel kollaborativer und das Gefühl einiger Songs veränderte sich im Vergleich zu den ursprünglichen Demos.“ Das Ergebnis ist ein Album, das atmet und die Texturen der 70er-Jahre – im Stile der legendären Old Grey Whistle Test-Sessions – heraufbeschwört. Man denkt unwillkürlich an von der Decke hängende Studiomikrofone und goldenen Cord.

Musikalische Einflüsse und Gitarrensound

Während die Platte in der Wärme der US-Westküste badet, finden sich auf dem Griffbrett Einflüsse ganz anderer Art. Rowleys Bewunderung für Thin Lizzy – speziell die Energie von Live and Dangerous und das komplexe Storytelling von Black Rose – ist fest in die instrumentale DNA des Albums eingewoben. Man hört es in den Leads, die das Noir-lastige „EL CHAPO“ definieren, und in der rhythmischen Übersetzung von „Breakdown“. Es ist keine oberflächliche Kopie, sondern eine Übersetzung klassischer Twin-Guitar-Harmonien und keltischer Melodik in seine eigene, nordenglische Härte.

Autobiografisches und abstraktes Songwriting

Das Album pendelt elegant zwischen dem, was Rowley als „direkte Autobiografie“ bezeichnet, und einem eher „abstrakten“ Storytelling. „Es gibt von beidem etwas auf dem Album“, erklärt er. „Songs wie ‚Tell Me What You Want‘, ‚Something Strange‘ und ‚The Struggle‘ sind definitiv autobiografisch und sehr unverblümt.“

In diesen Momenten ist die Lyrik erschreckend direkt und handelt von Verlangen, Schmerz und dem bleiernen Gefühl, „langsam unterzugehen“. In „The Struggle“ zeigt Rowley eine rohe, selbstironische Ehrlichkeit, die die Produktion durchbricht, wenn er singt: „I should have warned you... I can be such a miserable f****“. Es ist eine Zeile, die die Reibung und Müdigkeit eines Lebens im professionellen Windschatten anderer einfängt.

Im Gegensatz dazu nehmen Tracks wie „Vegas in the Snow“ und „Rite Time“ einen surrealistischen Ton an. Bevolkert von Charakteren wie dem „Wolf Man“ und dem „Mess Monster“, zeichnen sie ein lebhaftes Bild von „Glamour... gefiltert durch den Nieselregen von Sheffield“. Durch diese duale Herangehensweise erschafft Rowley Welten, in denen sich die Perspektive verschiebt, was es ihm ermöglicht, die Wahrheit indirekt auszusprechen, ohne das emotionale Gewicht zu verlieren.

Motive und ästhetische Kontraste

Ein wiederkehrendes Motiv auf der Platte ist die „Hitze“. Das Wort erscheint wie ein Mantra in Titeln wie „Breakdown“ und dem von 70er-Jahre-Krimis inspirierten „EL CHAPO“, den Rowley als ein Stück mit Noir-Ästhetik beschreibt, definiert durch analoge Wärme und lyrische Kälte.

Dieser Intensität steht oft die verzweifelte Suche nach Linderung gegenüber, am deutlichsten in „Ice Cubes“: „I like it hot but this is too much. Pass me the ice cubes.“ Es ist der Sound einer sensorischen Überreizung – das kalifornische Licht wird zu grell, der Hollywood-Schimmer zu glühend, um ihn noch zu ertragen.

Identität und regionale Wurzeln

Trotz der transatlantischen Einflüsse bleibt Rowleys Herkunft sein fester Anker. Während der Rest der Industrie regionale Akzente versteckt oder glättet, um sie für den Massenkonsum tauglicher zu machen, bleibt Rowleys Vortrag völlig kompromisslos. „Ich glaube wirklich nicht, dass ich anders singen könnte“, betont er. „Selbst wenn ich Songs von anderen Leuten singe, falle ich meistens in den Sheffield-Akzent zurück.“

Diese Weigerung, seine Identität zu sterilisieren, macht Moses and the Drones so authentisch. Das Album schließt mit „The Night“, einem Track, der eine tiefe, existenzielle Erschöpfung einfängt. Während die Nacht „davonkriecht wie ein lang verlorener Freund“, scheint Rowley inmitten der „Kommunikationszusammenbrüche“ und „gekreuzten Leitungen“ der vorangegangenen Songs einen Moment des Friedens zu finden.

Moses and the Drones markiert das definitive Ende von Rowleys Zeit im Hintergrund. Es ist der Sound eines Musikers, der endlich die Bühne einnimmt, die er jahrelang mit anderen geteilt hat.

Moses and the Drones ist ab sofort auf allen Streaming-Plattformen verfügbar.

– Shelley D. Schwartz

Hier reinhören:

There is a specific brand of silence that has settled over the modern stage, and it tastes like sanitised, still water. We find ourselves living in an era of the “polished” frontman - men who are meticulously curated, media-trained into oblivion, and terrified of a stray hair or a controversial cadence. They are professional in appearance, yet curiously casual in their commitment. They treat the stage like a temporary hobby, a place to be “seen” until they decide to clock out and return to the comfort of the mundane.

At The Crimson Wire, we find ourselves looking back through the grain of 16mm film to a time when the stage wasn’t a workplace but a site of ritualistic possession.

The Lizard King and the Architecture of Danger

Jim Morrison was never “clean.” He was a mess of leather, Dionysian sweat, Rimbaud poetry, and nihilist literature by Nietzsche. He didn’t just sing; he actively conducted an exorcism of the American psyche in public sight. By adopting the mantle of the Lizard King, he transformed himself from a mere vocalist into a shamanic figure, weaponizing his poetry to blur the line between a rock concert and a séance. His spoken-word interludes - often improvised, frequently unhinged - were a deliberate sabotage of the conventional pop structure. He dragged the audience into his own subconscious, demanding they confront the dark, cinematic underbelly of the era.

When he stood at the edge of the stage, there was a palpable sense of danger - not a physical threat, but a psychological one. No one was sure whether he was going to finish the set, fall into a trance that lasted until dawn, or whether he was going to be arrested. He treated the microphone as a sacred altar, demanding absolute submission to the moment.

Yet, the brilliance of Morrison - and the crucial detail modern cosplayers so consistently miss - was the duality of the monster. Off the stage, he did not rely on the crutch of cruelty. He was disarmingly articulate to the press, notoriously charming to his publicists, and possessed a quiet, gentlemanly magnetism with his fans. He understood that true danger requires a foundation of profound charisma. Grit is not synonymous with being an insufferable, hostile person; it is the terrifyingly beautiful work ethic of a performer who refuses to be casual about their art, paired with the high-art intelligence to know exactly when to sheathe the claws.

That is the grit we’ve lost. Modern frontmen treat their personas like a digital profile - optimised for engagement, scrubbed of any friction. Morrison, conversely, was all friction. Morrison ultimatively understood that to be a muse, one must first be willing to be a monster - and to be a monster, one must first master the art of charming the entire room, claiming and capturing their attention.

The Blueprint of Personality: The Icons of Obsession

To understand what is missing today, we must look at the characteristically jagged edges of the icons who treated the mic stand like a lifeline, not a prop. Mick Jagger didn’t just dance; he possessed the space. While his contemporaries held instruments like shields, Jagger was alone at the mic, a flamboyant predator in velvet. He was famous for the way he would run many miles as part of his physical training, ensuring that when he stepped onto the pitch, he could dominate the stadium without even slowing down. This wasn’t something he did just for fun; it was a passion. Likewise, Robert Plant, known as the “Golden God,” infused his performances with a sense of mysticism and even the occult. Whether he sang about Norse mythology or “The Lemon Song,” he was a man of pure vocals and no compromise on being a legend.

And then there was Iggy Pop, the Godfather of the unfiltered, unflinching. Inspired by seeing Morrison’s own confrontation with an audience, Iggy turned the stage into chaos. Whether he was stage-diving into the unknown or contorting himself into strange positions shirtless, he proved that grit isn’t about being “mean” - it’s about being so committed to the moment that you’re willing to leave pieces of yourself on the floor.

In a different vein of intensity, Alex Chilton became the architect of the “beautiful loser” archetype in Big Star. Chilton moved from teen-pop stardom to a gritty, high-art vulnerability, known for a soulful delivery and a career trajectory that prioritised the integrity of the song over the comfort of the industry. He treated the craft with a desperate, brilliant seriousness that felt like a secret shared only with the initiated, often famously refusing to play his "hits" live. In Chilton’s opinion, the stage is not a jukebox that plays old hits; it is an environment in which the performer creates something today. And, if the audience wanted to hear his old radio hits, they did not know whom they were listening to.

And we cannot leave out the iconic figure of Joey Ramone, a giant of a man in black leather with a bent back? His vocal performance connected the sounds of 60s girl bands and punk rock. Joey was the beating heart of the Bowery scene, a person who had devoted all his life to the music industry.

The Problem with the “Professional” Rock Star

Today’s frontmen are often too busy being “nice guys” to be interesting. They want to be relatable. But rock and roll was never meant to be relatable; it was meant to be an escape.

Perhaps the most egregious sin of the modern era is the lack of obsession. We see performers who treat their music like a side-hustle, something they can simply “clock out” of when they get bored.

To the greats, the music was the only job that mattered. There was no “off” switch. They lived in the sonic architecture of their own creation until it consumed them. Grit isn’t about being horrible, or uncharming to your fans or the press; it’s about the terrifyingly beautiful work ethic of a performer who refuses to be casual about their art.

We aren’t calling for a return to mindless excess. We are calling for the industry to be broken by something real again - unpolished art. We want frontmen who move like they have a secret. We want the noir shadows, and the emotional whiplash of a performer who doesn’t know where the character ends and the man begins.

The industry may have sanitised the spotlight but the shadows are still ours to claim. We don’t need more “perfect” men. We need the return of the freak show romance. We need performers who treat the stage like the only room in the world that matters. We need the grit.

-Shelley D. Schwartz

As the band states: “The same voice. The same sound. The same vision. The music set free. The Days are here to stay.”

