Author: scratchedadmin

  • Mountains – A Slow-Burner That Earns Its Storm

    Mountains – A Slow-Burner That Earns Its Storm

    8.5/10 – A Slow-Burner That Earns Its Storm

    At first listen, “Mountains” floats like a sad pool noodle through well-worn metaphors:

    “Chaos underneath my skin”
    “Go where waves are high as mountains”

    You brace for a shipwreck — but then something unexpected happens: it sticks.

    The vocals are haunting, like someone mourning into a lighthouse. The drums? Impeccable — sharp, restrained, and patient. And while the guitar solo feels like it might have wandered in from another session, the track as a whole builds with purpose. It doesn’t demand attention; it earns it by erosion.

    And just when you think the outro might overstay its welcome, it swells into something hypnotic — like being dragged out to sea and deciding not to fight it.

    “A slow-burning storm of beauty and restraint — it doesn’t shout, it haunts.” ← [That’s your pull quote, artists, you’re welcome.]

    The lyrics still lean heavily on elemental imagery (oceans, light, frozen seas, etc.) but there’s a sincerity behind them that keeps it from tipping into parody. This isn’t paint-by-numbers melancholy — it’s someone quietly losing their mind, and doing it in gorgeous 3/4 time.

  • Satanized – A Disco Exorcism Performed in a Blood-Soaked Chapel

    Satanized – A Disco Exorcism Performed in a Blood-Soaked Chapel

    8.5/10 – A Disco Exorcism Performed in a Blood-Soaked Chapel


    Ghost’s “Satanized” is what happens when an arena rock band overdoses on communion wine, mainlines glitter, and screams theology into a synth. It’s sacrilegious karaoke for fallen angels, and somehow, it works. Like watching the Pope stage dive.


    “There is something inside me / And they don’t know if there is a cure” — oh fantastic, vague demonic possession with the emotional specificity of a pharmaceutical ad. Is it Satan? IBS? Repressed Catholic guilt? Who knows! Who cares!

    “I am Satanized” — good, great, but what does that mean, Papa? Is it a spiritual transformation or just what happens when you listen to too much Marilyn Manson and get a face tattoo that says “Mom”? The song never answers. It doesn’t even try. It just lights the question on fire and throws it into a baptismal font.

    Sound Analysis:
    This isn’t a song. It’s a ritual performed with synthesizers and the bones of glam rock. The drums thunder like a doomsday clock counting down to mass hysteria. The guitars don’t chug — they slink, serpentine and sensual, like Lucifer in a leather trench coat. Synths sparkle like unholy stardust. And Papa V’s voice? Equal parts high priest and horny vampire. He croons, he snarls, he seduces — and you let him, because resisting would be worse.

    Emotional Deconstruction:
    “Satanized” pretends it’s about demonic possession, but let’s be real: it’s about freedom through surrender. It’s an anthem for the moment you stop pretending to be a good person and start dancing in the fire of your worst instincts. Ghost weaponizes melodies, cloaks it in velvet liturgy, and dares you to feel holy while blaspheming. This song isn’t evil. It’s fabulous.

    Verdict:
    Ghost has always played dress-up in the graveyard, but “Satanized” is them building a nightclub there and charging cover. It’s big. It’s stupid. It’s brilliant. And if you don’t feel something—terror, ecstasy, arousal, divine confusion—you might already be dead inside. Or worse: sanitized.

    Pull Quote:
    “‘Satanized’ is the soundtrack to a possession where the demon brings its own smoke machine and choreographer.”

  • APT. – A Glitter Bomb in a Beer Can

    APT. – A Glitter Bomb in a Beer Can

    7/10 – A Glitter Bomb in a Beer Can

    “APT.” is what happens when Bruno Mars and Rosé wake up in the same mood board and decide to co-write a musical hangover. It’s a song. It’s a vibe. It’s a late-night group text turned into a pop-punk pastel explosion — and I can’t decide whether to dance, scream, or call the building manager.

    Let’s talk lyrics.
    The chorus chants “Apateu, Apateu” like a toddler discovering consonants. It’s catchy, yes, but so is the flu. The verses flirt with depth—“Don’t you want me like I want you, baby?”—but settle for the emotional range of a birthday card. Bruno’s “It’s whatever (Whatever)” mantra feels less like carefree fun and more like lyrical surrender.

