There is a particular breed of European prog band that treats the studio the way a cathedral mason treated stone: patiently, devoutly, and with an eye on something larger than the immediate commission. RSM, the Łódź-based trio steered by guitarist and keyboard player Rafał Szewczyk, belong unmistakably to that lineage. Their second full-length, *Life is…*, is a record built not for the algorithm but for the armchair — the kind of album you sit with, lights dimmed, from the needle-drop of track one to the last decaying chord of the closer, and emerge from thirty-odd minutes later slightly rearranged.

For nearly thirty years, Marcin Sanakiewicz has been the invisible hand steadying other people's careers: arranger, musical director, accompanist to Bartosz Chajdecki, Janusz Radek, and the storied cabaret Piwnica pod Baranami. It takes a particular kind of patience to spend a professional lifetime in the wings, and it takes a particular kind of confidence to finally walk to centre stage with nothing but a piano and a set of borrowed melodies. *Unfolked Piano. Some Polish Themes* is that walk, taken slowly, deliberately, and — this is the record's great trick — almost silently.

Kraków is not a city you typically associate with the grinding machinery of industrial rock. It gives us cathedrals, cobblestones, and a magnificent dragon myth. And yet, for two decades now, Jarek Balsamski has been constructing something altogether more combustible beneath its medieval skyline. Seven Nation Army, the project he founded there in 2006, has long refined its dark, atmospheric sound while maintaining a fiercely independent creative sensibility. *Power and Money* — a three-track EP released this week — is the latest dispatch from that ongoing and admirably uncompromising mission. And if the band's own framing is to be believed, this is something more than a record: *"Power and Money is not only about sound — it's about asking questions about the world we live in."* Bold words. Remarkably, the music earns them.

The most instructive thing about *Not Over* is what it doesn't sound like. It doesn't sound like *Letters to the Absent*, the 2012 debut that earned By Million Wires comparisons to skyscraping guitar psychedelia and established them as a band of genuine atmospheric ambition. It doesn't sound like the transitional instrumental work that followed Anna's departure — that more decisive, harder-edged post-rock that suggested the band might retreat entirely into wordlessness. And it doesn't sound like a band trying to sound like anything in particular. For a record fourteen years in the making, *Not Over* carries almost no anxiety about its own identity. That, more than any individual moment of brilliance, is what makes it worth your time.

On the night of October 26th, 1999, a twenty-five-year-old railway worker named Małgorzata Ż. was murdered at the KD–1 signal box in the Silesian town of Czerwionka-Leszczyny. No arrest was ever made. No conviction, no closure, no name pinned to the act. The case calcified into one of those silences that provincial towns carry like a stone in the chest — present always, spoken of rarely. Twenty-six years on, a documentary and now this five-track EP have broken that silence with something approaching the force of a fist through glass.

There is something audacious about naming your creative principle after a scientific inevitability. An event horizon, for the uninitiated, is the threshold beyond which escape becomes physically impossible — the point at which gravity wins, and everything that once had forward momentum surrenders entirely. That Tár, the Szczecin quartet who have been quietly detonating in Poland's alternative underground, have not only embraced this metaphor but chosen to dance at it tells you everything about their particular brand of doomed romanticism.

Some records arrive fully formed, as though they've always existed somewhere in the electric ether, waiting only for the right hands to pluck them down. "Midnight Flow", the debut single from NEODYM — the project helmed in collaboration with German producer Sven Kuhlmann — is very much one of those records. It does not announce itself tentatively. It does not ease you in. It simply begins, and you find yourself already inside it, already moving, already half-lost in whatever neon-drenched reverie it has decided to construct around you.

*In excitatione terrae* — the Latin translates, roughly, to "in the excitation of the earth" — opens the forthcoming debut album *In lumine lunae* from Polish solo project Viamaer, the brainchild of Krystian Jurkiewicz, a man who has, by all credible accounts, spent two years pouring the unnameable contents of his inner life directly into sound. The single arrives in late 2025 as the first dispatched fragment of that longer work, and it arrives, one must say, with devastating quietness before it detonates.

LiMaVii's debut single "I Have Everything" arrives as a peculiar proposition: a deliberate inversion of Whitney Houston's 1992 power ballad "I Have Nothing," reimagined not as tribute act pastiche but as spiritual autobiography. Where Houston's original excavated the raw wound of romantic depletion, this Gdynia-based artist constructs her thesis around inner plenitude—a shift from lack to fullness that risks New Age platitude but occasionally achieves genuine emotional resonance.

The Polish rockers have taken a rather audacious left turn with their latest offering, abandoning the crunching alternative rock that defined their previous work for a full-throated embrace of 1980s electronic pop. It's a gamble that might have backfired spectacularly, yet Jarek Balsamski and Olga Ostrowska emerge with their credibility remarkably intact, even enhanced.