How It Started…

The formation of the band was a perfectly timed connection. Seeking a new lead guitarist, the group turned to Luke, whom Harvey had met after they shared a bill at a gig months prior. When the quartet finally met in a Liverpool pub to discuss their future, and it proved to be musical love at first sight. Despite only practicing for a month before their debut gig, the unit realised they worked perfectly as a cohesive whole.

This was also evident in their upbringing, personal history with the craft. For Tunstall, the inspiration came from watching his father play bass in local bands. Charnock’s journey started with guitar lessons from his uncle at age ten; after a hiatus, he returned to the instrument with a sudden, prolific wave of songwriting that confirmed his path. Howe’s foundation was built on his grandparents’ 60s record collection, while Luke taught himself to play on a guitar discovered in his own grandparents’ house.

Analysing the Sound: The Sarah Records Frequency

Even though now creating under a new name, the sonic blueprint remains consistent with the high-quality output established through their previous releases under their former moniker. Listening to tracks like “Shangri-La” and “Here Is Where It Ends,” there is an unmistakable Sarah Records frequency running through the foundations - that specific late-80s indie-pop sensibility that prioritizes melody and atmosphere.

• “Shangri-La”: This track showcases an ability to weave a delicate, interlocking lace of guitars. It captures a quintessential “Merseyside” warmth but with a jangle-pop chime reminiscent of the early C86 lineage.

• “Here Is Where It Ends”: A more atmospheric look at their range. It highlights a melancholic shimmer that feels deeply connected to the bittersweet romanticism of the Bristolian indie-pop scene.

Most notably, Jack Charnock’s vocal delivery carries the same fragile, clear-eyed earnestness found in James Robert of The Sea Urchins. It is a vocal that doesn’t rely on rock-frontman grit but instead offers a melodic intimacy - a “pristine pop” clarity that sounds both nostalgic and vital.

The 2026 Horizon

The band values authenticity, aiming to capture their raw, energetic live sound within the studio. There is a ongoing hunger for the nostalgic, guitar-driven music they create, and The Days are more than ready to provide it.

Looking ahead, 2026 promises to be a breakout year with a major appearance at Sound City on the horizon and a schedule marked with supporting slots, the group is focused on building their own following and making a permanent mark. For those who have followed the music from the beginning, the message is clear: they aren’t just passing through.

The Days are here to stay!

Written by Shelley D. Schwartz
© Photography by Charlie Williams (2025)

We’ve observed the band’s trajectory since their formation at the heart of Liverpool’s vibrant scene. What began as a long-standing creative pact between Niall Doolan and guitarist Ben Rogers evolved into a formidable unit with the addition of Megan Lee, and Joe Keech. According to Rogers, the project is built on a “door is there” policy of absolute commitment- a dream-heavy ethos fueled by the contrast of Lee’s lead guitar virtuosity and Doolan’s powerful, soulful vocals.

The Sonic Blueprint

Idyllic’s blueprint is deliberately difficult to pin down. They operate with a “combined vision” that Rogers describes as being as experimental as possible while remaining tethered to commercially viable pop. It is a high-wire act - incorporating everything from post-punk textures to a “baggy” Mancunian swagger - without losing the core identity of a band that refuses to take itself too seriously.

“We aren’t snobby about music,” Rogers notes. “The core identity of Idyllic will never be lost... we are always willing to push the boundaries and not stick to a strict formula.”

The result is a rich, Zuton-esque musicality that bridges the gap between two aesthetics. As their motto sounds: “There are old bands, there are new bands, and then there is Idyllic”.

It is a project defined by range rather than repetition. As Rogers explains: "Idyllic offers versatility and range. You won’t find any filler songs in our set... we pride ourselves on having a vast contrast between each song, whether that’s incorporating ideas from reggae or moving into slower ballads."

“Check the Meaning” - A Recited Memory

The new single represents a shift in perspective. While previous releases leaned into heavier indie tropes, “Check the Meaning” is a sophisticated collage of their influences - a statement showing a different sound and approach.

Lyrically, the track avoids the tropes of the standard breakup song. Instead, it functions as a “realisation” - a reflection on the passage of time and the shifting nature of desire. Rogers frames it as a recited memory of a version of oneself that no longer exists. It is a song about the “haste and hustle,” urging the listener to stop and consider what the daily grind of dreams and passing thoughts is actually for.

The Strategy Forward

At an Idyllic show, the goal is naturalism. There is no room for artifice or “acting”; the band prizes a vast contrast between songs to ensure a set devoid of filler. As they look toward a future involving labels, global stages, and the eventual architecture of a debut album, their ethos remains one of relentless labor.

“Check the Meaning” is out now. It is a statement of intent from a band that is, quite comfortably, accepted by both sides of the motorway.

Directed by Shelley D. Schwartz
Written by Matty Campbell

Originally a product of Merseyside’s industrial grit, the now Zurich-based artist has spent years weaponising a “vintage-tinged voice” across the street corners and back-room clubs of Europe. This new body of work signals a calculated shift: a move toward a “Northern Soul” vibration that prioritises the confession over the armour.

We were able to have a chat with Ty and ask him questions to dissect the journey from the UK stages to the silence of the Swiss Alps.

Music as a Survival Tactic

For Freeman, rock and roll was never a hobby; it was a mandate. Growing up in the North West of England, records were the only structures capable of withholding the surrounding noise. “It was a refuge,” Freeman notes. “When things felt too loud in the wrong way, I’d disappear into Zeppelin, Sabbath, The Doors. They weren’t bands; they were worlds. They made chaos feel like something sacred instead of something to run from.”

That early reliance on music as a skeletal frame for survival was bolstered by a specific sonic inheritance. Freeman and his circle were brought up under the wing of Mersey royalty - The Coral and The Sundowners. It wasn’t a mentorship of industry posturing but one of shared artifacts: records and stage time passed down like family heirlooms.

Freeman recalls it as “older brother” dynamic noting they took care of them and gave advice where necessary. This sense of community is the engine behind the EP. The grit isn’t a stylistic choice - it’s the residue of a shared reality. “The songs come from real places. Loss, movement, longing… trying to make sense of things that don’t always make sense.”

The ADHD Diagnosis: Choosing Honesty

The path to this release involved a fundamental recalibration. Following a move to Switzerland and a period of strategic burnout, a late-life ADHD diagnosis provided the blueprint for Freeman’s internal chaos. The restlessness finally had a name.

This clarity stripped away the need for sonic “armour.” He moved away from the safety of pure hard-rock volume toward something more exposed. “I thought power meant weight,” Freeman admits. “But real weight comes from honesty. It’s not about how hard you hit; it’s about how much you mean it.” This is the philosophy that informs “Better Man,” a soul-rock confession that was recorded in Milan and captures the “imperfect electricity” of a room in flux.

The Blueprint: Lineage and Location

Ty Freeman’s EP release isn’t a casual event; it is a synchronized point of impact. He tracked at two of the region’s most hallowed coordinates: Kempston Street with Chris Taylor (The Coral, Blossoms) and the Motor Museum with Al Groves (Bring Me The Horizon).

These are not merely recording studios; they are musical heritage sites. Working with Taylor - a producer who understands the psych-gothic lineage of Mersey - and Groves- who masters the heavy, modern grit. It is that very mix that. allowed Freeman to calibrate a sound that is both vintage and volatile.

Zurich vs. Liverpool

“One Way Love” acts a product of geographical tension. Zurich provides the “Architecture of Silence” required to strip a song to its nerve endings; Liverpool provides the pulse.

“Zurich gives me the silence to find the song. Liverpool and the band give it a heartbeat,” Freeman says, “Geographically, I’m not choosing one place over another. Switzerland has given me space, stability, a place to rebuild. The UK - especially Liverpool is in my blood. That’s where the fire comes from. That’s were I learnt music and it’s spirit. The amazing heritage and story of Rock N Roll of The North West.”

Tracking in rooms like Kempston Street and the Motor Museum - spaces that “demand something from you” - ensured the record maintained its British DNA despite its continental birth.” Though branded a solo effort, the “band feel” is the priority. The songs may start with Freeman but they belong to the room by the end.

The “Side B” Truth

For those securing the vinyl, the experience is deepened by exclusive live versions. Freeman is uninterested in the over-produced digital landscape; he prefers the artifact.

“The studio versions are a frame. The live versions are where it breathes,” he explains. “I’m not interested in perfection. I’m interested in truth. That feeling when a voice cracks or a take nearly falls apart - that’s the magic.” It is the pulse that matters.

The Anatomy of “One Way Love”

The EP’s lead single, tracked within the heavy walls of Kempston Street Studios, is a study in controlled volatility. It begins with a skeletal, blues-drenched guitar motif - a nod to the “Northern Soul” shift - before Ty’s voice enters. It sounds less like your standard performance and more like a confrontation anchored in deep emotions.

The track is anchored by a persistent, driving rhythm section that mirrors the restlessness of the Liverpool-Zurich divide. There is a specific, unvarnished quality to the recording. You can hear the air in the room and the “imperfect electricity” Ty referenced. When the chorus hits, the “vintage-tinged” grit in his vocal delivery breaks through the mix, transforming a narrative of unrequited longing into a high-octane garage-rock exorcism. It is the sound of a band playing without a safety net - raw, breathless, and entirely honest.

The Horizon

With the EP “One Way Love” now live, the objective Freeman wants to achieve is Momentum. He carries the stability of Zurich and the fire of Liverpool into a year of movement. “I don’t want this to feel like a moment. I want it to feel like the beginning of something that keeps unfolding.”

The movement has begun and its only just starting, “At the end of the day, it’s simple I just want to keep making music that feels real and putting it in front of as many people as possible”.

Ty Freeman’s EP “One Way Love” is available now on all streaming platforms.

Written by Shelley D. Schwartz
Editorial Oversight by Matty Campbell

©Photography provided by Olesia Holovanova and John Johnson for The Crimson Wire

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Basht.’s Bitter and Twisted EP is definitely no exception to this trend. It inhabits that same atmosphere, where traditional Irish lineage meets modern distortion in a way that neither one comes out unchanged. Since its release in May of 2025, it has refused to sit politely between indie pop hits. It’s a record that demands you brace yourself before you press play.

