Vinyl comes packaged in an full color LP jacket complimented with UV spot varnish printing, full color insert and an 18"x24" full color double sided poster. Fleshwater paint in broad strokes of alternative, shoegaze, electronic, post-hardcore, and off-kilter pop splashed against a tight sonic canvas awash in vibrant colors and visceral textures. Their songs unfurl with all the unpredictability of a living entity (and you can never quite put a finger on where they’ll go next). The moment you press play, it’s as if they appear in a rush of emotion, only to disappear back into a ghostly ether once the record stops.As such, the Lowell, MA quartet—Anthony DiDio [vocals, guitar], Marisa Shirar [vocals], Matt Wood [drums], and Jeremy Martin [bass]—balance the intimate inhale of male-female harmonies with an overpowering exhale of distortion.Now, they materialize in 2022 with nine songs on their full-length debut, We’re Not Here To Be Loved [Closed Casket Activities].“It’s ambiguous,” notes Anthony. “It’s like the music is attached to the mood rather than lumped into a genre. There are so many different elements. Fleshwater is never one thing.” The band quietly emerged in 2020 with Demo. “Linda Claire” amassed 1.3 million Spotify streams under the radar, while Stereogum hailed the three-song set as “a cool piece of hazy guitar-trudge music.” Along the way, the musicians wrote what would become We’re Not Here To Be Loved and self-produced the album with Kurt Ballou [Converge] recording them. The band mined a kaleidoscope of influences, ranging from Hum, Deftones, Sunny Day Real Estate, and Far to Björk, and they ultimately arrived at an ethereal signature style of their own punctuated by gnashing grooves and anesthetizingly gorgeous vocal conjurations.Barely cracking the one-minute mark, the single “Kiss The Ladder” pulsates with glowing guitar and Marisa’s hypnotic chant, “Now I don’t want to be anyone.” “Backstairs Breathing” begins with creaky clean guitar and melodic verses from Anthony. It gives way to an urgent refrain as both voices entwine, “Become a memory next to me.” A snappy distorted rumble underlines the insidiously catchy “The Razor’s Apple” catalyzed by Marisa’s gauzy, yet guttural delivery. It spirals past a head-nodding drum breakdown on the back of knife-point precise riffing. “It’s my favorite vocal performance by Marisa,” he adds. “We’re definitely excited to play it live." Crossing the five-minute mark, “Foreign” leans into a punchy riff as Marisa and Anthony lock into one last cathartic call-and-response on the chorus.”In the end, Fleshwater are unlike anything you’ve ever heard—and it’s why the experience of listening to them will belong to you alone. “I want people to have their own experience with Fleshwater’s music and let it take them for a ride,” Anthony leaves off.

Cloakroom released their last album “Dissolution Wave” into the world on January 28th, 2022, commemorating their 10th anniversary as a band. The trio spent the months that followed embarking on a number of tours, growing together as a cohesive unit and pushing the boundaries of what could be accomplished in a short amount of time together. At one point, the troupe traveled from Chicago to Salt Lake City and back in a mere six days, playing six shows in the process and traveling no less than 600 miles a day. As the calendar flipped to 2024, Cloakroom launched on their most ambitious schedule to date, playing 27 shows across Europe in just over four weeks time. While this is being written, the band is resting their bones after a 34 date North American run that was completed in 37 days. By their own standards, their new album ‘Last Leg of the Human Table’ is a couple of years early. After an upstate New York evening spent with Closed Casket Activities owner Justin Louden, the group agreed upon a deal to work together with the label on their next LP. Initially setting out to test the waters with a four-song EP, Cloakroom booked three days at the famed Electrical Audio studio in Chicago in December of 2023 and set out to write a batch of new material. The composing sessions between singer/guitar player Doyle Martin and bass player Bobby Markos proved more fruitful than expected though, and soon the band was faced with the dilemma of picking which songs to include on an abbreviated release and which to save for the future long play. No doubt inspired by their hectic touring schedules, Cloakroom decided to set out on tracking an entire LP in the three days of booked studio time while on the way to Chicago. After a few long nights of rehearsing and writing with drummer Timothy Remis, the group entered the house that Albini built with longtime collaborator and engineer Zac Montez to begin tracking the ten song effort. Through a rigorous work schedule over the