THE SUN IS FALLING DOWN AGAIN

Coming across Lucero’s 1372 Overton Park for the first time feels like walking into a neighborhood bar just as the band hits that perfect, late-night groove. It is an immediate, soulful gut-punch of an album that manages to feel both rowdy and incredibly polished.

What stands out right away is the brass. From the opening tracks like "Smoke," the addition of a horn section gives the music this massive, Memphis-soul energy that elevates the gritty rock-and-roll foundation. It’s a brilliant contrast—Ben Nichols’ voice has that wonderful, gravelly weariness to it, and when it meets those bright, punchy horns, the songs feel celebratory even when the lyrics are leaning into heartbreak or hard luck.

Tracks like "The Devil and Maggie Chascarillo" and "Sounds of the City" have a driving, infectious momentum that makes you want to turn the volume up to the point of distortion. But the album isn't just one-note energy; it knows when to pull back. "Goodbye Again" and "Mom" show a more vulnerable side, leaning into that alt-country storytelling where every line feels earned and honest.

There is a sense of place throughout the record—a feeling of humid Southern nights and restless energy. It’s the kind of music that sounds like it’s been lived in. For a first-time listener, it’s a rare find: an album that feels like a classic from the very first spin, balancing the raw spirit of punk-inflected rock with the timeless warmth of classic soul. It’s a fantastic introduction to a sound that feels both nostalgic and vital.

In an era that often feels increasingly isolated and filtered through a virtual lens, there is something incredibly timely about a hardcore record that manages to balance raw frustration with a genuine sense of hope. This album doesn’t shy away from the mess; instead, it leans into it, capturing the visceral feeling of watching things fall apart. However, it transcends mere complaint, acting as a frantic attempt to shake the listener awake.

Even at its loudest and most aggressive, an underlying thread of survival carries the listener through. This is not just noise for the sake of volume—it is an anthem for pushing through the mire. In a world that can feel detached, this record stands as a human and grounded force, proving that music can still be a vital tool for both commentary and resilience.

Key Takeaways

Authenticity: A human, visceral sound that counters today's digital isolation.

Balance: A rare mix of aggressive social commentary and optimistic endurance.

Purpose: More than just a collection of songs, it functions as a necessary alarm for the current moment.

Six Feet Deep - Canton, Ohio YMCA

You’re riding in the passenger seat of a beat-up sedan, the hum of tires on asphalt a steady rhythm. The air is thick with the smell of vinyl seats and distant rain. Your hand reaches for the dial, scanning through the static until a burst of tinny synth and a wildly enthusiastic voice cuts through: “You’re listening to WSQK, The Squawk! That was the one and only Kate Bush running up that hill, and let me tell you, she’s not just running, she’s sprinting straight to the top of our charts! It’s 4:15 in the PM, and I’m your host coming at you from the Hawk’s Nest. Stay tuned, because coming up next, we’ve got the Material Girl herself, Madonna and her new hit "Into The Groove".

I wasn’t ready for the wave of nostalgia that hit me that the Stranger Things Radio WSQK The Squawk brought out. After seeing a post on social media about an online "radio station" of The SQAWK that played 80's hits with quirky DJ's and goof ads I had to check it out. It took a few searches and downloading an App from the UK  - But I Found It. I was instantly transported to my childhood. Riding in the back of an old white Pontiac station wagon listening to the latest hits. For those of us who lived through the real 80s, hearing it wasn't just a clever show promotion—it was a direct, crackling transmission to a core memory I’d almost forgotten.

The genius of The Squawk isn’t just in the killer song selections (though the music supervisors deserve a Nobel Prize in Nostalgia). It’s in the ritual it resurrects. The over-caffeinated, slightly unhinged DJ, is every local radio host we ever loved. He wasn’t a corporate robot playing a preset list; he was a community weirdo, a late-night friend who might mispronounce a band’s name, tell a painfully long joke, and then slam into a perfect, life-changing song just as you were about to change the station.

But the real magic The Squawk conjures is the memory of The Pause.