We caught up with frontman, Jack Leavey following their support slot for Miles Kane at Berlin’s Heimathafen Neukölln to discuss the EP’s enduring impact and the cutthroat writing process. Presently, the band is back on Irish soil, moving through gig dates in Cork and Limerick, before they arrive back in the UK for Sheffield on the 27th.

DUBLIN’S TEMPLE BAR AS LOCAL ANCHOR

While the rest of the industry is smoothing edges for algorithmic reach, Basht.’s delivery stays rooted. Dublin through and through.

Leavey’s lineage is woven into the city’s cultural concrete - his father ran the Music Centre in Temple Bar for years. That proximity matters. It’s why the bond between Leavey and long-time bassist Louis Christle feels telepathic; a foundational rhythm forged in the trenches long before the world was watching. Christle is the steady hand in the storm, the dark, melodic gravity that allows the rest of the band to spiral without losing the thread.

The lineup is a collection of distinct Dublin histories. Guitarist Lughaidh Armstrong Mayock brings a multidimensional perspective, having led his own project, Sky Atlas. This lineup was further sharpened and strengthened late last year with drummer Ryan McClelland. A student of the legendary Benny Greb, McClelland is a technical perfectionist whose percussive credits - Sorcha Richardson, David Keenan, Efe - describe him as one of the most in-demand drummers in Ireland.

CLAUSTROPHOBIA IN TRANSLATION

Basht. has been chipping away at cold stone for a while, but there’s only so long you can contain that noise in a local scene.

Stepping out of Dublin’s airless rooms and onto a stage defined by the grand, leopard-print decadence of the Miles Kane tour (pictured) acts as a high-velocity stress test for the band’s sonic architecture.

“When we started out in Dublin, it was all tiny rooms where everyone was basically on top of each other, so the songs kinda grew up with that claustrophobic energy,” Leavey explains. Taking tracks forged in airless rooms across Europe alters the alchemy. “When we play a place like Berlin, the vibe changes, the rooms are bigger so the sound’s got room to breathe. If anything, you lean into the music harder to make sure the punch still lands at the back of the room.”

CHARACTER AND DREAD

The EP was born in uncertainty, but Leavey is now building worlds drawn from darker aesthetics.

In the cinematic haze of the Heimathafen (pictured), the tension between Leavey’s darker aesthetics and the symphonic grit of the evening’s headliner became the primary narrative.

“A lot of the imagery comes from the atmosphere when we’re writing, your brain starts wandering into darker scenes,” Leavey notes. “I take inspiration a lot bits from films and books, like gritty characters that you’re not quite sure of their intentions. We want our music to feel tense and cinematic.”

THE WEIGHT OF THE PROCESS

That cinematic scale is achieved through a famously merciless creative process. They will gladly incinerate weeks of tracking if the spark fails to draw blood.

“The title track (Bitter and Twisted) was one that nearly killed us,” Leavey admits laughing. “We went through loads of versions, different tempos, structures, the lot. We scrap stuff if it doesn’t feel right, no matter how long we’ve spent on it. When we played the EP version live, it clicked straight away.”

Before stepping into the glare to deliver that chaos, they ground themselves in the rough-hewn melodies of their heritage. “We usually chuck on something Irish before we go on. Pogues, Dubliners, Thin Lizzy etc. Nothing too polished, just something to get us in the zone. Once the volume’s up and we’re moving, we’re good to go.”

ROAD TESTING THE ARCHITECTURE

Bitter and Twisted laid the groundwork, but the Heimathafen set was a visceral display of the new blueprint, punctuated by the unmasked aggression of new cuts like “Keira Knightley” and the jagged social rot of “Terror TV.” The latter, a blistering unreleased cut, weaponizes the paralyzing dread of the 24-hour news cycle - deconstructing the specific, crushing way the modern media landscape forces a sense of absolute insignificance upon the individual.

“This EP’s been a real turning point,” Leavey says. “We learned loads from playing live... some of the new stuff’s heading in a heavier, darker and maybe more cinematic direction. For this tour, it’s all about playing the new material we’ve been writing... a great opportunity to road test new ideas before heading back into the studio. We want a full album with the same raw edge as the EP, but bigger.”

With new music officially slated to drop later this year, the next phase of their sonic architecture is already in motion. No slick campaign. Just a noise that needed to exist, finally finding its way onto the stage.

Basht.’s debut album Poor Advice is out October 9, 2026.

- Shelley D. Schwartz

Visuals curated by Dan Stevenson (Berlin, Basht. photos - IG: danstevenson), David Reinecke (Miles Kane photo - IG: davidreineckestudios) and
Delyla Carline (Los Angeles, Basht. photos - IG: deletethechaos)
for The Crimson Wire. © 2026.
All Rights Reserved.

Through a series of decoded dispatches, Curtis reveals the blueprint behind the mysticism - a Geordie mythology built on ancient trees and analogue conviction.

THE RIVERBANK’S INVOCATION

The origin of “Siren” was not a studio session but a haunting. Emerging from a “darker place emotionally,” the track was born when the wind caught the railings of a riverbank, creating a high, lonely whistle.

“I started harmonising with it and writing a poem about a siren tempting sailors to the waters edge,” she reveals. “I envisioned the siren as a metaphor for something darker within us all.”

However, We must make sure to mistake this shimmer for grace. The Siren is an symbol of beautiful treachery. A luring mythical creature whose melody is the precursor and invitation to a inevitable destruction. The pull of temptation and destruction. It is a “vein of mysticism” that suggests Curtis isn’t just singing - she is lurring, channeling. Comparable to the shamanic “Canyon” energy of Jim Morrison or the ritualistic storytelling of Kate Bush, she operates in a space between worlds. In her lyricism, “the swan in the flooded field of the mind” is not an image of grace but an apparition of psychological warfare. To “tie yourself to the mast of this ship” is a futile gesture; when the frequency hits, the resistance dissolves.

NORTH SHIELDS AS A RITUAL LOCATION

The North East does not just act as location. It adds weight and mythological history. To understand the “Siren” is to understand the geography of the Tyne - a river that has spent centuries swallowing the industrial ghosts of shipyards and the salt-spray of the North Sea. In the silence between the foghorns and the rusted iron railings of North Shields, there exists a specific frequency of isolation that most are conditioned to ignore. But it is here, in the shadow of the cranes, that the “Siren” was summoned. In the whirling sea that drowned many, many ships centuries ago.

THE INDUSTRIAL OCCULT

There is a pervasive myth in our corners of the North that the landscape is alive, a sentiment Heidi Curtis has successfully tapped into. This is not the pastoral mysticism of the South; this is the Industrial Occult. It is built on the bones of a region that has been “left to its own devices for forever.” In North Shields, the line between the physical world and the mythic is paper-thin. When Curtis speaks of “ancient trees” and “sea-battered cliffs,” she is not utilising metaphors of convenience; she is documenting the local landscape as a site of ritual.

The Tyne is her “flooded field of the mind.” It is a boundary line. The Geordie accent - so often caricatured or stripped away by industry gatekeepers - is, in her hands, returned to its original state: a guttural, jagged, and entirely unyielding form of communication.

THE VOWEL AS A WEAPON

Curtis does not only sing; she invokes. The Geordie dialect carries a rhythmicncadence that is inherently suited to the “witchy” folk-horror aesthetic she inhabits.

“My accent definitely attributed to the way I manipulate vowels... they almost always change shape during song,” she observes.

In the architecture of her sound, the Geordie accent acts as an anchor, preventing the “atmospheric swell” from drifting into mere ethereal pretension. It grounds her in the reality of the North. While other artists seek to polish their vocals into a “palatable,” flattened sheen, Curtis leans into the grit. She understands that the “bitter end” she sings about is not a distant, abstract concept - it is the sensation of the North Sea in cold, and biting.

THE LORE OF THE COAST

“Siren” does not as a creature of Greek myth alone but as a local apparition - a manifestation of the North Sea’s indifference. In the folklore of the Shields coast, the water is a voracious entity, a place where sailors get lost and stories are buried. By positioning herself as the Siren, Curtis is performing an act of narrative reclamation, of rediscovery and to some degree - salvation. She is no longer the girl observing from the wings; she is the entity at the water’s edge, commanding the “bitter end.”

THE GEORDIE CATHARSIS

In our world, the “redacted” is often the most powerful. Curtis views her North East identity not as a regional quirk but as a weaponised truth. In an era where heavy accents are systematically “cut out of artistic spaces,” her refusal to dampen her voice is an act of defiance.

“The way I sing comes from somewhere deeper within; it’s guttural and cathartic, almost feeling quite ritualistic mid-song,” she explains. “My accent definitely attributed to the way I manipulate vowels... they almost always change shape during song.”

This is the Geordie spirit as a “High-Art” ritual - a “sensitive and expressive” force that refuses to be palatable for the tech-centered rush of the modern machine. We hear it in the “bitter end” she promises; the vowels don’t just sit on the tongue, they wrap around the listener like a snake in a fever dream.

THE BOTANICAL OCCULT

There is a “vintage, timeless shimmer” to the Curtis aesthetic that suggests a rejection of the modern gag order that has become a massively trendy feature in popular music. Heidi is magnetised by the organic - the weight of vintage equipment and the simplicity of “holding art in her hands.”

Her connection to the earth and nature is literal. As a student of herbalism and botany, she finds her identity in the forest, “understanding the plants” and searching for “magic in the mundane.” Her songwriting is a visual process, where the sonic landscape must mirror the physical. This is the blueprint for a new kind of 70s folk-horror: “One foot in the fire, the other on the gas. You’re far from home” It is the precarious balance of a woman who knows exactly which herbs heal and which ones poison. She elaborates:

“Ancient trees, sea-battered cliffs and mountains all come to play in my lyricism. It’s in nature that I feel understood and accepted in my truest form.”

