RIBS

The sophomore album from NC outfit RIBS hits like a sack of rocks to the small of the back. It’s a brutal, often brittle record that’s made for the malevolence of these times. Dug into the dirt of post-punk, but not the aloof strains, the band turns turbulent rhythm and sinewy austerity into and engine for invective that’s kicking wild at the dust bowl depravity of our increasingly adrift outlook.Vocalist Mike Wallace levies speak-sung quips that cut one minute, lighten the weight of our collective woe the next. Landing between accusations and calls to action, the band bristles at the modern shipwreck morality of power structures that are happiest with a foot on our necks.

Gnawing on Fugazi and a less ADHD vision of Refused, the band should appeal to ’90s punks looking to kick a hole in the hull of those who’d leave us stranded and scrabbling for water, wealth, and willpower. The record proves more dynamic than the average post-punk wrecking ball, though. There are melodic ripples among the tense flexing of guitars and drums . A surprising trickle of piano adds a sense of urgency to “Paperwork.” Acoustics and harmonies feed a cooldown on “In The Rushlight,” and the title track even has something of a rumpled swagger to it, but the band is at their best when they’re up against the wall. The terse pummel of “High Fives of the Four Horsemen” feels ready to light the fuse. “Not a Boogie” likewise blisters the skin, contrasting moments of cold malaise and coiled tension in the opener and closer. It’s a record ripped on discomfort, fed on friction. That’s something that 2026 is yearning for, a callous against comforts, an inoculation against the numbing feelings and easy apathy. The band’s sophomore record throws some cold water on the listener and sends them out awake and swinging.

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