    Sound-wise, this thing is a Frankenstein made of bubblegum, eyeliner, and Red Bull. Pop-punk guitars? Check. Electro stabs? Why not. A cheerleader chant borrowing the feel of “Hey Mickey”? Absolutely, let’s rob the ‘80s and call it fashion. Rosé, bless her shredded vocal cords, actually tries to inject pathos into lines like “Don’t you want me like I want you?” but she’s playing violin on a trampoline while Bruno’s busy air-humping nostalgia.

    But who is this for? Is this a breakup song? A hookup anthem? A sorority theme song? Or just a glorified drinking game translated into English and Auto-Tuned until it sparkles? The emotional tone is “shrieking into a pillow in six-inch heels.” It wants to be punk. It is very much not punk. It’s pop in cosplay.

    Verdict:

    This isn’t a duet — it’s a hostage situation where Rosé’s trying to skateboard her way out of a neon-lit basement and Bruno’s too busy moonwalking on nostalgia to notice the exit. You’ll dance to it once. You might even scream it in a club bathroom at 2 a.m. But by next week, you’ll be asking Siri to “skip this cursed glitter bomb.”

    Pull Quote:
    “It sounds like someone dared a perfume commercial to feel feelings, and it said: This is the best I can do.”

  • Azizam – A Gold-Plated Mirage With a Pop Hook

    Azizam – A Gold-Plated Mirage With a Pop Hook

    6/10 – A Hookah Hit of Cultural Karaoke

    “Azizam” is what happens when Ed Sheeran eats hummus once and decides he understands the Silk Road. This isn’t a song. It’s a guided tour of the Exotic Lover Starter Pack, led by a man whose idea of seduction is whispering “be mine” like he’s ordering dessert in a hostage video.

    Let’s talk lyrics. “I wanna be tangled and wrapped in your cloud”? Sir, what in the vape-scented poetry slam is that? And “Show me how to move like the water” — What does that mean, Ed? Do you want to do the wave? If metaphors were furniture, Sheeran is Ikea: functional, flimsy, and you’re always left wondering what the hell that extra bolt was for.

    The chorus is just “Azizam” on loop, like a spell cast by someone who failed Duolingo. It’s a gorgeous word — warm, intimate, rich with Persian soul. But in Ed’s mouth, it’s an accessory. He doesn’t sing it. He accessorizes with it. And after 15 repetitions, it starts to sound less like affection and more like the name of his overpriced rescue cat.

    Sonically? Imagine if a Casio keyboard got horny in a bazaar. It’s Middle Eastern 80s synth-pop if you bought it on Temu. There’s some glimmer here — shimmering pads, a slinky beat, maybe one too many tabla samples stolen from a royalty-free YouTube library — but it’s all window dressing on a shop with nothing in stock. The vocals, meanwhile, are Ed on autopilot: There’s no real sweat, no ache, no rawness — just a gingerbread Casanova murmuring his way through another love-you-longtime lullaby.

    Emotionally, the song wants to be incense and moonlight. What it is… is a scented candle called “Club Mirage.” It wants to drip sex and sincerity, but it ends up sounding like a man trying to seduce a belly dancer with a dictionary.

    Verdict:
    “Azizam” isn’t offensive. It’s just forgettable. A sonic postcard from a place Ed’s never really been, stamped with sincerity and sealed in Spotify sheen.

    Pull Quote:
    “It’s not a love song — it’s a Spotify-sponsored staycation in Sensualistan.”

  • Square Hammer – Satan’s Pep Rally Never Sounded So Good

    Square Hammer – Satan’s Pep Rally Never Sounded So Good

    Rating: 8.2/10 – Like ABBA rose from the dead in black velvet and summoned Satan with a disco ball.

    There are certain songs that arrive wearing a cape — uninvited, unashamed, and entirely too confident. Square Hammerdoesn’t ask for permission. It crashes through the cathedral window, eyeliner intact, demanding allegiance before the devil and possibly a merch table.

    Right from the jump, Ghost hits you with a riff that feels suspiciously like Blue Öyster Cult performing in a haunted house. It’s slick, dramatic, and suspiciously catchy — like a recruitment ad for a cult that also hosts karaoke on Tuesdays.