ANCIENT GEORDIE ROOTS

Having spent years “observing giants from the wings” of arena stages, Curtis has mastered the art of the “big old wait.” While the industry moves at a frantic, disposable pace, her work follows the “Architecture of the Swell” - a flow between the energetic friction of “Undone” to the mystical depth of “Siren.” :

“Things come and go, whereas my music feels like an ancient tree that can’t be moved, its roots firmly embedded and rooted in the foundations I’ve laid over the last few years.”

She is no longer an support act. She has grown into the narrator of a realm where listeners can find their own place within the shadows and the seas. Whether you are sipping “heavens honey” to drown out the noise or reaching into the “broken hollow of your bones,” you are now under her very own command. The world feels complete only when the hand of reality rips at the seams.

“One foot in the fire, the other on the gas.”

With the visuals Heidi creates here, the transition from “Undone” to “Siren” is complete. We see the way the dark water swallows the light. Heidi Curtis has moved beyond the “fast-paced world” and into a timeless, analogue realm where she is the sole mystical architect.

As she stands at the water’s edge in her visual world, she isn’t just looking for “magic in the mundane” - she is the magic. The “long road” has led here: to a flooded field where the Siren sings, and the world finally feels complete, even if it is “still so bleak.”

The ritual has begun.

-Shelley D. Schwartz

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DAS ARCHIV REGIONALER IDENTITÄT

Europäische Härte trifft auf den Wirral – ein Soundtrack für eine Subkultur, die sich weigert zu sterben.

Wir leben in einer Ära der geografischen Unschärfe und Nivellierung. Während digitale Räume unsere einst reiche und vielfältige Kultur zu einer einzigen, polierten „globalen“ Ästhetik flachwalzen, werden die markanten, rauen Kanten regionaler Identität abgeschliffen. Die lokale Pub-Szene wird durch Franchise-Ketten ersetzt; der regionale Akzent wird gegen einen transatlantischen, polierten Monoton getauscht, dem es an Schärfe und Persönlichkeit fehlt.

Auf dem Wirral klingt dieser Widerstand nach The Dream Machine. Der Name wurde ursprünglich wegen seiner Assoziationen zum Untergrund der 1960er Jahre gewählt, doch der wahre Funke sprang über, als Zaks Bruder aus London zurückkehrte und die Mechanik von Brion Gysins Stroboskop-Erfindung erklärte. Entwickelt, um veränderte Zustände hervorzurufen, agiert die Band mit derselben hypnotischen Intensität – dem Glauben daran, dass Kunst das Bewusstsein neu verdrahten kann. Ihr Werk ist nicht bloß Musik; es ist die Bewahrung nordenglischer Textur – eine Weigerung, den „Kitchen Sink“-Realismus der britischen Arbeiterklasse für eine Playlist glattbügeln zu lassen.

Über all diesen musikalischen, filmischen und literarischen Anspielungen thront die beeindruckende Struktur von Fort Perch Rock – ein historischer, zum Meer gewandter Verteidigungsstützpunkt, wo der Mersey in die Irische See fließt. Dies ist das Denkmal der Band für die verlorenen Arkaden, das geschmolzene Eis und die Seeluft von New Brighton. Ich unterhielt mich mit Zak McDonnell über regionale Identität und die Notwendigkeit von „europäischer Härte“ im Schatten des Wirral.

DIE ANTI-FAHRSTUHL-PHILOSOPHIE

Da ist eine inhärente Gewalt in der Art und Weise, wie Zak „fröhliche“ Musik betrachtet. Für ihn ist sie nicht nur eine Vorliebe; sie ist ein Versagen an der Ehrlichkeit.

„Fröhliche Musik ist für Zahnarzt-Wartezimmer und Fahrstühle“, sagt er. Es ist eine Erklärung, die alles verrät, was man über den kreativen Motor der Wirral-Band The Dream Machine wissen muss. Während die moderne Industrie dem glänzenden Furnier industriell gefertigter Freude hinterherjagt, baut Zak ein Archiv nach einem anderen Prinzip auf: Musik als Werkzeug für Zufriedenheit und Überleben. Nicht Eskapismus. Nicht Unterhaltung. Überleben.

„Ich schreibe einfach jeden Tag, um mich zufrieden zu fühlen und um zu überleben“, erklärt Zak mit einer Sachlichkeit, die das übliche Rock’n’Roll -Gehabe durchbricht. „Das Thema ist zweitrangig.“

Auf die Frage, ob die Band ein sorgfältig konstruiertes Kunstprojekt oder nur eine Gang von Freunden ist, die Lärm machen, verweigert Zak die Binärität: „Ich glaube nicht, dass sich das gegenseitig ausschließt. Wir sind Freunde, die über einer Garage Lärm machen, aber wir nehmen es verdammt ernst. Das muss man einfach.“ Die lässige Spontaneität jammernder Kumpels kollidiert mit der Strenge von Handwerkern. Überleben kann man nicht fälschen.

EUROPÄISCHE HÄRTE & DER MOSRITE-PULS

Das neue Material entsprang dem, was Zak einen „Ramones-besessenen Trip nach Berlin“ nennt. Es war keine Pilgerreise eines Touristen; es ging darum, eine Frequenz aufzusaugen, die in englischen Clubs längst erloschen ist.

„Ein Teil der Psych- und Punkmusik, die wir in Berlin gehört haben, war um Welten besser als alles, was man in einer Bar in England hört“, reflektiert er. „Einfach in irgendeiner x-beliebigen Bar. Dort haben sie es noch, auf eine sehr authentische Weise.“ Der Kontrast schmerzt, weil er wahr ist. England, einst die primäre Quelle von Subkultur – die Heimat von Bands wie Joy Division, The Damned oder The Clash – steckt derzeit in einer Identitätskrise. „England mangelt es mehr denn je an Identität und Subkulturen“, beobachtet Zak. „Das passiert, wenn man Konformität mehr belohnt als Originalität.“

Während dieses Berlin-Trips spürte Zak eine Mosrite-Gitarre auf – die Surf-Punk-Waffe, die von den Ramones und Television bevorzugt wurde. Das war kein Fetischismus; es war eine haptische Verbindung zu einer klanglichen Abstammung. Der Biss dieser Gitarre verankert die neuen Tracks und schlägt die Brücke zwischen dem New Yorker Dreck der 1970er Jahre und der spezifischen, grauen Geografie des Wirral.

DIE ROHHEIT DES SONGWRITINGS

Zaks Songwriting-Methode gleicht der eines Archivars – er sammelt Fragmente einer vernachlässigten Welt und setzt sie zu etwas zusammen, das Resonanz erzeugt. Man nehme „Flowers on a Razorwire“, ein Track, der auf einer Graphic Novel basiert, die er in einem Antiquariat gefunden hat.

„Ich mache eigentlich aus allem ein Lied“, gibt er zu. „Einiges davon mag real sein, vielleicht nichts davon.“ Der Song stellt die zarte Unschuld eines „süßen Unterrocks“ der brutalen Kälte von „Stacheldraht“ gegenüber – Bilder, die an die Fähigkeit von Songwritern erinnern, Narrative aus gefundenen Objekten zu bauen. Doch wo andere Ironie einsetzen würden, fühlt sich Zaks Ansatz direkter an. Aufrichtig. Roh.

Ihr kommendes Album, Fort Perch Rock, aufgenommen und selbst produziert in Studios auf dem Wirral und in Liverpool, macht sich diese Fragmentierung zu eigen. Es ist ein Album, das aktives Zuhören verlangt und sich verweigert, leicht konsumierbar zu sein. „Es gibt definitiv viel mehr Chaos“, bemerkt Zak. „Es könnte etwas länger dauern, bis man reinkommt... aber einige unserer besten Sachen stecken da drin, wenn man tief genug gräbt.“

DER GEIST DER BEACH BOYS

Während das Album durch seine Ruhelosigkeit definiert wird, schwenkt es häufig in überraschend melodisches Terrain um – ein Kontrast, den Zak seinem eigenen internen Filter zuschreibt.

„Für mich klingt es sommerlicher, nach Beach Boys“, sagt Zak über die zarteren Wendungen, selbst wenn sie in einer winterlichen Geisteshaltung geboren wurden. „Ich kann einfach nicht anders, als traurig zu klingen.“ In einer Musiklandschaft, die davon besessen ist, Coolness zu projizieren, ist diese Art von ernstem, vulnerablem Songwriting der radikalste Akt von allen. „Es war nie unsere Priorität, ‚cool‘ zu sein“, stellt er schlicht fest.

DAS KITCHEN SINK DRAMA

Fragt man Zak, woher die ästhetische Inspiration der Band kommt, deutet er auf die langen Schatten des britischen Realismus.

„Wir leben unser ganzes Leben in einem Kitchen Sink Drama der 1960er Jahre“, sagt er. Ein treffender Vergleich. The Dream Machine handelt mit denselben körnigen Texturen, derselben Weigerung, bei Enttäuschungen wegzusehen. Der Sound der Band fühlt sich an wie eine klangliche Erweiterung von Filmen wie A Taste of Honey (1961) oder Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960), jedoch mit der Härte einiger verborgener Juwelen des Berliner Underground-Punks. Erzählungen, die eine raue, zerzauste und realistische Schönheit im Banalen des Alltags finden.

Derzeit liegt Leonard Cohens Debüt auf Zaks Plattenspieler. „Es klingt auf Vinyl einfach perfekt.“ Die Wahl ist aufschlussreich. Cohen verstand, dass Tiefe der Persönlichkeit und damit der Musik daraus entsteht, die Dunkelheit zu umarmen, statt vor ihr wegzulaufen.

The Dream Machine werden nicht in Fahrstühlen laufen. Sie werden nicht in Zahnarztpraxen gestreamt werden. Getreu ihrer Natur wird die Band nach einem wilden Ritt durch britische Grassroots-Clubs am 27. März ihre bisher größte Headline-Show in der Liverpooler O2 Academy vor 1.200 Zuschauern spielen. Und genau das ist der Punkt. Sie sind nicht hier, um dich zu beruhigen. Sie sind hier, um zu überleben – und vielleicht, um uns ihre Musik zu schenken, damit wir dasselbe tun können.

