Post-punk has spent decades learning to dress for funerals, and most of its apprentices have mastered the black clothes and forgotten the grief. The House Flies, from Moline, Illinois, remember the grief. *Lions and Ore*, their second full-length, is a record of rooms with the lights off and fields shimmering in the heat, of sleep that won't quite arrive and objects abandoned by people who meant to come back. It was recorded in vocalist and guitarist Alex Riggen's basement, which explains the closeness, the sense of songs pressed against the walls, and also the ambition, because the walls have clearly been asked to hold more than they were built for.

Debut albums from faceless projects usually arrive with a smoke machine and little else. *Where God Grew Tired* turns up with a cosmology. Over ten tracks and fifty-five minutes, Wildcard Campfire, the vehicle of writer and creative director Rom Burla, builds a whole fallen civilisation: a promise curdles into doctrine, a rebellion hardens into war, and humanity crawls underground while something new grows over the ruins. Millennia later, the survivors come back clutching a warped memory of what they lost. It is a mad ambition for a first record, and the thing is how often it comes off.

Witch house was never supposed to grow old gracefully. It arrived around 2009 in a fog of triangle glyphs, chopped-and-screwed hip-hop, and cheap-hearted gothic theatre, then dispersed almost as quickly as it had gathered, leaving Salem, White Ring and a handful of others as its patron saints. So it is a small shock, and a gratifying one, to find the form turning up in Ekeren, a suburb of Antwerp, in the hands of a man who has lived in the same house for 55 years and has been spinning records since 1995. *Hexen* is his debut, released in October, and it is a wonder.

Calling a seventy-seven-minute, fifteen-track collection an "EP" is the first act of mischief on Katie Noir's second record. The second is releasing it less than three months after a twenty-three-song debut. A cynic would expect leftovers: B-sides, offcuts, the sound of an artist clearing the shed. *The Aftermath EP* is nothing of the kind. It is a sequel with a sharper pulse, written by someone who has just discovered that strangers can hear her.