thelineofbestfit

thelineofbestfit reviewed This Bed Was Made For Me by Biita Houdei 2d

8.0

Biita Houdei's debut weaves an alluring psych-folk spell — The concept of patchwork makes perfect sense when taking in Houdei’s debut, released by Todmorden’s reliably sharp-eared Basin Rock label (home also to Juni Habel and Jim Ghedi, among others). From languid dreaminess and earthy handclap-propelled hoedowns to turbulent unease and miniature excursions into something approaching folk-dub, This Bed Was Made for Me covers considerable ground in terms of tone, mood, and points of reference, but it all ultimately adds up to seamlessly unified whole that feels more meatily substantial than its impressive individual parts. If we consider ‘psychedelic’ to mean the subtle fraying of the edges of reality or conceptualise it as an additive capable of evoking a refreshing sense of the unknown and unpredictable to reassuringly familiar settings, then the dreamily sprawling, subtly otherworldly, timelessly sepia-tinged sound of This Bed Was Made for Me surely qualifies as psych-folk in the literal sense of the term. Inspired by the lush surroundings of LA’s Topanga Canyon where many of these songs were written, the opening “The Ground Here” (featuring Big Thief’s Buck Meek) sounds impossibly majestic for deriving from a few simple acoustic instruments. Complete with ominous references to wildfires that have been ravaging the surrounding greenery, Houdei’s careful balancing between melancholy introspection and near-rapturous build-ups brings to mind Fleet Foxes’ Helplessness Blues. The ghost story meets love testimonial “Night Fright” feels rooted in the banjos, fiddles, and surreal goings-on of the old weird Americana rooted in the mountains of Missouri, where Houdei grew up, while its brief companion interlude, which gives the album its name, is more experimental, stretching the vocals into strange, disembodied, and echo-laden shapes. Elsewhere, the weightlessly cascading pirouettes of “Life Inside The Hourglass” – another example of using reverb and echo to make sparse ingredients sound positively grand – hints at unchained psych-folk innovators à la Linda Perhacs, while “Fennel Knows” hints at the sparse natural pull of Juni Habel’s songs and “Burnin’” hints at what Houdei’s interpretation of the blues might consist of. Having set out to create an album that feels tangibly warm, Houdei and lead producer and core collaborator/vocal foil Haley Heynderickx have succeeded handsomely. The woozily nuanced sound of This Bed Was Made for Me feels like a warm hug, or floating on your back in a thermal bath. Or, indeed, like being covered with a thick, cosy quilt as snowflakes fall softly in the darkness outside the window.

thelineofbestfit reviewed GET MEAN by Boy Harsher 2d

8.0

Boy Harsher get lean and focused on their best album yet — Jae Matthews and Augustus Muller have faced a succession of gravity-shifting events in recent years, stretching from loss to creative block and then the break-up of their own relationship. Clearly the future of Boy Harsher was in doubt and yet, here we are with the duo's first new music since 2022's soundtrack for The Runner. Desolate cinematic vistas, bleached landscapes, the loneliness of the open road: you can taste the dislocation and the desperation. Yet for all the emotional intensity, Get Mean is some seriously compelling and very danceable synth-pop, with some guaranteed darkwave floor-fillers. Boy Harsher have created the best music of their career without sacrificing anything, musically speaking. Instead the songs are stronger, the sonic palette richer and more inviting. The result is a lean and focused album, with no lulls and where no track overstays its welcome. Kicking off with the wide-open soundscape of “Ronny”, there's a roadworn weariness, yes, but the glistening synths march on while Matthews’ perfectly enunciated heartbreak meshes with movie soundtrack drop-ins. Her vocals have a magnetic, sensual quality, without tricks or vocal affectations, giving a sense of her inhabiting the songs more deeply than before. Recent single “Tough Luck (When You Don’t Call)” is lyrically explicit when it brutally asks, “Do you feel the regret? Do you even know my name?,” while “Jeans” feels almost carefree in comparison, where the clouds part and escape is possible, even if it’s moving to the big city “just to sell jeans.” Stylistically, we’re in the territory staked out by New Order at their most upbeat. That it gives way to the relentless motorik of “Break Me” with its barely contained sense of hysteria highlights how important careful sequencing can be. “Ivy’s Spiral” is a forty-four second spoken word description of the little victories you hope for as you claw your way out of grieving a severed relationship. It’s hard not to take it at face value – whether you do or not may depend on your own experience – but it’s all part of a musical and emotional reality Boy Harsher sketch out with an efficiency that, in the wrong hands, could translate as clinical but is instead consistently devastating. Much has been said about suffering for your art but it still remains an awkward conversation. Closing with the haunting, aching “Bleed” you’re left wondering: is it voyeuristic to enjoy the results of someone else’s anguish? Not when the music is this great and the emotions so universal that you may well be left assessing your own life and choices, and maybe clutching Get Mean closer in the months and years to come.