DER SOUND: UNVERZEIHLICH & UNGEFILTERT

Wenn man die Nadel auf Fort Perch Rock setzt, begegnet einem kein glattpolierter Indie-Pop. Es ist eine klangliche Kollision, die wirkt, als hätten sich die Geister von Jim Morrison und der rotzige Stolz des jungen Mick Jagger in einem verrauchten Keller manifestiert.

Besonders präsent ist diese alles durchdringende Orgel, die immer wieder an den Anfang der Tracks tritt – ein direkter Nachhall der The Doors. Sie erzeugt eine hypnotische, fast sakrale Intensität, die den Hörer sofort in einen Zustand veränderter Wahrnehmung versetzt. Es ist dieser spezifische „Punky Brit“-Vibe: laut und absolut ohne Entschuldigung für seine Existenz. The Dream Machine kanalisiert diese Energie jedoch mit einer fast chirurgischen Präzision; es ist die rohe Wildheit der Stooges gepaart mit der schamanischen Aura der Doors. Ein Sound, der nicht um Erlaubnis fragt, sondern sich den Raum einfach nimmt.

Hier ins Album reinhören:

“Fort Perch Rock” ist heute erschienen. The Dream Machine tourt Ende Februar zusammen mit “Kula Shaker” durch Deutschland.


28.02. Grünspan - Hamburg
02.03. Heimathafen Neukölln - Berlin
03.03. Technikum - München

— Shelley D. Schwartz

THE ERASURE OF THE LOCAL

To the untrained ear, the North of England is often flattened into a single, grey monolith with heavy rains, steaming factories and yet an infinite green beauty. But to the archivist, the distinctions are jagged, vital, and increasingly rare. We are currently living through the quiet death of the “English Subculture.” The digital age has homogenised the youth; the local scenes that once bred specific tribes - the Mods, the Punks, the Casuals - have been replaced by a globalised, algorithmic aesthetic. What used to be the “Town Square” or local pub is now a digitally accurately curated feed, and the accent is drifting toward a transatlantic standardised blur. Pulling a cover over one’s personality in order to fit in.

Except, perhaps, in East Yorkshire.

Here, the resistance is absolute. Fiona-Lee is the proof. She is not a product of the “Industry” in the stereotypical London sense. She is a product of Howden, a market town that does not perform for the camera. In a culture that rewards polished perfection and the placeless, Fiona-Lee offers something radical: a specific, immovable sense of geography.

THE MUSICAL DNA

She didn’t come from a musical dynasty, but she grew up in a house where music was the architecture. Her father’s records provided a canonical education in the “Big Music” of the ‘70s and ‘80s - the sprawling, melodic ambition of Genesis, the heartland storytelling of Bruce Springsteen, and the intricate, poetic vulnerability of Joni Mitchell.

By the time she picked up a guitar at fourteen, she had absorbed a rare duality: the ability to aim for the rafters while remaining devastatingly intimate. As she matured, she discovered the uncompromising edge of the ‘90s - finding empowerment in the raw, controlled fury of PJ Harvey. It is this heritage that underlines her sound: a high-fidelity sound blending classic rock enormity and alternative grit.

THE GEOGRAPHY OF THE VOICE

“I don’t hide behind any kind of facade,” she tells me. “Not as an artist, not as a person. I think people can see straight through it anyway.”

She sings and speaks with the flat, unpolished vowels of someone born in East Riding. It is a voice that hasn’t been sanded down for mass consumption. In a world of transatlantic vocal tics, her refusal to mask her heritage is a political act.

“I feel quite confident and accepting of the way I express myself vocally now, so it probably is a big part of my identity as an artist and maybe helps with the relatability aspect of the songs,” Fiona-Lee explains. “People often say that northerners are generally ‘warmer’, so I like the idea of my accent making people feel more welcome when listening to my music.”

There is a structural science to this “warmth.” In the linguistic North of England, the defiance of the “BATH-TRAP split” and the rhythmic pull of t-glottalisation are not just phonetic markers; they are the architecture of the region. By leaning into these foundational sounds - the same ones that define the Mancunian and Scouse identities - Fiona-Lee isn’t just representing a town; she is reinforcing a linguistic frontline. This is the Northern paradox: the “Grit” is what is safeguarding the “Warmth.”, a sense of familiarity and a rebellious act against polished voices. By staying true to who she is vocally, she is inviting the listener into a space that feels lived-in and honest.

THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE ORDINARY

Her songwriting could be described as “Kitchen Sink” - a term borrowed from the 1960s British dramatic tradition that refused gentility, therefore, placing the mess and mundanity of ordinary life under bright lights. I ask her how it feels to take those quiet, specifically Yorkshire realities and carry them to take up space on a loud rock stage. Does the volume of the music change the meaning?

“I don’t think they change meaning,” she says, considering the shift from the comfort of the recording studio to the venue. “It depends how I’m feeling whilst performing; if I’m able to fully let go and get lost in the performance, the songs can feel really close to me emotionally and it can be quite intense; like it suddenly hits me how real they are.”

She pauses. “But sometimes I forget what I’m singing about and it becomes more about the energy in the room... The meaning never changes, I think it’s just how much attention I pay to it dependent on how vulnerable I’m willing to be on the night.”

THE INTERNAL RIOT

Yet, that very vulnerability is a double-edged sword. In her track Imposter, she sings: “Fake suffering for attention / Looks like someone’s got ambition.” It is a brutal self-indictment, capturing the uniquely Northern fear of getting “too big for your boots.”

“I find it hard to explain all the lyrics in Imposter, because they relate to a lot of my internal dialogue with myself that no-one else sees,” Fiona-Lee admits. “The line ‘fake suffering for attention’ is referring to the struggle with validating my own suffering. But yes, it’s essentially what the imposter in my head says to me, trying to keep me squashed and to not get too ahead of myself.”

Now as she moves to larger stages and her first headline tour is on the horizon, that voice doesn’t necessarily get quieter. “Unfortunately, imposter syndrome can feel worse the bigger the stage,” she says. “I’m slowly getting better at silencing the doubt, though.”

THE ANATOMY OF “EVERY WOMAN”

If Imposter is about validating her personal suffering, her new single “Every Woman” (released today) is about validating the collective. Though, the track is built on crystalline, soaring guitars that recall the widescreen atmosphere of Jeff Buckley, Sam Fender or The War on Drugs, they share something that all of the former don’t include - the true, unpolished perspective of being a woman. It describes the truths about sexual assault and all of the psychological burdens that follow it: the normalisation, denial, the silencing.

The song begins with the terrifying banality of the familiar:

“I always liked you in school / Like you were one of the good guys...”

Here, she identifies the precise horror of modern violation. It rarely looks like a movie villain; it looks like “one of the good guys”, the guy that you laugh with before your maths class. The narrative then pivots to the brutal logic of survival:

“Cause it could’ve been worse / You could’ve hurt my body / It’s not the first violation of my body...”

This is the most devastating line on the record. It contextualises the female trauma within a hierarchy of pain, where the narrator forces herself to minimise the experience because she has already normalised the violation. Fiona-Lee’s lyrics manage to successfully portray and describe that very mindset of denial that every victim goes through.

THE FINAL SILENCE

However, the song’s sharpest critique is aimed at the lack of accountability and the fragility of the status quo. In the bridge, Fiona-Lee delivers a necessary ultimatum:

“Boys should be educated and taught what it looks like without getting so defensive.”

A line that demands a seat at the table, refusing to coddle the very discomfort that allows these patterns to persist.

The song concludes with a shutting down of the interrogation: “And it’s all straight-forward / So don’t ask me so many questions...”

This is the exhaustion of the witness. It is a rejection of the demand for more proof. “Every Woman” is a track of reclaiming female power and releasing the shame. A powerful feminist anthem to serve as a reminder that no victim is alone in their burden, their shame, their anxitieties.

THE VERDICT

In a music industry that is rapidly becoming a hall of mirrors, Fiona-Lee is doing the work of preservation. She is keeping the reality alive - insisting that art must reflect the mess, the pain, and the unvarnished truth of the town you grew up in.

I ask her, simply, what is the one emotion she wants the fans - especially those who see themselves in the lyrics that she sings - to be left with when she leaves the stage?

“Validated.”

Fiona-Lee’s new single “Every Woman” is out now.
Her EP “Every Woman” is released on 17 April via Capitol Records

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SUPPORT

If you have been affected by any of the themes discussed in this article above or in the lyrics of “Every Woman,” please know that support is available. You are not alone!

Rape Crisis England & Wales: Call 0808 500 2222 (24/7) or visit rapecrisis.org.uk

Samaritans: Call 116 123 (24/7)

The Survivors Trust: Call 0808 801 0818

THE ARCHIVES OF REGIONAL IDENTITY

European grit meets the Wirral in a soundtrack for a subculture that refuses to die.

We are living through an era of geographical blurring and levelling. As digital spaces flatten our, formerly rich and diverse, culture into a singular, polished “global” aesthetic - the particular, jagged and raw edges of regional identity are being sanded down. The local pub scene is replaced by the franchise; the regional accent is traded for a Transatlantic polished monotone with a distinctive lack of spice and personality.

On the Wirral, that resistance sounds like The Dream Machine. The name was originally chosen for its 1960s underground connotations but the real spark was truly lit when Zak’s brother returned from London and explained the mechanics of Brion Gysin’s strobe invention. Designed to induce altered states, the band operates with that same hypnotic intensity - a belief that art can rewire consciousness. Their work isn’t just music; it’s a preservation of Northern texture - a refusal to let the 'kitchen sink' realism of the British working class be sanitised for a playlist.

Above all of these musical, cinematic, and literary allusions stands the impressive structure of Fort Perch Rock itself - a sea-facing, historic defensive outpost where the River Mersey flows into the Irish Sea. This is the band’s icon to the lost arcades, the melted ice cream and the sea air of New Brighton life. I had a chat with Zak McDonnell about regional identity and the need for ‘European grit’ in the shadows of the Wirral.