You’d hear the opening synth line of “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” or the iconic guitar riff of “Master of Puppets.” Your heart would leap. This is it. This is the missing piece for the mixtape for Lindsay. You’d lunge for the cassette recorder already wired into the stereo, slam down the play and record buttons with a satisfying clunk-click, and then… hold your breath.

Because the DJ loved the sound of his own voice. The song would fade, and just as your finger hovered, ready to stop recording, he’d burst back in: “WOO! That was Simple Minds, telling us all to remember! And before that, the mighty Metallica! Speaking of remembering, don’t YOU forget about Mel’s Auto Body on 3rd! Fender benders are a bummer, but Mel’s prices will have you smiling! Brought to you by the finest Bondo in the state of WV”

A groan. You’d missed the clean intro. The tape was ruined. You’d rewind, eject, and wait. Sometimes for hours. The dedication was real. The mixtape was a language, a love letter, an artifact. The Squawk brought back that core memory of the chaotic, unreliable, yet glorious search for the perfect mixtape source material.

The ads were another masterpiece of memory-jogging. Mel’s Auto Body, the Hawkins Star newspaper, the Starcourt Mall’s “blowout sale.” They weren’t slick national commercials; they were read live, often fumbled, for businesses that probably only existed in a five-mile radius. They sounded like they were recorded in a broom closet, which they probably were. This was the hyper-local, gloriously amateur sound of a pre-internet world.

Hearing The Squawk in does more than set the tone. It rebuilds an ecosystem. It reminds us that once, music wasn’t an on-demand stream, but a treasure hunt. Your connection to the songs you loved was mediated by these charismatic, goofy gatekeepers spinning platters in small studios. You discovered music through them, taped it from them, and built the soundtrack of your life around their whims.

So, thank you, Duffer Brothers for this marketing genius. Thank you for the missed intros, the wacky segues, and the pure, unfiltered 80s cheese. This wasn't just a fictional DJ in a show about monsters and psychic kids. It was the static-filled, joyous echo of a thousand afternoons spent by a radio, finger on the record button, waiting for the perfect song to begin. “This is The Squawk, signing off. Remember, keep your feet on the ground and your heart in the stars. We’ll be back after these messages.”

And just like that, we’re back in that car, scanning the dial, forever waiting for the next perfect song to drop.

What song did you wear out your “record” button trying to capture? Share your own mixtape memories below.

Check Out The Playlist Based On The SQUAWK

Hailing from Richmond, Virginia, Contact has spent the last several years establishing themselves as a formidable and philosophically intense force in the hardcore underground. As noted by No Echo, their trajectory has been one of deliberate and thoughtful evolution, from the raw, metallic punishment of their 2019 demo to the more expansive and atmospheric depths of their 2022 album, *Before, and Through, and Beyond All Time*. That album saw them weaving threads of post-punk and dark, melodic introspection into their relentless foundation, a sound they further refined on the *Cursebreaker* EP. With each release, they have moved further from straightforward aggression and deeper into a realm of textured, cerebral heaviness. Their latest single, "Ten Lamps Of Fire," is not merely a new track; it is the logical and breathtaking culmination of this entire journey. It finds the perfect synthesis of every element Contact has been exploring, resulting in what may be their most powerful and complete piece of music to date.

The song immediately establishes a haunting, almost ritualistic atmosphere. A clean, reverb-drenched guitar line coils over a bedrock of ominous bass, creating a sense of impending dread that feels more cinematic than anything in their prior work. This isn't the chaotic fury of their earliest days; this is a calculated, slow-burn tension that recalls the moodier moments of *Cursebreaker*, but with even greater confidence. When the explosion comes, it is all the more devastating for the wait. The shift into pummeling, mid-tempo hardcore is colossal, showcasing a band in absolute command of dynamics.

The production is pristine, allowing every instrument to land with maximum impact. The drum tone is massive, the bass rumbles with a menacing clarity, and the guitars shift seamlessly between ethereal melodies and chugging, metallic riffs. The vocal performance is a standout, delivering the poetic and spiritually charged lyrics—likely a continuation of the themes explored on their previous works—with a raw-throated passion that is both desperate and authoritative.

