There are bands you discover and think, “How the hell did I not know about this?” Then there are bands where the real question is, “How the hell did the world forget?” Captain Beyond falls squarely in that second camp.

There’s no label backing this. No publicist blasting inboxes. No viral TikTok. Just a burned-out side project that clawed its way into becoming a real band: slowly,

Let’s get one thing out of the way: Joanna Connor is a monster. A slide guitar savage. A blues lifer who’s been tearing up stages longer than most viral sensations have been alive.

I lived in New York from 2000 to 2016. I was there when The Strokes were still playing Mercury Lounge and didn’t own more than two shirts between them.

They’re not underground. They’re not obscure. But Primus, A Perfect Circle, and Puscifer have never followed a straight line — and that’s exactly what makes them essential.

Car Bomb doesn’t sound like other bands. They don’t even move like other bands. Their songs lurch, fracture, and recalibrate mid-measure—like the gear teeth of some broken industrial machine, still hellbent on finishing the job.

After writing the full piece on Common Crime, it felt wrong not to show the whole picture. Alex Leniz didn’t just give great answers—he opened up, reflected, and pulled us right into the world of the band.

When Alex Leniz moved from Tampa Bay to Philadelphia, he wasn’t chasing a scene. He was starting over.

It’s just past 5PM on a perfect May Saturday at MMRBQ, and Fat Mezz has already played twice. The second set just ended, this time on the smaller stage, and the air still crackles.

Nobody talks about Blonder Tongue Audio Baton like it mattered. Not really. Not in the way it actually mattered.

Some bands don’t die. They fray at the ends, get tangled in your guts, haunt your stereo like a power line fallen in a storm. Still crackling, still hot.

Formed in 2018, Meltway quickly set themselves apart with their unique blend of shoegaze, indie rock, and dreamy atmospheres.

Meltway builds songs that blur the line between chaos and calm. On their album Nothing Is Real, they weave together heavy distortion, shy vocals, and unexpected hope into something raw, loud, and strangely beautiful.

If you told me I could only bring one album to a desert island, no hesitation—it’s Spirit of Eden. Not because it’s comforting. Not because it’s familiar.

They’re continents apart. Mumbai. Vennesla. Two rooms, two climates, no shared time zone, no shared breath. Just a signal dragging riffs through lag and latency, pressed flat and grainy through inboxes and cables that probably weren’t built to carry this kind of weight.

There’s a very specific kind of ghost that haunts post-’90s alt rock—bands caught between the death of the major label gold rush and the digital Wild West that followed. Year of the Rabbit is one of those bands, not a bridge but a brick thrown across the chasm.

Rancocas Valley’s Battle of the Bands wasn’t just a school concert—it was a full-blown eruption of talent, heart, and raw energy. Nine acts brought the crowd to its feet with everything from acoustic duets to improvised chaos, from tearjerkers to mosh-ready riffs.

Bob Log III doesn’t play shows. He commits musical arson. One man, one guitar, one boot, one helmet, and a phone receiver duct-taped to his face like a CB radio from hell, barking transmissions from the last real dive bar in the universe.

It sounds like a dare. Like a prank pulled on Epic Records’ A&R department in 1994—“Let’s sign these D.C. freaks who sound like Queen on dissociatives and see what happens.”

There’s a kind of confidence you can’t fake. The kind that doesn’t beg to be liked, doesn’t audition for your playlist.