THE ANTI-ELEVATOR PHILOSOPHY

There is an inherent violence in the way Zak views “happy” music. To him, it’s not just a preference; it’s a failure of honesty.

“Happy music is for dentist waiting rooms and elevators,” he says. It’s a declaration that tells you everything you need to know about the creative engine behind Wirral band The Dream Machine. While the modern industry chases the glossy veneer of manufactured joy, Zak is building an archive around a different principle: music as a tool for contentment and survival. Not escape. Not entertainment. Survival.

“I just write every day to feel content and to survive,” Zak explains with a matter-of-factness that cuts through the usual rock-and-roll posturing. “The subject is secondary.”

When asked if the band is a carefully constructed art project or just a gang of friends making noise, Zak refuses the binary: “I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive. We are a gang of friends, making noise above a garage, but we take it pretty seriously. You have to.”

The casual spontaneity of mates jamming colliding with the rigor of craftsmen. You can’t fake survival.

EUROPEAN GRIT & THE MOSRITE PULSE

The new material emerged from what Zak calls a “Ramones-obsessed trip to Berlin.” It wasn’t a tourist’s pilgrimage; it was about soaking up a frequency that English venues have let flicker out.

“Some of the psych and punk music we heard in Berlin was levels above anything you’d hear in a bar in England,” he reflects. “Just in any random bar. They’ve still got it right there, in a really authentic way.”

The contrast stings because it’s true. England, once the primary source of subculture, being the home of bands such as Joy Division or the Clash - currently finds itself in an identity crisis. “England is lacking identity and subcultures at the moment more than ever,” Zak observes. “That’s what happens when you reward conformity over originality.”

During that trip to Berlin, Zak tracked down a Mosrite guitar - the surf-punk weapon favoured by the Ramones and Television. It wasn’t fetishism; it was a tactile connection to a sonic lineage. That guitar’s bite anchors the new tracks, bridging 1970s New York grit with the specific, grey geography of the Wirral.

THE RAWNESS OF SONGWRITING

Zak’s songwriting method resembles that of an archivist - collecting fragments of a neglected world and assembling them into something that resonates. Take "Flowers on a Razorwire," a track built around a graphic novel found in an antique shop.

“I’ll make a tune out of anything really,” he admits. “Some of it might be real, maybe none of it is.”

The song juxtaposes the delicate innocence of a “sweet petticoat” against the brutal coldness of “razorwire” - imagery that recalls songwriters’ ability to build narratives from found objects. But where others might deploy irony, Zak’s approach feels more direct. Earnest. Raw.

Their upcoming record, Fort Perch Rock, recorded and self-produced between studios on the Wirral and in Liverpool, embraces this fragmentation. It’s an album that demands active listening, refusing to serve itself up easily. “There’s definitely a lot more chaos,” Zak notes. “It might take a little longer to get into... but some of our best stuff is in there if you dig deep enough.”

THE GHOST OF THE BEACH BOYS

While the record is defined by its restlessness, it frequently pivots into startlingly melodic territory - a contrast Zak attributes to his own internal filter.

“It sounds more summer-y, Beach Boys to me,” Zak says of the more tender turns, even if they were born in a wintry headspace. “I just can’t help sounding sad.”

In a musical landscape obsessed with projecting coolness, this kind of earnest, vulnerable songwriting is the most radical act of all. “It’s never been our priority to be ‘cool,’” he states plainly.

THE KITCHEN SINK DRAMA

Ask Zak where the aesthetical inspiration of the bands’ music comes from and he’ll point to the long shadows of British realism.

“We live our whole lives in a 1960s kitchen sink drama,” he says. It’s an apt comparison. The Dream Machine traffics in the same grainy textures, the same refusal to look away from disappointment. The bands sound feels like a sonic extension of films like A Taste of Honey (1961) or Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960), however with the grit of some of Berlin’s hidden gems of underground punk music. Narratives that find a ragged, scrambled and realistic beauty in the mundane of the everyday.

Currently, Leonard Cohen’s debut sits on Zak’s turntable. “It just sounds perfect on vinyl.” The choice is revealing. Cohen understood that depth of personality and therefore, music comes from embracing the dark rather than running from it.

The Dream Machine won’t be played in elevators. They won’t be streamed into dentist offices. True to their nature, following a wild run of UK grassroots venues, the band is set to play their biggest headline show yet at the 1,200-capacity Liverpool O2 Academy on March 27. And that exactly is the point. They aren’t here to soothe you. They’re here to survive, and perhaps, to gift their music to the rest of us, to do the same.

Fort Perch Rock is released on Friday, February 27, 2026.

-Shelley D. Schwartz

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On “The Songs of Leonard Cohen”, it’s just the man and the gut-string guitar. You can hear the fingers dragging across the wires, the luri sound of skin against steel. But it’s the organ that pulls the trigger. It’s that cheap, wheezing Minstrel’s organ - a sound that feels less like a studio instrument and more like a relic found in the damp basement of a cathedral. It adds a 1960s grit that isn’t about “psychedelia,” but about ritual. It’s the sound of a church service for the people who have stopped believing in the pews but still believe in the wine.

You hear this ritual in “Suzanne” It isn’t a love song; it’s a Eucharist in melodic form. When he sings, “And she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China,” he isn’t describing a mundane snack. He is describing a sacrament. The exotic becoming domestic, homely, cosy. The sacred entering the cheap room by the river. It’s the subtlety of that specific detail - the distance those oranges traveled just to be peeled in a cold Montreal room that creates the intimacy.

Then there is the relentless geometry of “The Stranger Song” The guitar pattern never resolves; it just cycles, hypnotic and circular, like the dealing of cards he describes. It’s a “working” song - nitty gritty, sweaty, anxious. And “Master Song”? That is the theology of the void. It plays out like a Catholic mystery play staged in a mental institution, refusing to answer its own questions.

I’ll be honest - I’ve spent half my life trying to locate the specific frequency of the girl in the famous blue raincoat. Not the polished version, but the real one: the one with the coat “torn at the shoulder.” The one who is exhausted and sincere and perhaps a bit too honest for her own good. It’s not about “trying to be cool.” In fact, it’s the refusal of cool. It is the decision to be unpolished in a world that demands a filter.

And we are starving for that brokenness, unpolished and raw beauty.

In 2026, we are drowning in “dentist waiting room” music. We are suffocating under algorithmic perfection and AI-generated ghosts that have no blood in their veins. We are desperate for the “nitty gritty” - for the bleed of the microphone and the mistake left on the tape.

The lineage survives, but you have to look for the technicians of the ghost. You hear it in the work of producers like Loren Humphrey, who are dragging the 1960s analog philosophy back into the center of the room. It’s the refusal to fix the hiss. It’s the understanding that the “air” in the room is just as important as the instrument. You hear it in Father John Misty, who delivers his social venom with the conversational drawl of a bored priest. You hear it in boygenius and St. Vincent, building cathedrals out of shared trauma. And you hear it in the new blood - bands like Brigitte Calls Me Baby, who are dragging the Roy Orbison ghosts and the cinematic isolation back into the sunlight, proving that a song can still be a survival tactic.

Leonard Cohen didn’t pass away in 2016 - he just stopped breathing. The frequency is still there, vibrating in the crack where the light gets in. You hear it in the late-night subterranean rumble of Moving On (2016), and the sacrificial weight of You Want It Darker (2016).

Still here. Still listening. Still waiting for the tape to run out.

Sincerely,

S. D. Schwartz

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Research Notes: Case Study 01

• Artifacts: Minstrel Organ, Gut-string guitar, Blue Raincoat (torn), Tea & Oranges (China)

• Lineage: Loren Humphrey (Analog/Tape), Father John Misty, boygenius, Brigitte Calls Me Baby & many more.

• Location: Leipzig

Es ist diese besondere Art, wie Tom Rowley “Vegas in the snow” singt, die es einen spüren lässt. Die nassen Straßen unter Straßenlaternen, den hochgestellten Kragen gegen die Kälte, den Hollywood-Glanz gefiltert durch Sheffielder Nieselregen.

Seine neue Single “El Chapo” bildet da keine Ausnahme, denn sie bewohnt dieselbe Atmosphäre, in der Westküste auf nordische Härte trifft und beide verändert daraus hervorgehen.

Heute erschienen auf allen Plattformen. Aber das ist kein Playlist-Futter, das höflich zwischen Pop-Hits sitzen soll. Es ist ein Track, der verlangt, dass man das Licht ausmacht, bevor man auf Play drückt.

Anfang der Woche sprachen wir über die neue Single, den Songwriting-Prozess und den Einfluss, den acht Jahre voller LA-Besuche auf seine Wahrnehmung von Zuhause hatten.

Rowley war jahrelang der Architekt hinter den Visionen anderer – Milburn mit vierzehn gegründet, mit Reverend and The Makers geschrieben und performt. Als Co-Writer auf Welttournee mit den Händen auf den Tasten eines anderen. Aber es gibt eine Grenze dafür, wie lange man zusehen kann, wie die eigenen Songs den Körper verlassen und mit der Stimme eines anderen zurückkommen.

“It can feel a lot more daunting writing on your own,” sagt er. “There was a lot more demoing and exploring options via recording as you can’t just play something through in a room to see if it works or not.”

Aber Isolation hat ihre eigenen Belohnungen. Als die Songs schließlich in LA auf Band kamen, entwickelten sich die Demos weiter. Loren Humphrey – der Analog-Purist, dessen Fingerabdrücke auf Platten von Florence + The Machine zu finden sind – holte die richtigen Musiker dazu. Die Songs fanden neue Formen. “When it came to tracking the songs for the album though it was a lot more collaborative and the feel of some of the songs changed from original demos.”

Die Textur des Sounds verstehen, nicht nur seine Struktur. Das macht den Unterschied.

SHEFFIELD ALS ANKER

Während der Rest der Industrie Kanten glättet und regionale Stimmen zu etwas feilt, das für Algorithmus-Playlists bekömmlicher ist, bleibt Rowleys Gesang verwurzelt. Sheffield durch und durch.

