They Owe Us — Katzengold

I've been thinking a lot lately about how little music any of us actually hear.

There is so much of it out there, yet most of us spend our listening lives within a pretty small circle. The music we grew up with. The bands we know. The genres we feel comfortable with.

There's nothing wrong with that. I do it too.

But it made me wonder: how much music are we actually missing?

That question started with Michel Faber's Listen: On Music, Sound and Us.

Early in the book, Faber writes: “I’m not here to change your mind about Dusty Springfield or Shostakovich or Tupac Shakur or synthpop. I’m here to change your mind about your mind.”

That line stopped me.

I've started trying to do exactly that.

And Katzengold, the new album from They Owe Us, landed at exactly the right time.

I listened to it digitally first, then went back to it on vinyl. I wanted to give it some time before deciding what I thought.

That led me to Kristoffer Ragnstam.

Some albums arrive quietly, almost by accident. Silver Spoon found me through a physical copy sitting at Flashbacks in Hamilton, waiting for someone to take a chance on it.

I went out of my way to pick it up because Chad always seems to have something interesting spinning, and I've come to trust his taste more than any algorithm. I'd streamed a couple of Fighting Frogs tracks, just enough to get a feeling for the band.

Something clicked.

So I made the trip.

What I came home with was CD 50 of 50, the final copy in the band's limited run. The number wasn't printed or factory-stamped. It was a homemade label stuck right on the front of the CD case.

That small detail says a lot.

This wasn't a major-label release designed to sit neatly on a shelf. It was two Hamilton musicians making something themselves, putting together fifty physical copies and sending them out into the world.
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Holding the last one made it feel less like buying an album and more like catching a small piece of a local music story while it was happening.

Canada has a knack for producing world-class independent music across just about every genre. The problem is that in the streaming era, finding those artists can feel harder than ever.

Music is everywhere, all the time. Thousands of new releases push through algorithms every week, each one fighting for a few seconds of our attention. And somehow, the more access we have, the harder it can become to connect with anything long enough to actually feel something.

Music discovery isn’t broken because there’s a lack of music.

It’s broken because there’s a lack of attention.

So when something does land—when a song cuts through the noise and makes me stop what I’m doing—I pay attention.

For context, I don’t cover anything I don’t genuinely like.

​Growing up is supposed to be simple, but most of us learn early that it isn't.

Love doesn't always last. Confidence comes and goes. Identity can feel uncertain. Healing rarely happens when we expect it. These are the quiet realities people carry for years before they ever find the words to describe them.

Happy Thought School gives those feelings a voice.
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This isn't an album built for playlists or background listening. It asks for your attention. It's the kind of record that rewards sitting down with it, preferably on vinyl, where every pause between songs feels intentional.

​That is what makes this collaboration with Paper Bag Records feel like such a natural fit. Their artists have always leaned toward honesty over trends, creating records that reveal a little more of themselves with every listen.

Back to the Beginning

My relationship with The Cure began in the 1980s, when music felt like something you stumbled upon and held close. I didn’t start with albums—I started with singles. Staring at the Sea was my gateway. Tracks like “Boys Don’t Cry,” “A Forest,” “Primary,” “Other Voices,” and “The Walk” felt like secret transmissions. They were moody, melodic, and unlike anything else I was hearing.

Then came The Head on the Door in 1985. That album didn’t just speak to me—it became part of my emotional DNA. I’ve written a full blog post about its impact, and to this day, it remains my favourite Cure record. After that, Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me, Disintegration, and Wish followed, each one marking a new chapter in my life. But somewhere around 1989, I lost touch with their newer music. The connection faded, though the older songs never left. They stayed with me, quietly soundtracking moments big and small.

Rediscovering the Band

More recently, I read Cured by Lol Tolhurst. If you love music memoirs, this one is essential. It’s not just about the band—it’s about identity, creativity, and survival. The story of a few punks from a provincial English town trying to express themselves in a way no one else could. From the birth of goth to global recognition, it’s a deeply personal account filled with both devastation and triumph.

One line in particular stayed with me: “We weren’t trying to be dark—we were trying to be honest. And sometimes honesty sounds like despair.” That quote reframed how I hear The Cure. Their music wasn’t about aesthetic—it was about emotional truth. And that truth, even when painful, was what made it resonate so deeply.

Reading Cured reminded me why The Cure mattered so much to me. So when I heard they were releasing a new album in 2024, after a 16-year silence, I felt that old anticipation return.

Songs of a Lost World: First Impressions

This isn’t a comeback. It’s a reckoning.