next 72 hours, the band was able to capture the skeleton of the album before driving to Kalamazoo, Michigan and Fort Wayne, Indiana for a couple of end of the year gigs. The band would round out the week by spending some time at Rec Room Studios in Palos Hills, Illinois to lay down some overdubs and further complete the record. “Last Leg of the Human Table” is not a post-apocalyptic record or a work of science fiction like Cloakroom’s previous LP. If Dissolution Wave was a space western following an asteroid miner protagonist, Last Leg brings the observer back to Earth where most things are not as they’re cracked up to be. For Cloakroom the world of modernity is in polycrisis and America has lost its soul. Narrative fetishism is all too usual of a literary mechanism for Cloakroom. If you listen closely you can hear the concern; not just for the teetering social structure but for what it means to be human and the high cost of the human experience. T.S Eliot’s ominous “not with a bang but a whimper” has gotten a lot of traction in a post-pandemic world, maybe even too much one could say. That whimper is just tinnitus to Cloakroom; here is the sound of a furnace that can’t stop running. That tonal resonance plays in-between songs on Volume 4 of the band’s discography. Recorded at Chicago’s staple Electrical Audio, there could not be more of a hallowed space to capture this body of work. Every song is a different sound working together to showcase Cloakroom’s genre-bending capabilities and seemingly vast array of influences; whether it be the sampling of the post-disco Detroit group Was (Not Was) or the lifted NASA recording of the humming of Saturn’s rings. Engineer Zac Montez (Whirr, Turnover) whom the band has referred to as an integral part of the band once again aided in smoothing out the rough parts and turning up the quiet. The album is truly sonically inspiring. Shoegaze, doom, post-punk, folk just scratch the surface on the band’s shortest yet seemingly most substantial release to date. “Last Leg of the Human Table” can sound sardonic in its nature and it probably is, b

Vinyl comes packaged in a foil stamped LP jacket. The physical record comes with a screen printed B-side.

New York, Boston, LA... American hardcore’s most lauded scenes better watch out for Idaho. Ingrown aren’t just Boise’s loudest export, they’re one of the most vicious and uniquely compelling up-and-coming bands in all of aggressive music, and their sophomore full-length, Idaho, is the gun-toting, dirt-bike-riding, hell-raising proof. Ingrown–vocalist/guitarist Ross Hansen, bassist Gavin McWilliams, and drummer Charlie Ritch–started in 2015, and over the course of the past decade they’ve gone from being their state’s best kept secret to an internationally touring juggernaut. The group released their debut album GUN in 2021 (drawing attention from the likes of Stereogum, Revolver, Decibel, and more), and toured it heavily supporting bands like Trapped Under Ice, Regional Justice Center, Drain, and Pain of Truth. The time on the road further honed their already razor sharp chops, laying the groundwork for the unbridled aggression that is Idaho. Recorded with Andy Nelson (Jesus Piece, Pain of Truth, Inclination, Weekend Nachos) at Bricktop Studio In Chicago, Idaho pushes Ingrown’s visceral sonics even further into the red. “Andy understands our band and our sound better than we do sometimes,” says Hansen. “He has an amazing way of capturing a performance in the most precise way possible without losing any rawness or power.” Clocking in at eleven songs over just 18 minutes, the album swings between pummelling heaviness and blistering speed, drawing on the technicality of death metal and thrash without losing the unhinged spark of hardcore and powerviolence. Idaho is above all else an ode to Ingrown’s home state and the indelible impact living there has had on the band members. Tracks like “Cold Steel,” “Bullet,” and “Enemy” paint a picture of guns, bikes, and self-reliance, but that’s just one side of Ingrown’s coin. The group’s love for their local community permeates Idaho, lending it a surprisingly earnest and heartfelt touch for a record that also makes you want to smash your head through a brick wall. It’s an album that has nothing but vitriol for the woefully inadequate institutions that have been broken by corruption and greed, instead encouraging the kind of strength that’s found within yourself and the people closest to you. “We’re all on our own in life and that can make you feel alone and helpless,” Hansen explains. “You only have your family and your community to support you. But knowing that can be freeing–you have the power to direct your own life.” Idaho comes to a close with three tracks that capture Ingrown at their most unexpectedly compelling and