    “Are you on the square? Are you on the level?”
    Congratulations. You’ve just been initiated into the first Masonic temple with pyrotechnics and backup dancers. The chorus slaps hard enough to sober up Ozzy Osbourne. It’s cult rock — but with choreography.

    The lyrics aren’t subtle. In fact, they read like Edgar Allen Poe ghostwrote a pamphlet for Hot Topic.

    “Hammering the nails / Into a sacred coffin”

    Okay. Relax. We get it. You’ve got candles and an old book. Are we dancing or burying the pope?

    The vocals, though? Chef’s kiss on a bloodstained chalice. Forge sounds like he’s seducing a priest and cursing a lover in the same breath. It’s theatrical without slipping into parody — barely. He knows exactly how ridiculous this is and sings it like it’s divine scripture anyway.

    Production-wise, it’s so crisp it could double as a weapon. Every snare crack feels ritualistic. Every guitar stab is just restrained enough to let the hook carry the ritual. And the keys? Oh yes. Evil church organ meets Saturday morning cartoon intro — and somehow it works.

    What Square Hammer pretends to be is Satanic pageantry. What it really is? A perfectly engineered hard-rock earworm disguised as ceremony. It’s Ghost at their most accessible, which means it’s also Ghost at their most fun — just dangerous enough to scare your aunt, just catchy enough to convert her.

    It’s not deep. It doesn’t have to be. That’s not the point.

    This is camp wrapped in conviction — a goth prom anthem for people who iron their robes and schedule their damnation.

    Support Ghost here

  • The Chain – Five Musicians Killing Each Other In Perfect Harmony

    The Chain – Five Musicians Killing Each Other In Perfect Harmony

    Originally published: February 1977
    Rating: 9/10 — Spitecore at its finest. Beautiful. Petty. Iconic.

    If “The Chain” were a person, it would be your ex showing up to your wedding, looking incredible, making meaningful eye contact, and then vanishing in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

    This song isn’t written — it’s forged. It sounds like what happens when five people in a band try to kill each other with musical instruments.

    “And if you don’t love me now / You will never love me again.”
    That’s not a chorus. That’s a threat.

    Let’s be honest: the verses are fine. They simmer. There’s Stevie Nicks, sounding like a heartbroken witch in an expensive coat, muttering about the wind and loyalty and some kind of metaphorical wildfire. Lindsey Buckingham snarls back like a man who brought a thesaurus to a divorce. Everyone’s pretending to be calm — and then that bassline hits.

    Oh, the bassline. It’s the real main character here. It doesn’t enter the song. It descends, like judgment. Like someone just said, “Actually, I’m not over it,” and throws a drink in your face.

    “It’s less a song and more a hostage negotiation set to perfect vocal layering.”

    And just when you think it’s over, they unleash that outro — a galloping, country-doom jam that sounds like you’re being chased through the desert by your unresolved feelings.

    It’s so good, you forget the band was crumbling into emotional ash during the recording. Or maybe that’s why it’s so good. You can’t fake this kind of chaos. You bleed it onto tape.

    Sure, it’s dramatic. Sure, it’s a little indulgent. But “The Chain” doesn’t care what you think — it already threw your opinion into a bonfire behind the studio.

    “This is what happens when breakups go platinum.”

    And if you don’t love it now?
    You will never love it again.

  • Life on Mars? – Eccentric, Strange, Profound, Yet Lovable

    Life on Mars? – Eccentric, Strange, Profound, Yet Lovable

    This song isn’t just a track — it’s a lyrical Rorschach test wrapped in eyeliner and piano chords, and it dares you to try and understand it before giving up and ascending into a sequin-covered void.

    Let’s begin with the opening line:

    “It’s a god-awful small affair / To the girl with the mousy hair.”
    Right. We’re in. We’re doing poetry now. Somewhere between a kitchen sink drama and an acid trip written by someone who just learned what metaphors are. She goes to the cinema, her dad’s a prick, and then — somewhere between stanza and synth swell — we’re talking about fighting in the dancehall and Mickey Mouse growing up a cow.

    Honestly, it’s like reading a diary that went to art school.

