Life rarely moves in straight lines. It often wobbles, bends, crashes and pulls in conflicting directions with a callous sense of rhythm. The centre hasn’t felt like it’s holding for some time now; seams are stretched thin, threatening to split under the weight of everything at once. In times like these, the only thing that makes sense is music that doesn’t try to smooth the chaos but mirrors and wrestles this volatility until it becomes something cathartic. That’s where Wolves and their debut LP Self-Titled (yes, really) reside. Thriving in unpredictability, weaving hardcore ferocity with unexpected textures that channel mayhem into something raw and uncomfortably alive, Wolves have forged disorder into a language of sound entirely their own. Listening to it feels like shelter and wreckage at once. Perhaps I’ve stumbled into a rage room, smashed the walls to pieces only to have them collapse back onto me. Call it therapy. Call it rebuilding. Perhaps the centre will endure.
Wolves’ pedigree reads like a compendium of heavy: Hundred Year Old Man, Conjurer, ByTheRiver, xKings, Vnder a Crvmbling Moon, and The Grey. And yet, the band is a beast of its own making. Their songs move with the jagged urgency of pre Jane Doe Converge, landing breaks so sharply sometimes I almost forget to take a breath. Self-Titled opens with “Leeches”, a nearly three-minute onslaught that first hits, then lulls you with a fleeting sense of safety before it detonates once more into fast, raw metalcore, with tight riffs slicing through high-pitched, snarling vocals. There seems to be a punk DNA running deep here as well, but the off-kilter flow and sudden dissonant flurries keep the chaos from becoming predictable. Every second feels urgent and perfectly paced. In that intensity, Wolves maintain control. With four members sharing vocal duties, the energy feels anything but scattered. They unleash a calculated bedlam reminiscent of Dillinger Escape Plan, creating something that is meticulous, punishing, and magnetic.
“Reformed (Try Love)” bursts open with emotion from the very first note, then similarly eases just enough to afford tightness a respite. At times, the guitar echoes early-2000s alt-rock with rhythmic, driving riffs that land with a haunting beat. Cyclical patterns give the track an anthemic lift while crunchy, layered textures build a claustrophobic intensity that reflects the lyrical themes. The song pushes and pulls with deliberate precision, ending on a desperate plea. It is a furious call to wake up, resist manipulation, and embrace dignity, empathy, love. It names names, exposes the machinery of evil, and refuses to let you sit quietly. Perhaps one of the best songs I’ve heard this year.
“A Stolen Horse” features a little vocal emo nod, and the same stop-start dynamics as before, slowly intensifying towards the midpoint. The multiple vocalists trade lines and rigorously layer their voices, adding tension and momentum. Dark and visceral, the track rides the edge of proggy metalcore, every instrument hitting forward with intention. Truthfully, what makes Self-Titled so compelling for me is its stubbornness to bend to any single genre. Take “New Liver, Same Eagle”, barrelling further into progressive territory whilst carrying a lingering, pressing sadness. The song twists like a knife through a dense wound, a testament to the band’s restless inventiveness. The next two tracks even hint at stoner rock in the guitar tones, with small flashes of art-rock melody. These twinges are fleeting, seamlessly woven into a monolithic hardcore nucleus. The album never feels fragmented; it is expansive, fuelled, and fiercely cohesive, a culmination of years of musical experimentation.
It’s not often I pick up an album of this kind and not raise an eyebrow when I see a runtime of 47 minutes, but every track here hits immediately, each mathy riff and breakdown snapping with purpose, and leaving no room for overindulgence. The production is sharp and clear, giving instruments space to breathe but keeping the energy closely pinned to the chest. Wolves have built a record that is tight and relentless, proving that aggression can coexist with complexity and brief moments of calm. By the end, I’m exhilarated and a bit exhausted, fully aware that I’ve been swept through a world that vibrates with a rather feral pulse.
Perhaps the centre will endure. Or maybe it collapses again tomorrow, but in the grit, the grind, the shattering, we’ll find some strangely sustaining music to scream into. For a moment, the mess might feel resolute.