“I really don’t think I could sing any other way,” sagt er. “Even when I sing other people’s songs I tend to revert back to the Sheffield accent.”

Es ist keine Entscheidung. Es ist der einzige ehrliche Weg. Ungeschliffen und echt.

CHARAKTER UND GESTÄNDNIS

Frühe Tracks wie Tell Me What You Want kamen direkt auf einen zu. Stumpfe Autobiografie. Aber in letzter Zeit arbeitet Rowley in Schatten, baut Welten, in denen das “Ich” nicht immer er ist, auch wenn es das ist.

“There’s a bit of both throughout the album. Songs like Tell Me What You Want, Something Strange and The Struggle are all definitely autobiographical and very on the nose. Whereas songs like Vegas in the Snow, MOR and Rite Time are all still about my experiences but definitely more abstract.”

Der Wolfsmann. Vegas begraben im Schnee. Metaphern, die es erlauben, die Wahrheit seitwärts zu erzählen.

WESTKÜSTE DURCH NÖRDLICHE AUGEN

Acht Jahre voller Reisen nach Los Angeles tun etwas mit einem, besonders wenn man vorher nie einen Fuß nach Amerika gesetzt hat. Die Palmen, das Licht, der ganze Mythos davon – der amerikanische Traum. Aber Rowley schreibt kein California Dreaming – er schreibt, was passiert, wenn man das alles mit nach Yorkshire nimmt und es sich nicht ganz übertragen lässt.

“I’ve spent quite a bit of time in America and particularly LA over the past 8 years and for someone who had never been until then I found it fascinating. The places and people I’ve encountered have therefore made their way into my writing but still from the Sheffield perspective.”

Amerikanisches Licht gebrochen durch englischen Regen. Glamour in Übersetzung.

DER TATORT

Der Song ist auch definiert durch eine Balance zwischen analoger Wärme und lyrischer Kälte. Er evoziert die Atmosphäre eines 70er-Jahre-Crime-Thrillers – stimmungsvoll, visuell, abstrakt und atmosphärisch.

Mit Humphreys “unglaublichem” Schlagzeugspiel als Fundament umgeht die Rhythmussektion komplett das digitale Raster. Es wurde “proper fast” und direkt auf Band gemacht, sodass es immer noch die entspannte Raumklang-Qualität einfängt, einen menschlichen Herzschlag-Beat, der digital einfach nicht repliziert werden kann.

Rowley lehnt sich hier schwer in die Gitarre, verzichtet auf technisches Gefiddle für gezackte, wehklagende Leads, die die lyrische Gewalt spiegeln – “blood on the track” und die “warmth of a gun”. Darunter liefern Vintage-Keys eine zarte, aber unheimliche Kulisse, die für die Noir-Ästhetik des Songs erforderlich ist.

DAS GEWICHT VOM BAND

Fragt man Rowley, woher die Noir-Ästhetik kommt, wird er auf Loren Humphrey und einen Stapel Platten zeigen, die etwas über das Aufnehmen verstanden haben, das im digitalen Zeitalter verloren gegangen ist.

“I was lucky enough to work with Loren Humphrey who is very much of the analog nature and he definitely made me realise those visions.”

Keine Jagd nach moderner Produktion. Keine Besessenheit von Politur. Einfach direkt auf Band, so wie es in den Siebzigern gemacht wurde – unmittelbar, ungeschliffen, präsent. “It was more specific records and the way they were recorded that was more inspiring I believe.” Greifbar, menschlich und ein Prozess, der Überzeugung verlangt statt Korrektur.

“El Chapo” ist jetzt draußen. Keine Kampagne. Nur ein Song, der existieren musste, der endlich seinen Weg aus Garderoben und Demo-Ordnern auf Band gefunden hat.
Wer Lust hat erwischt Tom auf seiner UK Tour im späten Februar und März des Jahres, auf der er seine neuen Singles - natürlich im wahren 70s Stil - präsentieren wird.

- Shelley D. Schwartz

Hör es dir die neue Single hier an:

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There’s just something about the way Tom Rowley delivers “Vegas in the snow” that lets you feel it. The wet roads under streetlights, the collar popped up against the cold, the glamour of Hollywood shimmer filtered through drizzle of Sheffield.

His new single, “El Chapo” is no exception to this trend because it inhabits that same atmosphere, where West Coast meets Northern grit in a way that neither one comes out unchanged.

It’s out today on all platforms. But this isn’t playlist fodder designed to sit politely between pop hits. It’s a track that demands you turn the lights off before you press play.

We had a conversation earlier this week regarding the new single, the songwriting process, and the influence eight years of visiting Los Angeles had on the way he sees home.

Rowley’s been the architect behind other people’s visions for years now, founding Milburn at fourteen, writing and performing with Reverend and The Makers. Touring the world as a co-writer with his hands on someone else’s keys. But there’s only so long you can watch your songs leave your body and come back wearing someone else’s voice.

“It can feel a lot more daunting writing on your own,” he says. “There was a lot more demoing and exploring options via recording as you can’t just play something through in a room to see if it works or not.”

But isolation has its own rewards. When the songs finally hit tape in LA, the demos evolved. Loren Humphrey-the analog purist whose fingerprints are on records by Florence + The Machine brought in the right players. The songs found new shapes. “When it came to tracking the songs for the album though it was a lot more collaborative and the feel of some of the songs changed from original demos.”

Understanding the texture of sound, not just its structure. That makes the difference.

SHEFFIELD AS ANCHOR

While the rest of the industry is smoothing edges, filing down regional voices to something more palatable for algorithm playlists, Rowley’s delivery stays rooted. Sheffield through and through.

“I really don’t think I could sing any other way,” he says. “Even when I sing other people’s songs I tend to revert back to the Sheffield accent.”

It’s not a choice. It’s the only honest way through. Unpolished and real.

CHARACTER AND CONFESSION

Early tracks like Tell Me What You Want came at you direct. Blunt force autobiography. But lately, Rowley’s been working in shadows, building worlds where the “I” isn’t always him, even when it is.

“There’s a bit of both throughout the album. Songs like Tell Me What You Want, Something Strange and The Struggle are all definitely autobiographical and very on the nose. Whereas songs like Vegas in the Snow, MOR and Rite Time are all still about my experiences but definitely more abstract.”

The wolf man. Vegas buried in snow. Metaphors that allow you to tell the truth sideways.

WEST COAST THROUGH NORTHERN EYES

Eight years of trips to Los Angeles will do something to you, especially if you’d never set foot in America before. The palm trees, the light, the whole myth of it - the American Dream. But Rowley isn’t writing California dreaming-he’s writing what happens when you carry all that back home to Yorkshire and it doesn’t quite translate.

“I’ve spent quite a bit of time in America and particularly LA over the past 8 years and for someone who had never been until then I found it fascinating. The places and people I’ve encountered have therefore made their way into my writing but still from the Sheffield perspective.”

American light refracted through English rain. Glamour in translation.

THE CRIME SCENE

The song is also defined by a balance between analog warmth and lyrical coldness. It evokes the atmosphere of 70s crime thriller - moody, visual, abstract, and atmospheric.

With Humphrey’s “unbelievable” drumming as a foundation, the rhythm section completely bypasses the digital grid. It was done “proper fast” and straight to tape, so it still captures the relaxed, room sound quality, a human, heartbeat-beat which simply cannot be replicated digitally.

Rowley leans heavy into the guitar here, eschewing technical twiddling for jagged, wailing leads that mirror the lyrical violence - "blood on the track" and the "warmth of a gun." Beneath it, vintage keys provide a tender but eerie backdrop required for the song's noir aesthetic.

THE WEIGHT OF TAPE

Ask Rowley where the noir aesthetic comes from and he’ll point you to Loren Humphrey and a stack of records that understood something about recording that’s been lost in the digital age.

“I was lucky enough to work with Loren Humphrey who is very much of the analog nature and he definitely made me realise those visions.”

Not chasing modern production. Not obsessing over polish. Just straight to tape, the way the seventies did it - immediate, unvarnished, present. “It was more specific records and the way they were recorded that was more inspiring I believe.” Tactile, human and a process that demands conviction rather than correction.

“El Chapo” is out now. No campaign. Just a song that needed to exist, finally finding their way out of dressing rooms and demo folders and onto tape. You can also catch Tom on tour this year. He tours the UK in late February and March of 2026.

- Shelley D. Schwartz

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I’ll admit it: I am the kind of person who listens to Please Please Me with a notepad. I know, I’m great fun at parties. I can name five distinct phonological features of the Scouse accent at gunpoint. This is an incredibly strange topic to be hyperfixated on for a German girl.

I grew up in a Polish-German household, therefore, pretty far removed from the damp, rainy streets of the Wirral. Yet my mother was so deep in the trenches of this fandom that she named my brother George after Harrison. I didn’t have a choice - I was born into this pre-existing condition of Beatles obsession.

Now, living in the land of Techno and while everyone is busy flying high on raves, I am hunting down the ghost of the working-class dialect often slowly but surely gets strangled by success.

In music journalism, we talk about the “evolution” of a band. In linguistics, we call it “Attitudinal Levelling.” It’s what linguists call “Or, in layman’s terms: The richer and more famous that you get, the less you sound like the streets that raised you. Makes sense right?

I had a deeper look into the vocal evolution and therefore, vocal delivery of British Pop across decades and let me tell you, you start to see a pattern.

But let’s start at the beginning when this phenomenon became a thing.

The Disruption of 1963

Before The Beatles, British pop was an exercise in cultural cosplay - sometimes better than others. If you wanted to be a star, you adhered to the “USA-5 Model.”

To pass the USA-5 Model test, a singer from London or Manchester had to perform a total linguistic lobotomy. Forget where you are from to make it big. They had to master:

The Hard “R”: pronouncing the “R” in words like star, girl or river

The FLAT “A”: Making words like “dance” and “glass” sound like they were born in a diner in Texas not London

The SOFT “T”: turning ‘water’ into ‘wader’, ‘pretty’ into ‘preddy’

The SOUTHERN “I”: Dragging “my” out into the Southern “maah”; or “I” into “aaah”

The WIDE-OPEN “O“: turning ‘body’ into ‘baahdy’

You can hear it now, can’t you?

