DuMond has always possessed an uncanny ability to excavate the grotesque from the whimsical, and here she's struck particularly rich veins of ore. The track opens with a ukulele line that sounds positively cherubic until Memphis Mick's sitar creeps in like smoke under the door, transforming the whole affair into something that wouldn't sound out of place in a particularly unsettling episode of The Prisoner. It's a masterstroke of arrangement that immediately establishes the song's central conceit: nothing here is quite what it seems.

The production, entirely self-helmed by DuMond, is wonderfully claustrophobic. Her voice—a curious hybrid of Kate Bush's theatricality and Joanna Newsom's childlike wonder—weaves through layers of vocal synths that seem to multiply and splinter like reflections in a funhouse mirror. When Mike Gruwell's drums finally lumber into view, they arrive with the inexorable weight of a Victorian funeral cortege, while William Haubrich's brass arrangements provide moments of twisted carnival grandeur.

Lyrically, DuMond has crafted something that reads like a feminist reinterpretation of paradise lost, filtered through the lens of psychedelic folk. Her observation about female consumption and consequence—"something is left for a female to consume or open, and she does this. Then all hell breaks loose"—permeates every verse with a knowing darkness that elevates the material beyond mere Alice-in-Wonderland pastiche.

The accompanying music video proves equally compelling, a kaleidoscopic fever dream that recalls Michel Gondry's more experimental work while maintaining its own distinct aesthetic. The saturated colours and Victorian imagery create a visual language that's simultaneously nostalgic and deeply unsettling—rather like discovering your childhood dollhouse has been redecorated by David Lynch.

"Hatter's Mad Emporium" succeeds admirably as both a showcase for DuMond's considerable talents and a genuinely unsettling piece of modern psychedelia. It's the sort of record that reveals new layers of meaning with each listen, like peeling back the wallpaper in a haunted house only to discover more wallpaper underneath—each pattern stranger than the last.

In an era where so much experimental pop feels calculated and focus-grouped, there's something refreshingly unhinged about Bog Witch's approach. This is music that feels genuinely dangerous, as if it might at any moment leap through the speakers and rearrange your furniture while you sleep. Whether that's a recommendation or a warning depends entirely on your tolerance for beautiful chaos.

"Hatter's Mad Emporium" is available on all major streaming platforms.