Local Music Releases
With L.J White from Grow Up Bookings.
Inimata
Tri State Scumbag
I absolutely lose it on genre-less music. The kind that refuses to sit still long enough to be labelled. How do you even categorise something that’s built to dodge categories? Tension?
Inimata’s Tri State Scumbag (March 2026) landed like a punch to the sternum from an artist I didn’t even have on my radar six months ago. A self-proclaimed one-man punk band already feels unhinged in the best way and this is not an easy album. It doesn’t hold your hand or guide you gently through. It throws you in. Punk-drenched, synth-slapped, dirt-under-the-nails riffs that flirt with hip-hop and side-eye dance music. It’s messy, deliberate, and kind of confrontational. The average listener won’t know where to stand but I think that’s the point. You’re not meant to. It’s filthy and weirdly seductive. Don’t fight it. Jump in and swim in the moat.
This feels like the kind of artistry the Sydney scene has been itching for, not at all polished for the sake of it, not chaotic without purpose, just genuinely new.
Jannah Beth
Orbits & Echoes
An infrastructure of the Inner West music scene, Jannah Beth does not come to play. Offbeat. One Off Traks. FBi Radio Artist of the Week. Not bullet points, coordinates of their character.
This release feels lived-in. Like someone
travelled through time, took notes, and came back glowing differently.
There’s a shift here. Not a hard left turn, more like a new orbit. Familiar gravity, different sky.
Storytelling has always been the spine of Jannah’s work. It runs through everything they touch. Quiet movements, big impact. No theatrics, just gravity. And this record locks them into a different tier. No debate. It’s transmutation. Jannah Beth didn’t level up. They morphed.
Echoes of SBTRKT, flickers of Sylvan Esso, but never slipping into imitation. More like distant constellations aligning for a second before drifting off again. The dance element has never been accidental. But this time it feels grown. Not restrained, just intentional. Like every sound has been placed. Still free, just sharper.
Charlie Collins
Nightwriter
Nightwriter feels like one of those stepping stones you don’t fully clock until you’re already standing on it, looking back at the damage and forward at something sharper.
Thirteen tracks. No filler. No dead air. Just a tightrope walk between hook pop instincts and gritty guitar. There’s pain stitched into every track, but not in a way that begs for sympathy. It reads more like catharsis. Maybe even exorcism and no numbing of anything down for palatability.
It’s intimate, sensual even, but a sadness lurking underneath like a second shadow. She lays it all out with no performance of detachment. The melodies are sometimes soft, almost sweet, but the lyrics carry a darker weight. You can feel the rawness across the whole record especially knowing of the origins of the writing.
There’s still country in her bones and you hear it that slow burn ache. It has that surgical precision, reaches in, messes with your insides a bit, then hands them back like nothing happened. This album feels like heartbreak but controlled. Less unravelling. More cutting precision, She doesn’t stab you with it. She just lets you see a glint of the blade.
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