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.

Nobody asked for the power ballad to come back. It was supposed to be a fossil, a thing of wind machines, satin jackets and lighters held aloft by grown men who would deny it in the morning. Yet here is Oakland's Everything But The Everything, releasing "Hollow Heart" on the tenth of July with the cheerful nerve of a band that has noticed the genre's grave is empty and moved in.

Post-punk has spent forty-odd years learning how to dress for a funeral, and the more interesting question is whether it can dance at the wake. The House Flies, four men from Moline, Illinois, answer with "Lost Literature", the second single from their forthcoming Lions and Ore. It is gloomy, gripping and very hard to keep your feet still through.

Ekeren is not a place one associates with the end of the world. It is a quiet, unglamorous district on the northern edge of Antwerp, all suburban hedges and tram lines, and yet from a home studio there comes *The Dark Fungus*, an EP that imagines civilisation dissolving into mycelium and dancing itself to oblivion. It is a preposterous conceit. It is also, against every reasonable expectation, a triumph.

Something has shifted in The Pixel Rain's world, and you can hear it in the first thirty seconds of "Last." The Southeast London project, born from a self-titled 2023 debut EP and quietly building a reputation on industrial rhythm and synthetic dread, has finally let the guitars off the leash. The result is the most confident thing Áron Siegler has put his name to yet — a single that snarls where The Pixel Rain's earlier work merely hummed.

Melbourne has produced its share of restless troubadours, but few have arrived at disquiet with quite the unvarnished candour of Paul Louis Villani. His new single doesn't so much announce itself as stumble into the room, half-formed and urgent, clutching questions it has no intention of answering neatly.

Pop music has always loved a confession, but few singers bother to check whether the audience actually wants one. Michele Braid-Topcu does not seem especially worried about that. "Front Row" arrives like a dressing-room door flung open mid-quick-change, sequins still falling, mascara half-fixed, and somehow that's the whole point.

Forty years is a long time to carry a wound. Sri Lanka formed in Philadelphia in 1986 — a city not typically granted its due in the post-punk mythology, overshadowed perpetually by New York's louder, better-documented chaos — and for a few blazing years they were something genuinely dangerous. Goth's cathedral gloom cross-pollinated with post-punk's serrated urgency, filtered through the particular derangement of psych rock: it was a sound that could fill the sticky floors of CBGB and the Trocadero alike, a sound that pointed somewhere important. Then Brett Turner, their founding frontman, died at twenty. The band lurched onward, regrouped, released two more records, collapsed. And then, silence — thirty-odd years of it.

There are records that arrive like weather — slow, inevitable, carrying the smell of something about to change. *The Tree of Knowledge*, the fifth studio album from Ricardo Hoffmann's singular project Saline Grace, is exactly such a record. Released three years after the haunted arboreal drift of *The Whispering Woods*, it does not so much pick up where that album left off as dig deeper into the same dark soil, retrieving something altogether more unsettling: a portrait of modern man that is by turns pitying, furious, and achingly sorrowful.

Darkwave has always been music for people who find the lights too bright and the silence too loud. From the fog-draped industrial estates of post-punk Britain to the candlelit bedrooms of continental Europe, the genre has functioned less as entertainment and more as emotional infrastructure — the sonic architecture people build around themselves when the ordinary world has become unbearable. Nocktum, the anonymous solo project emerging from Lucca, Italy, understands this with the bone-deep certainty of someone who has lived it, not merely studied it.