unrelentingly crushing. First there’s “Asylum,” a song originally written by Hansen’s father, Erik, for his ‘80s hardcore band, State of Confusion. The track first appeared on S.O.C.’s 1988 debut album, A Street (“some of the first music I heard, and some of the best hardcore there is,” says the younger Hansen), and now it’s resurfaced with an Ingrown update on Idaho. The result is a feel-good moment within a feel-pissed song that still rips 37 years later. Then there’s the penultimate track, “Hellbound,” a thunderous stomper that somehow manages to top the heaviness that just ensued in the previous sixteen minutes. As its final moments of shrieking feedback end, a plaintive chord rings out played by an acoustic guitar and banjo. These are the first notes of Idaho’s title track and closer, a medley of classic Irish jigs that the band has performed live. Ingrown proudly describe themselves as a band for “people who like Obituary, No Comment, 25 Ta Life, and Waylon Jennings” and while there’s certainly something funny about Idaho likely being the absolute heaviest album of 2025 to feature a mandolin, the title track isn’t a joke. Hansen’s earliest musical background includes learning to play bluegrass on Irish tenor banjo, and it makes “Idaho” feel like one more deeply felt exclamation point album that’s truly honest and assured in its sense of place–and the ways that place can shape you. In fact, “Idaho” is full of the same speed-picking and swagger that powers the

Motivation bonds us. By sharing the same intent, we can fulfill the same purpose. Both Toronto duo Intensive Care (Andrew Nolan and Ryan Bloomer) and Rhode Island duo The Body (Chip King and Lee Buford) thrive as innovative forces in extreme music. Rather than lean into the expected, these four musicians made a collective decision to disrupt once again by joining forces in 2024 for the collaborative album Was I Good Enough? [Closed Casket Activities]. With glitchy graveyard bellowing vocals, icy industrial backbone, and teeth-rattlingly heavy grooves, these eight tracks certainly reflect the respective legacies and pedigrees of their creators. Yet, they summon a distinctly dynamic and dangerous beast through the distortion. “Our motivations are very similar,” Ryan states. “The collaboration made sense, because we weren’t necessarily bringing anything separate individually. It seemed like we were bringing two sides together in order to make a bigger whole. At the same time, we didn’t repeat ourselves. You’re going to hear two guitar-based bands who didn’t use much guitar at all on this. It’s a largely electronic album, but it sounds as heavy as any guitar-based music I’ve ever done.” Their union dates back to a tour in 2018 when Intensive Care and The Body hit the road together. Everybody got along, and the idea for a collaboration would be bandied about for a couple of years to follow. By 2021, it became a reality. The Body established a framework and shared it with Intensive care. The musicians tinkered for the next year-and-a-half in between various other obligations. Finally, the vision cemented. “It was all based on our friendship and appreciation for their approach—which is quite similar to ours,” Ryan goes on. “In a conventional sense, we’re both grounded in heavy music. We all try to transcend the boundaries of the genre and redefine what heavy means to us.” They did so by adopting a production technique widely used in hip-hop and originally popularized in Houston, “Chopped and Screwed.” As such, they collaged together samples, instrumentals, drum loops, vocals, and other elements into a corrosive and caustic collage without comparison. “We took what The Body gave us and ran with it,” recalls Ryan. “We were deliberately slowing parts down and doubling up to emphasize certain vocal lines. Hip-hop was a huge inspiration. We tried to lean on those techniques in order to create this record and put our own spin on it. Everybody involved in this project wanted to push boundaries.” A scream signals the start of the ride on opener “Mistakes Have Been Made.” A distorted haze grinds the senses, while a slow trudge underlines the trio of dementedly dynamic vocals from Chip, Andrew, and Ryan. “Chip’s voice is unmistakable,” Ryan goes on. “There’s a real contrast between our voices. You really hear the back-and-forth of two bands who have come together to make a record.” Then, there’s “Swallowed By The God.” It moves at the pace of a funeral march punctuated by ominous bells, cracks, and a piercing wail. “The Riderless Mount” hinges on warbling electronics thickened by booming bass. The near eleven-minute finale “Mandlebrot Anamnesis” culminates on a shuddering and epic catharsis, dripping blood, sweat, and emotion over an electronic tundra. The title speaks to the despondency.