Songs of a Lost World is a return to The Cure’s darker, more gothic rock roots. The compositions are powerful, the lyrics emotionally charged. Only Robert Smith could deliver something this raw and beautiful. He wrote and arranged the entire album himself—the first time since The Head on the Door. That detail alone made me lean in.

The reception has been overwhelmingly positive. It’s already been nominated for three BRIT Awards, including Album of the Year. But more importantly, it feels like an album you live inside. You don’t skip tracks. You let it unfold.

• “Alone” opens the record with a slow burn. Smith’s voice sounds ghostly, distant, like he’s singing from another realm. He’s said it was the first song that brought the album into focus.
• “And Nothing Is Forever” is a piano-led masterpiece. It’s slow and devastating, but you can’t help wanting more.
• “I Can Never Say Goodbye,” written for Smith’s late brother, is stripped down and deeply personal. After reading Cured, that song hit me harder than I expected. It’s not just heartfelt—it’s sacred.

There’s something here for every Cure fan. The album is cohesive, immersive, and emotionally resonant. If you’ve aged with The Cure, or if you’ve faced grief and loss, this record will speak to you in ways few others can.

Why It Resonates

What’s compelling about Songs of a Lost World is how good it is. It doesn’t feel like a late-career footnote. It feels essential.

It belongs alongside Disintegration, with its despair and romantic ruin. This is an album of reflection, memory, and finality. Personally, I’d place it in their top tier—right there with Disintegration, Pornography, The Head on the Door, and Wish. It’s a late-career triumph that reminds us we still have something to give, even when we think our time is done.

What The Cure Means to Me

The Cure has never been just a band to me. They’re an emotion, a language, a memory, a reflection. I can thread together so many moments in my life through their music. Each album offered a melody—melancholy or playful—that helped me through. Their songs have been with me in quiet moments, in heartbreak, in joy, and in reflection. They’ve helped me make sense of things I couldn’t put into words.
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Songs of a Lost World doesn’t just add to their legacy. It adds to mine. It reminds me that music can still surprise us, still move us, and still speak to the parts of ourselves we thought were long forgotten.

Keep Listening
Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Explore more stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
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Find Your Next Record
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Fontaines D.C. may not know how to dress—but they’ve certainly figured out how to reinvent post-punk for a modern world.

I first heard “Starburster” months before the album Romance dropped. The swagger in the vocal delivery, the rapped phrasing, the tension of those deep, deliberate breaths—it was unlike anything I’d heard from them before. That moment signaled the end of their Dublin-centric storytelling and the beginning of something more atmospheric, more cinematic.

It reminded me of the journey U2 took years ago. From raw post-punks to global architects of mood, both bands know how to stretch the limits of genre and geography. Fontaines feels like they’re writing music not just for Ireland, but for every rain-drenched corner of the world.

With Romance, Grian Chatten paints in abstract strokes—his lyrics feel like scenes from dreams. The band dives headfirst into shoegaze, synth rock, dream pop, even hints of rap-rock. Not everything in that genre blend is my favorite, but somehow, they make it all work. There’s crooning now. There’s melody. There’s emotional weight stitched into every line.

And the outfits—wacky, surreal, intentionally clashing. The band calls it visual dissonance, mirroring the album’s emotional chaos. It’s performance art dressed up as fashion faux pas. As strange as it looks, it’s undeniably committed.

What Romance does best, though, is invite you into a world. From the ominous drama of “Romance” to the hypnotic pull of “Desire”—with its booming bassline and aching vocals—it’s an album that demands a full sit-down listen. “Modern World” channels Lana Del Rey’s surreal melancholy, while “Favourite” feels like a diary entry torn out and read aloud. Even “Bug,” buzzed out and chaotic, reportedly came together in a single room with raw energy flying.

Before their album was even a whisper, I saw them open for the Arctic Monkeys in Toronto. I showed up a fan—left the venue a full-blown superfan. These five former Dublin students, lyrical souls to the core, have since emerged as some of the most daring and inventive forces in modern rock.

Their clothes may be questionable. But their commitment to evolving sound? Undeniable.

Keep Listening
​Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Deep Cuts brings together personal stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
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Take Care of the Records You Love
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If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.

In June 2025, I walked into The Beat Goes On and stumbled across a used copy of The Vapors’ debut album New Clear Days. Eight bucks and a worn sleeve later, I was holding a little slice of 1980—and I didn’t even know what I was getting into.

Sure, I’d heard “Turning Japanese” before. That song was unavoidable back in the day—quirky, catchy, and cranked through my speakers tuned to 1150 CKOC Radio in Hamilton, while little-kid me probably bounced along without understanding a word. But diving into the full album this year for the first time, I realized The Vapors were victims of their own success. “Turning Japanese” was such a smash that most people never looked beyond the single. As it turns out, the rest of New Clear Days holds up incredibly well—and may be even more rewarding.