thelineofbestfit reviewed Staircase Made Of Rope by Roomer 2d

6.0

Roomer’s Staircase Made of Rope carries flashes of slowcore brilliance — Drawing upon their wide-ranging disciplines as fixtures in Berlin’s experimental music scenes, they found their stride as Roomer, making neo-shoegaze that doesn’t neatly fit the parameters of the genre’s contemporaries. With such artistry, unavoidable nods to Slowdive and My Bloody Valentine exist. Yet their folk and electroacoustic stylings put their music closer to an unearthed Numero Group reissue of an unsigned, cult melancholic alt-rock band. The album’s satisfying progression from heady to weightless guitar introspection, tied together by confessional, sultry murmurs, shows their considered effort to land on a refined set of delicate rock. Today’s Roomer trio of Ronja Schößler, Ludwig Wandinger, and Luka Aron have left their laboriousness behind with Staircase Made of Rope. The title of its predecessor perhaps fits this new chapter better: a concerted effort to improvise and leave their noodlings largely untouched after being recorded. The newfound spontaneity comes as a by-product of their sustained friendship, but without edits made, the music tends to stay in a single lane. None of that is inherently bad. “Something New” is as lively as slowcore can be with its scintillating guitars. However, the pacifying Boris-esque coda that seamlessly segues into the crusting, monolithic “Grey” is one of several affecting moments that deserved to breathe, in order to land with greater impact. “Good On My Own” is similar, initially propelled by an askew rhythmic backbone, then tapering off to a low-res guitar lullaby that could feel less tacked on if it were prolonged. But those decisions were driven by impulse, given the improvisatory element. As a result, Roomer occasionally embark on a stranger path, with the surreal guitar licks on “Written By”, the abrupt cyclone of distortion interlude “No Different After All”, the dead-march title track “Staircase Made of Rope”, and the abstruse words throughout similar to shoegaze’s pioneers. Yet if Roomer gave more time to honing their noisy feedback, their second effort wouldn’t sound so uniform.