Full of Hell burst forth with incredible force from the small, dagger-shaped city of Ocean City, Maryland, 15 years ago. Over five full-lengths, five collaborative full-lengths, and countless splits, EPs, singles, and noise compilations, they’ve evolved at extraordinary speed, their music becoming more complicated and technical without ever slowing down or losing its soul. Everything on a Full of Hell album feels like a blur: smears of guitar, harsh noise shaken like gravel in a bag, singer Dylan Walker’s snarl and bite carrying him into outer space or into the core of the earth. They’re coiled, interlocking, impossible to penetrate, and they move with alarming speed. They have now reached terminal velocity. Having created their own context, they’re now able to walk around within it, to survey its terrain, to visit far corners and see who’s nearby. Coagulated Bliss sounds like Full of Hell, but it’s nothing like any Full of Hell record that’s come before it. These songs are trimmer, less freighted with anxiety, more interested in opening up than speeding away. Its bile is sometimes funneled into traditional song structures. It never shies away from the extreme harsh noise, unrelenting spirit, and pitch-black sadness of previous Full of Hell records; if anything, the leanness of these songs makes them feel even heavier. Nevertheless, there are tracks here you might find yourself whistling hours after listening. It’s an extraordinary and unexpected evolution in sound for a band who made their name on rapid metamorphosis, and it’s the logical endpoint of everything Full of Hell has covered so far. “I wanted to try to take every aspect of what we’ve done from previous releases and integrate it into this one,” guitarist Spencer Hazard says. Coagulated Bliss was written and recorded shortly after the band completed When No Birds Sang, their collaborative album with Nothing. Working with the Philadelphia shoegazers gave Full of Hell new insight into the emotional and artistic power of classic pop songwriting, and to the importance of following a song where it wants to go. “That was a good experience of learning how to find what actually services a song,” Hazard says. “Even with Roots of Earth Are Consuming My Home, even when we’ve had an extreme grindcore influence, I still wanted it to be catchy.” Walker also cites the band’s work with The Body for helping him to “recognize that there was value in pop music.” Accordingly, Coagulated Bliss features some of Full of Hell’s strongest songwriting: Gone is the frenetic flailing of Garden of Burning Apparitions and Weeping Choir; in its stead is a richer, thicker sound, one that’s considerably less ornamented—and somehow heavier than ever. These songs feel huge, totemic, groundshaking. In “Gelding of Men,” the entire band hammers away at one chord, stomping it into the ground at mid-tempo, blasts of horns helping to push.The numbskull stomp of “Doors to Mental Agony” sets up a circle pit, blasts it apart with a grindcore chorus, then slides away on a slanted riff. In the title track, they bounce back and forth on a thick groove, punctuated with occasional cowbells and scratched up by Walker’s scream, barrel into a pummeling chorus, then jump back out onto the dance floor. While the focus on songwriting already makes Coagulated Bliss the most grounded album in Full of Hell’s catalog, it’s also the first Full of Hell record that tries in earnest to reflect the world around it—not in some broad, monotony-of-evil way, but the everyday horrors of life in small town America. Three of the four members of the band were raised in Ocean City. Hazard and Bland still live there, while Walker is located in central Pennsylvania and bassist Samuel DiGristine relocated to Philadelphia. “The American dream is small towns,” Hazard says. “But anyone that’s grown up in a small town realizes it’s just as fucked up in a small town as it is in a big city—if not more, because it’s more condensed.” Walker’s lyrics have always framed their suffering with what he calls “fantastical, metaphorical shit,” but on