The Vapors had that classic British new wave energy: jittery guitars, tight arrangements, and lyrics full of wit and bite. They fit right in with the likes of Blondie (“Call Me”),  the Rolling Stones (“Emotional Rescue”), and Queen, who had two entries in Canada’s top 10 that year. In fact, New Clear Days peaked at #6 on the Canadian charts in 1980. But it’s more than its stats—it’s the kind of album that grows deeper with each spin.

​The tracks that grabbed me?

• “Sixty Second Interval” – A melancholy melody with wartime undertones. It’s a deep cut that deserves more love.
• “Letter from Hiro” – Hands down my favorite. A poetic, sweeping closer about a friendship broken by WWII. It’s emotional and cinematic.
• “Waiting for the Weekend” – A relatable ode to the working grind. Still on my playlist, still punching above its weight.
• “Bunkers” – Cold War paranoia wrapped in a post-punk shell. Dark, anxious, and eerily relevant.

The whole record carries themes of conflict, conformity, and existential worry—reflecting its time but resonating just as much now. The lyrics are clever, the instrumentation tight, and the mood unmistakably early ’80s—but timeless all the same.

Even the album cover adds weight. Designed by John Pasche (yes, the guy behind the Rolling Stones’ tongue logo), it captures nuclear-era isolation with minimalist tension. It’s now a favorite among collectors for its thematic strength and stark visual flair.

Listening now, I can’t help but hear The Vapors’ influence echo through bands like The Strokes, Arctic Monkeys, and early Killers—groups that blend sharp hooks with smart writing and restless energy. I missed New Clear Days the first time around, but discovering it 45 years later feels like reconnecting with an old friend I never met.
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$8 well spent. And now it’s on heavy rotation—proof that some records just wait patiently to find you.

Keep Listening
​Some records stay with us for years. Others find us much later than they probably should. Deep Cuts brings together personal stories about the albums and artists we keep coming back to.
→ Explore Deep Cuts
​
Take Care of the Records You Love
From cleaning and sleeves to storage and listening gear, explore the Vinyl Vibes guides for looking after your collection.
→ Explore Vinyl Essentials

If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.

Back in 2022, an Apple algorithm handed me a gift I didn’t know I needed: THUS LOVE. I wasn’t looking for a new band, but when their song started streaming through my headphones, something clicked. It was immediate—moody, minimal, and strangely magnetic. I looked them up, picked up a copy of their debut album Memorial from Sonic Boom during a trip to Toronto, and I’ve been hooked ever since.

They’re not just musicians. THUS LOVE is a collective, made up of three trans artists—Echo Mars, Lu Racine, and Nathaniel van Osdol—based in Brattleboro, Vermont. They built their own studio inside a repurposed organ factory, record everything themselves, and live together as a creative unit. You can hear it in their sound—it’s intimate, gritty, cohesive. It feels like outsider music made for people like me: reflective, imperfect, and fully alive.

The first time I dropped into Memorial, Side One lit me up.

“Repetitioner” opens like the score to an ‘80s cult film—think fog, neon, and late-night existential spirals. It runs for 5 minutes and 32 seconds, but only uses 56 words. Somehow, its hypnotic repetition says everything without really saying anything. That’s power.

Then there’s “In Tandem”, a burner with a slow build and simmering tension. I’d never heard the word discomfiture before—it means emotional unease—and that’s exactly what the song nails. It doesn’t just sound moody. It feels moody.

“Anathema” came next, and I found myself googling lyrics mid-listen. The word has ancient roots—Greek, biblical, dramatic. In modern use, it means something utterly loathed or rejected. I still don’t know exactly what the song is trying to say, but that’s the point. Their music invites reflection instead of spelling things out. It leaves room to feel lost.

And then: “Family Man.” This track builds from a subdued jam into something raw and guttural. It loops like a meditation, like burnout turned into melody. Post-punk at its finest—tight, emotional, and beautifully unresolved.

THUS LOVE reminds me of all the greats—Joy Division, The Cure, Arctic Monkeys, Radiohead, Siouxsie and the Banshees. But they’re doing something different. Something personal. Memorial doesn’t just play—it lingers, asking to be revisited, reinterpreted, absorbed.

Four tracks in, I knew this band wasn’t just going to be a passing favorite. They spoke to a part of me that craves art with edges, songs that aren’t afraid to be uncomfortable. Music that lets you reflect—then come back for more.

That Apple algorithm did its job, but THUS LOVE took it further. And now? I’m all in.

If you’re building your setup, you can explore the full Vinyl Essentials guide covering turntables, cleaning, and accessories.