Look, sometimes life gets busy, and I end up with a backlog of albums to review. When times get tough, I get stupid. That’s when we end up with another edition of Racket’s Teenage Poetry Corner, where I channel my teenage goth past and write the world’s shittiest poetry. So, uhh, here you go.
Dope Lemon – Golden Wolf
Put this on while lying on my floor
in your grandpa’s old suede jacket
(it smells like oil changes and failed marriages)
and suddenly you feel things.
Like, sexy things.
Like, maybe I am the cool older cousin
who vapes in the garage
and calls everyone “babe.”
This album is ten tracks of velvety vibes
that make your mirror look back at you
and whisper,
“You are becoming.”
I don’t know what,
but something… sultry.
Dope Lemon sounds like he learned how to kiss
from a Doors record.
Sleep Token – Even in Arcadia
I hit play and thought,
“Oh. Tool? Wait. No? What is this?!”
But then the drums broke through
like someone got possessed
at a warehouse rave
and now the demon is using Ableton.
“Will you haunt this eclipse in me?”
I am the eclipse now.
You made me the moon
AND the darkness.
This album is like a really intense D&D campaign
where everyone has trauma
and sick riffs.
45 minutes of me asking,
“Wait… is this metal?”
while crying into a black hoodie.
PETER MURPHY – Silver Shade
This smells like cloves and regret.
Peter’s back and still spooky as hell,
Even Dracula went through a Bauhaus phase.
This isn’t music.
This is what it sounds like
when you get dumped in a cemetery
and you’re kind of into it.
“Hot Roy” is the Bowie-core dad I never had
but always wanted
to tell me it’s okay to wear eyeliner
and scream poetry at the moon.
Long live the Goth King.
His crown is made of mirrors and hexes.
My Morning Jacket – IS
Okay so:
Imagine your dad took shrooms
but like, in a responsible, cool way.
Like, in the woods
with a Bluetooth speaker
with a cooler of La Croix.
That’s IS.
It’s soft.
It’s deep.
It’s… dad.
But in a good way.
In a “let’s talk about our emotions
while assembling a hammock” kind of way.
Chill, dreamy, like a nap
that solves your problems.
I put it on and instantly
grew a beard of wisdom.
It is, in fact,
what it IS.
Sunflower Bean – Mortal Primetime
YES. SO YES.
This is the girl who burned down her ex’s garage.
While listening to Elastica, Garbage, and L7.
A girl who does kickflips.
and never texts you back.
She’s just too cool.
because this fucking shreds.
90’s alt babe perfected.
This is music with fangs.
Cornelia Murr – Run To The Center review
She sings like she’s floating.
Like she’s riding on the back of a swan
made of pure empathy.
I stared out my window at nothing
for the whole album.
Just vibes.
I asked myself,
“Do birds ever feel anxiety?”
And then I cried a little.
This album is not for dancing—
it’s for dissolving.
Like sugar in warm tea.
She makes me want to
forgive people
who don’t deserve it.
And maybe learn how to fly.
With feelings.
Pffft. Just kidding.
Feelings are for poor people.
Laibach – Alamut review
This record sounds like warlords playing Doom,
with Persian ghosts and glitchy boss fight screams.
A choir echoes through a velvet tomb—
their lullabies ignite my fever dreams.
Utter chaos screams through the static haze,
the cult does seem like martyrdom’s rise.
He whispers, “truth is dead,” and sets ablaze
the orchestra that bleeds from haunted skies.
Accordion armies march through cursed code,
while terse voices and metal trade soft fire.
The strings unravel secrets once bestowed
to fascists, prophets, thieves, and funeral choirs.
If God’s a glitch, then Laibach holds the key—
this freaky score could be Assassin’s Creed.
TEKE::TEKE Assassin’s Creed Shadows – Kage No Iro review
I licked a blade to taste the lore.
I have become chaos.
I am not shadow, shadow is me.
I can suplex a ghost while a flute solo screams.
I backflipped so hard the moon winked at me.
I move so fast my katana catches fire.
I hit play. Basslines spiral like cursed ramen noodles.
I punch the first attacker. Oh, that’s someone’s grandma.
I ride a dragon while surf rock resurrects my ancestors.
I stabbed my feelings and they bleed glitter.
I know all assassins wish they had this drip.