thelineofbestfit reviewed PRIMA by ADÉLA 1w

6.0

ADÉLA plays dress-up with pop history on PRIMA — Escaping a fate of Hershey ads and “Hootie Frutti” Brazilian brainrot, the 22-year-old Slovak ballerina makes up for Netflix’s Pop Star Academy failings by shooting for superstardom on one of 2026’s most highly anticipated debuts. Move over, KATSEYE. In the bright fuchsia haze of a record designed to go for first (the title's literal translation), Adéla Jergová is determined to follow up last year's left-field EP The Provocateur with what she describes as “pumps and pirouettes.” Here and there she shimmers, not least in the subtle sonic touches of sparkle that laces the LP. But for a girl who dreams big, PRIMA’s showy peaks are spoiled by stock slow jams, leaving one wishing for an elevation of the Grimes co-signed eccentricities of her earlier experimental efforts. If The Provocateur was ADÉLA urinating on her competition, viz. the intense electropop moans of “SexOnTheBeat” and “DeathByDevotion”, PRIMA pales in comparison. That said, she’s playing the game, and playing it well enough. A first preview in “KGB” leans further into the smart, sardonic strengths that help propel her rags to riches storyline. Jergová has done her homework and makes her mission statement explicit: “I’m like a spy, I studied this shit, call me the K-G-Biiiiitch!” It’s on this firecracker of an opener where ADÉLA, the agent provocateur, resurfaces. Her exaggerated vocal fries are a fuck-you to the pristine of “global girl group” torture training. Slipping into an “itty-bitty dress” on “I’m The Man”, she adopts the role of findom seductress. Authoritative is her tone: “Sometimes I wanna switch position / I make the big decisions / I like a boy who listens / Nod your head if you agree.” However, it is fleeting, as Jergová proceeds to strip things down in service of palatable music. The tongue-in-cheek trombone of “Fantasize” falls flat, as does the half-baked “Hitachi”, an otherwise unremarkable piano ballad about intimacy issues if not for a chorus where her sex toy takes centre stage: “You used to wanna turn me on / Just like my Hitachi does.” Co-executive produced by 100 Gecs’ Dylan Brady, PRIMA’s added hyperpop flair on the processed soliloquy of “Therapy” introduces a short-lived element of surprise. So why stop there? ADÉLA’s flow state frustrations over bigwigs are a refreshing counter to previous power trips, as are her musings on the personal cost of chasing a music career abroad. Lyrics like “I miss when my little sister used to call me 'mom'” set a guilt-ridden tone for uncomfortable home truths. As the album’s closest approximation to a successful, traditional pop ballad hitting all the right, soaring beats, “Red Bottoms” gets the balance right: a slow-burn built around the scuffed-up reality of her genuine, imperfect self, ADÉLA compels through her Louboutin comparison. In calling back to bygone decades with PRIMA, Jergová certainly knows her audience. But in a time of profitable nostalgia bait, it’s a formulaic approach that is both aiding her popularity and interfering with her artistic development. There’s something about sped-up soul sampling in the braggadocious “Nicole Kidman” that feels less like “the next Madonna” (as she self-styles on the interlude of sorts, “Marijuana”) and more Ariana Grande, specifically the dated trap of thank u, next. “Boys”, while a delightful execution of early noughties dance-pop, throws all the key components of The Neptunes' Britney song of the same name into a blender. With rhythmic breath, Jergová pants a derivative “Bring the beat back” as if she were Spears herself. Wearing references like high fashion accessories isn't inherently bad. After all, that’s what made the pastiche of Addison Rae’s debut so persuasive. The problem with PRIMA is Jergová’s overreliance on the subjects of her studies as attempted recalibrations. Matching a runtime almost to the exact minute of Addison’s, such copy/paste comes across as an egregious game of Guess Who? “Starving Artist” is an otherwise standard bit of commercial pop, if not for a booming 808 outro à la Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl”. Coming at a breakthrough moment, ADÉLA’s saving grace is “Ain’t In LA” – a feel-good anthem for TikTok’s Gen Alphas. Holding it down in Bratislava, ADÉLA’s unwavering pride has turned PRIMA’s third single into a trend of copycat clips and marks the first song by a Slovak artist to chart on the Billboard Hot 100. It’s a clever spin on cosplay in the pursuit of greatness. Singing about the taught European state of mind that “Her dreams don’t live at home,” Jergová captures the attention of the YOLO generation. She accentuates the American Dream through the backing of a chopped-and-screwed reverb refrain courtesy of Theron Thomas, the same male voice who lent his distorted vocals to Miley Cyrus’ 2013 throwback “We Can’t Stop”. A hit about hedonism as much as it is about heritage, “Ain’t In LA” pairs well with “Marijuana”. It arrives just prior to the closer teasing ADÉLA’s Honda Civic “doin’ donuts in the rain” by observing a nirvana state in the singer. Like the glory days of cloud rap, LONG.LIVE.A$AP, and the subwoofer sounds of Spring Breakers, observant fans will conjure the image of a carefree pop starlet in her convertible, pink hair blowing in the wind of a slow-mo movie scene. With hardship comes ease, as does the temporary affection and arousal that comes with pussy, money, weed. Hard on the heels of oversubscribed show dates, needless to say, ADÉLA is doing just fine in the US market. Perhaps the real challenge now isn’t reaching superstardom, but whether she’ll dare to go stranger than playing the provocateur allows.