In all seriousness, let’s not pretend that these singers and musicians did it purposefully. It was mostly their label that asked them to. The biggest music market, was, and still is the US-market. So when you sound more like the average American, you can be sure that more Americans end up buying your records. Nevertheless, of course, with Elvis sending a cultural shockwave all over the world and the sparkling myth of the American Dream - being American was simply considered cool. So listening to American music, music from the land of freedom, was cool.

The Beatles broke that. Suddenly, the world’s eyes were all set on the industrial city of Liverpool. Girls were crying, screaming, fawning over John, Paul, George and Ringo and their “charming” and in their eyes, “unusual” accents.

But if you look at the data, the boys didn’t hold the line forever.

The “John & Paul” Drift

As the 1960s progressed, the “Scouse” in Lennon and McCartney’s voices began to fade. It was gradual - just a smoothing out of the rough edges at the beginning. By the time we reach Abbey Road, the delivery is rounder. It’s more “Transatlantic” - meaning it mostly sounds like a Standard American accent.

It wasn’t necessarily a conscious “sell-out” or the desire to be perceived as American. It was the inevitable osmosis of the stratosphere: their influences in life conversing with press, with other bands from all around the world and their living conditions. When you spend your life in London, LA, and private jets, the Scouse starts to fade from your throat.

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The Big Exception: “Do You Want to Know a Secret?”

This is why I am obsessed with track 11 on the Beatles’ debut album.

It represents a particular tragedy. John and Paul - the benevolent dictators - only let George Harrison sing lead on one single song on Please Please Me. (Thanks, boys).

But that track, “Do You Want to Know a Secret,” is arguably the most important texture on the record. George wasn’t trying to be a “Frontman” in the same way John or Paul were and this is exactly why his accent slips through. The “George girls” probably went crazy for it. How exciting, isn’t it? And why wouldn’t they? I get it. In a sea of John’s and Paul’s accent growing more and more neutral and American, George’s accent was the one that still smelled like that Liverpool salt air. A postcard of the North sent overseas.

If you listen to the song closely, you can hear the Liverpool grit especially in the way that he hits the word "Secret” - affricate, hissy, sharp- making it sound like secrrrret - pure Liverpool. It was exactly that “Scouse of Distinction” - as Lennon mockingly refered to George as - that kept the track from feeling like just another American polished plastic pop song.

And yet, It’s a tame version of Scouse, for sure - he’s still singing for the radio - but it’s the closest we get to the Scouse ”Kitchen Sink” realism of the 1960s on a Beatles record.

For a little while, he isn’t in a studio. He sounds like he is leaning against a wall at a bus stop in the rain, whispering explicitly to you. It has a flat, local intimacy that the later albums lost. And again, you saw that image, didn’t you?

Sadly, even that “distinction” didn’t prevent George from smoothing out his own accent later in life. Sad, I know.

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The Return

The lesson of the Beatles’ vocal evolution isn’t that accents last forever. It’s that the most vital art usually happens before the polish sets in.

It is the hunger of the early years - before the hours of media training, before the “Transatlantic” drift - that holds the magic. We crave that texture because it sounds like a real person, in a real place. In a world full of AI, we crave authenticity.

Today, as I watch a new wave of bands emerging from the North of England, I’m seeing a desire to reclaim that 1963 energy. These bands are recording live, raw, unpolished and unapologetically Northern. They are leaving the cracks in the veneer. They are refusing to fix their vowels. They sing about the places they hail from without shame. They are proving that you don’t need to sound like you’re from “Nowhere.” You just need to have a secret to tell.

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And now enjoy this little (tame) Scouse diddy:

Shelley D. Schwartz

We are living in the age of the so called “Nowhere Voice”.

Perhaps this is why, there is a violent nostalgia for the 1990s that is flooding the internet currently. When we like photos of a young Damon Albarn or share clips of Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill”, we aren’t just looking at vintage fashion and vibes. We are yearning for texture in music - in our lives.

In the 1990s, the battle of pop culture was drawn by accent. Damon Albarn was known for a distinct “Mockney” (exaggerated London - “mock” + “Cockney”) drawl to reject the gloom of Americanisation in music, and Kate Bush leaned into a theatrical, almost cabaret-like Englishness. They represented a broader refusal to accept the transatlantic standard that got stronger and stronger.

But was this pride in regional identity genuine, or just a trend?

I recently conducted a sociolinguistic analysis of British vocal performance for my Bachelor thesis. I focused on the some giants of Britpop’s accents - we’re talking Oasis and Pulp etc. Did they stay true to their roots or did they sell out to the global market to appeal to a wider, global audience? The results I found during my research tell a story about the changing shape of authenticity.

Americanisation

In linguistics, there is a framework known as the “USA-5 Model.” which is used to tracks how British singers often change their accents in order to appeal to the global music market. It measures the “drift”- the moment a sharp British “T” becomes a soft American “D” flap (making water sound like wadder).

My research focused on the time period from 1994 to 2025. Within my research, I was able to find absolute divide between the generation that refused to change, and the generation that followed.

The Unbothered Generation (1994-2025)

The data I recorded on Liam Gallagher (Oasis) is probably the most revealing. Tracking Gallagher’s vocal performance from the raw ambition of 1994’s Definitely Maybe through to his solo work in 2019 on Why Me? Why Not?, the findings are conclusive: Gallagher is a phonological fortress.

Across the regarded 30-year span, him using the famous “Mancunian” features - the glottal stop (swallowing the ‘t’ in words like about or got), and the specific Manchester flat short vowels - remained surprisingly identical.

The same applies to Jarvis Cocker of Pulp. Despite decades of fame and time lived abroad, Cocker’s Sheffield accent in 2025 remains as distinct as it was on 1994’s His ‘n’ Hers. For these UK artists, the accent wasn’t a costume, a facade or a marketing strategy. It was an immutable anchor into their identity of being British. It marked a refusal to “polish” themselves for American consumption - a decision against globalisation.

The “Tumblr” Generation

However, as we moved into the 2010s, something’s changed. The identity of the “Lad” was replaced by the “Soft Boy” aesthetic, and the accents began to float, change, adapt.

The modern indie frontman is best exemplified by Matty Healy (The 1975) - another frontman that keeps trending on social media - although not so much for vocal delivery but more for his art and provocative behaviour on stage.

While Healy is a student of the Britpop era (and shares that specific Northern identity), his vocal performance represents a modern departure from the rigid regionalism of the 1990s. Healy’s voice is not defined by a specific town, but by a specific culture - an online, transatlantic, highly curated sound.

Although Healy has highlighted the importance of Manchester to him and his identity in music, Healy is comfortable shifting shapes. Moving from British pronunciation to Americanised phrasing depending on the “vibe” and cadence of the track. It is a voice designed not just for the pub but for the global feed. This isn’t a critique of talent - it’s a reflection of our times.

The Case for Texture

This is why the raw, unpolished clip of a 90s interview or a track from 1994 hits different today. We are starved for place.

We miss the friction of a voice that refuses to compromise. Whether it’s Kate Bush’s refusal to sound like a pop star, or Liam Gallagher’s refusal to sound like he’s left Burnage, these voices remind us that identity is often found in the “flaws” - the specific, local quirks that an auto-tune plugin would try to correct.

In a world of smooth, edited and samey surfaces, the most radical thing you can be is truly yourself.

Up Next: Heidi Curtis

If we are looking for artists who still believe in building their own sonic worlds in music while being proud of their regional, linguistic identity, we don’t have to look back to 1994.

In my next post, I’m in conversation with Geordie artist Heidi Curtis - known for supporting UK acts like Ben Howard and Sam Fender. We discuss the architecture of her new single “Siren”, the influence of the past, and the bravery required to find a voice that is uniquely, undeniably your own in a world full of polished imagery and the pressure to fit in.

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Shelley D. Schwartz

[Data source: "Accents in Transition: A Diachronic Analysis of Northern English Singers" - 2025]

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I worked with music journalists. The stereotypical 50-year old white men with the long lists and numbers and e-mails from pretty much every musician and their manager that they know. They talk loudly, the laugh loudly, they walk around loudly and squeeze your hand a bit too tightly when you greet them with a girlish smile (Trust me, that really happened).

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Most of them lack passion; get caught in their routine of asking the same twenty questions that they select a day before the interview. Whether their output is good or not - it doesn’t matter - things have run like that for 30 years.

It’s depressing to work alongside these people who are living your dream and yet do not really make much of it. Being friends with many musicians myself, I know how disappointed some of them are when they leave and feel like they have not been taken seriously. But what are they to do? They want and need to advertise their music, their tour, their persona.

And I want to be clear here: I don’t blame these kinds of music journalists. Most of them are good at what they go. They’re smart, motivated and they built their careers on consistency and especially, on knowing how to turn an interview into a publishable piece within a few hours of edition. The system we work in doesn’t reward depth in interviews, it rewards volume. You get paid per article - so the more you put out, the more you earn. Something that journalists appreciate as their job - mostly freelance - can feel very monitarily unstable.

However, the result is still the same. Musicians walk out of an interview feeling like no one really heard them. That’s the part that always gets to me - the quiet resignation in their voice when saying “It was fine,” even though you can clearly tell it wasn’t. After sitting through the same questions, the same assumptions, the same surface-level interest because that’s what the system expects them to. They’re supposed to show some form of gratefulness for any media coverage at all. They’re supposed to be fine, smile through it, leave and repeat.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there and thinking: It doesn’t have to be like this.

I’ve watched artists light up - ease up even - when interviewers and journalists actually listen. Not when someone flatters them, not when someone tries to impress them with references but when the conversation becomes real.

Musicians feel that. They try to built a career on emotions. They write from places people avoid. Most of them, process deep emotional states in their music and that deserves to be appreciated, to be listened to.

I want to hear you. I care for your story. I will ask about the line in the last verse that you almost didn’t write.

Love & Kisses

Shelley D. Schwartz

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