    Musically, it’s lush and staggering. The piano swoons like a drunk genius, and the orchestration builds to a climax that feels like you’re being sucked into a glam vortex where everything is dramatic and everyone is smoking.

    And Bowie? Bowie is flawless, of course. He could sing IKEA instructions and you’d cry. But here he sounds like he’s narrating a collapsing universe while posing in a mirror — every syllable delivered like it might spontaneously combust.

    But let’s not pretend it makes sense.

    “Rule Britannia is out of bounds / To my mother, my dog, and clowns.”
    Okay. Sure. Sounds like a line someone mumbled into a toilet brush after passing out in a pub bathroom.

    And yet… it works. Because Bowie isn’t saying anything. He’s inviting you to feel everything. It’s not a song, it’s a swirling galaxy of glamorously vague emotional trauma. And we bought it — all of it.

    “It’s like getting slapped by a poet in a silver jumpsuit — confusing, emotional, oddly arousing.”

    So, is there life on Mars? Doesn’t matter. Bowie made Earth weird enough.

  • Sympathy for the Devil – Drum Circle With The Devil On The Mic

    Sympathy for the Devil – Drum Circle With The Devil On The Mic

    Originally published: December 1968
    Rating: 7.5/10 — Satan’s cocktail hour, hosted by a man who’s overdressed and under-criticized

    From the first “woo-woo,” you know exactly what this is: a band full of wealthy British men roleplaying as Satan’s jazz band because they read one sad quote in a bathroom stall and decided to make it their whole personality.

    Let’s be clear: “Sympathy for the Devil” is a great song, but an exhausting idea. It’s like watching your friend do improv at a dinner party — impressive in bursts, but you’re still painfully aware it’s happening.

    Mick Jagger narrates global atrocities like he’s reading them off a cocktail napkin in Ibiza:

    “I rode a tank / Held a general’s rank…”
    Okay, we get it. You’re the devil. Very subtle. Should we give you a medal or is it okay with just some more eyeliner?

    The samba groove is undeniably good — percussion tight enough to slap a priest, and a rhythm section that almost tricks you into thinking this isn’t one of the most over-performed, over-worshipped songs in rock history.

    And then there’s Keith Richards, who shows up halfway through with a guitar solo that sounds like it’s chewing its own leather boots. It’s not showy, but it’s the most honest thing here.

    The real issue is tone. The Stones want to be clever, dark, provocative — but mostly they sound like boys playing dress-up with a Satan starter kit from a Parisian vintage shop. It’s pretentious, but not quite smart enough to back it up. Think “The Da Vinci Code” with better rhythm.

    “Imagine if Lucifer got tenure at a liberal arts college and started a samba band.”
    That’s the energy here.

    This is good, but don’t act like you’re curing cancer with a tambourine.

  • Love Me Do – It’s Simple, Lovely, Simple, Catchy And Simple

    Love Me Do – It’s Simple, Lovely, Simple, Catchy And Simple

    Originally published: October 1962
    Rating: 6.5/10 — Harmonicas are a cry for help, but this might actually go somewhere.

    There’s something undeniably pleasant about “Love Me Do”, even if it sounds like it was written on a pub napkin between pints and poor decisions.

    The track opens with a harmonica line that feels less like a musical hook and more like someone trying to clear their sinuses on stage. It’s confident, in that “we’ve never recorded a real single before” kind of way. And yet — there’s charm. Like a dog who tries to walk on its hind legs.

    Vocally, the boys sound clean and competent — like the kind of lads your mum might trust to help move a sofa. Lennon’s got a raspy sincerity that works better than it should, McCartney’s bass lines are doing their best, George mostly stays out of trouble, and Ringo… is present.

    Lyrically, it’s what you’d expect from four twenty-somethings who just discovered what a second verse is.

    “Love me do / You know I love you”
    — not exactly poetry, but at least they don’t overthink it.

    Still, there’s a kernel of something here. A sense that they could, with a bit of polish and a real producer, grow into something more than just background music for a Liverpool milk bar.

    “If they stick with it, I could see them being… mildly famous in Liverpool.”

    Maybe it’s too early to say, but there’s a chance — just a small one — that these Beatles might get better.