"Ten Lamps Of Fire" is a masterclass in modern heavy music. It proves that intensity is not solely born from speed, but from atmosphere, dynamics, and emotional weight. Contact has successfully fused the post-punk melancholy of their recent explorations with the unshakable core of their hardco re roots. For those who have followed their path from the beginning, this single is a thrilling validation of their growth. For the uninitiated, it is a stunning introduction to a band operating at the peak of its powers. If this is the direction of their next chapter, the anticipation for a new full-length is already palpable.

Let’s get the semantics out of the way first. When we say “emo” in this context, we’re not talking about the pop-punk-infused, eyeliner-heavy revolution of the 2000s. We’re talking about the 90s. The Second Wave. The stuff that bubbled up from the basements of the Midwest and Texas, a genre often saddled with the unfortunate (and reductive) label “Midwest Emo.”

In this fertile, introspective scene, a thousand bands bloomed. But in 1997, a band from Austin, Texas released a debut that didn’t just contribute to the genre—it crystallized it. That album was Mineral’s The Power of Failing, and two decades later, its claim as the greatest emo album of the 90s remains unchallenged.

Why? Because it’s not just a collection of songs; it’s a complete and utter worldview, rendered in the most beautifully devastating guitar tones and vulnerable vocals ever committed to tape.

The Sound of a Soul Unspooling

From the moment the gentle, chiming guitar intro of “Five, Eight and Ten” gives way to a cataclysmic wave of distortion, you know you’re in for something special. Mineral’s sound is built on a foundation of dynamic extremes—the quiet wasn’t just quiet, it was fragile and intimate, a secret being whispered. The loud wasn’t just loud, it was a tectonic, emotional collapse, a geyser of pent-up feeling finally erupting.

Guitarists Chris Simpson and Scott McCarver crafted interweaving, melodic lines that felt less like riffs and more like aching, conversational counterpoints. They understood the power of space and crescendo better than almost anyone. The rhythm section, powerful and deliberate, provided the solid ground for these emotional tsunamis to crash upon. This was emo that was sonically massive, borrowing the scope and grandeur of post-rock but keeping its heart firmly in the realm of human-sized anxieties.

The Lyricism: Profoundly Ordinary, Extraordinarily Profound

If the music was the earthquake, then Chris Simpson’s lyrics were the fissure it left in the earth. He didn’t write about grand political statements or fantastical stories. He wrote about what it felt like to be a young person staring at the ceiling at 3 AM, grappling with the terrifying weight of existence, faith, love, and failure.

This was poetry found in the mundane:

“I’ve been looking for a way to make myself feel better.” (“Gloria”)

“And if it’s true that we are blessed with the power to listen, then why is it that I can’t hear the words you say?” (“Slower”)

“I just want to be something more than the dirt in the ground.” (“80-37

Simpson sang these lines with a voice that was perpetually on the verge of breaking—not with technical prowess, but with an undeniable, raw authenticity. He wasn’t performing sadness; he was channeling it. In an era obsessed with irony and cool detachment, Mineral offered unvarnished, earnest sincerity. It was, and remains, breathtakingly brave.

The Antithesis of "Rock Star" Culture

In the age of grunge’s stadium-sized angst and pop-punk’s party-upbeatness, Mineral was an island of solemnity. There is no posturing on The Power of Failing. There are no anthems designed for fist-pumping. Instead, we get the sprawling, seven-minute epic “&Serenading,” a song that builds with the patience of a coming storm, culminating in one of the most cathartic releases in the entire genre. This was music for introspection, for long drives, for feeling deeply and unapologetically.

The Legacy and The Crown

It’s true that bands like Sunny Day Real Estate’s Diary laid the crucial groundwork, and that Jimmy Eat World’s Clarity would later perfect the art of the emo-pop song. But The Power of Failing exists in a space all its own. It is the pure, undiluted essence of what 90s emo was meant to be: emotionally intelligent, musically ambitious, and spiritually resonant.

It’s an album that gave a voice to the quiet kids, the over-thinkers, the ones who felt too much. It found the sublime in the struggle and the beauty in the breakdown. It’s an album about the fear of being insignificant, and in doing so, it became profoundly significant.