The Rifles return to Abbey Road’s Studio 2 for Unplugged Album Vol. 2, reimagining highlights from their catalogue in an intimate acoustic setting. Following the success of Unplugged Vol. 1, this second collection finds the band bringing new depth and tenderness to songs such as ‘Talking’, ‘Time in Hand’, ‘When I’m Alone’, ‘Peace and Quiet’, and ‘Darling Girl’. Backed by piano and string quartet, their melodic indie-rock sound takes on a renewed warmth and immediacy. Recorded live in one of the world’s most storied studios, the album captures the natural chemistry and honesty that have long defined the band’s appeal. For long-time followers and new listeners alike, Unplugged Album Vol. 2 offers a vivid portrait of a group still refining and reinterpreting their craft.
The Rifles
The Rifles Unplugged Album: Recorded at Abbey Road Studios
Joji doesn’t overdo his words on this album. And to be honest, he never has. Lyrically, not much is left to the imagination on ‘Piss In The Wind’, which is not inherently a bad thing when using the lens of yearning and crooning. Steve Lacy pastiche ‘LOVE YOU LESS’ gives lines such as ‘If I love you less, will you love me more’. Lyrics like these fit Joji’s narrative and framing; his top lines are consistently solid, though no one is here for lyrical density. Topically, it’s unlikely Joji will ever change. On ‘Piss In The Wind’, these rehashed themes fit the instrumentals, so despite the slightly erratic tracklist, every element of this project is distinctly Joji.
Despite being less hit-filled than previous works, ‘Piss In The Wind’ is potentially the most authentic Joji project to date, a scenic route through every facet of his sonic and auditory identity. His predisposition for poetic vividity and melancholy is once again at the forefront, soundtracked by a distorting amalgamation of every palette he has toyed with to this point. For some, chronic rumination can be irritating and monotonous, but for Joji fans and those partial to this brand of wistful sadboy alt pop, ‘Piss In The Wind’ is a solid listen.
For the uninitiated, comparing a weird, overstimulated spread of genre-agnostic feel, resistance, and ceaselessness made by two California-born, Aymara siblings to the pocket symphonies of the cleverest Beach Boy might feel unrealistic. But I implore you to at least give Chuquimamani-Condori’s recent Edits a try. “Breathe Kullawada Caporal E DJ edit” is a noisy pop racket that sounds like four or five radio stations at once, materializing in the chaos and pleasure of layering. That’s a hit song pulled apart and taped back together inside out. It’s music that, like the original cuts of “Surf’s Up” and “Heroes and Villains,” lives in the soul and blasts heavily out of it.
Crampton’s first full-length solo endeavor since 2024’s Estrella Por Estrella (a droning, Bolivian guitar tape with hues of Cheer-Accident) is great. Anata is a product of the Great Pakajaqi Nation and dedicated to the Andean ceremony of the same name, “where we celebrate the Pachamama (Mother Earth) before the rainy season, giving thanks for harvest with offerings & the principle of reciprocity (Anyi) between humans/nature,” according to the liner notes. The q’iwa/queer parts of the music are anti-colonial and anti-state, and the loud parts of this record are ceremonial—like noise clattering in the street, or the soundtrack of a passing parade. The ingredients of Crampton’s instrumental work aren’t parodied by the ego of singing. Anata, like Estrella Por Estrella before it, is a deconstruction. It’s spiritual, medicinal—Indigenous ceremonial music spun boundless by human activation. As Crampton said of the Great Pakajaqi Nation last month, “we’re all still connected no matter where we find ourselves in the world.”
Crampton opens a portal to his people by rewiring the compositional possibilities of guitar playing, and the elaborate “Ch’uwanchaña 〜El Golpe Final〜” is shredded noise captured in trance-y loops and crushing ascending lines. Surges of metal guitar couple with the acoustic backings of charango and ronroco, climbing into an overwhelming spate of texture. It’s blown apart and obscured, analogous to YouTube clips of Andean liturgies where the audio’s bottomed out. The energy of “Ch’uwanchaña 〜El Golpe Final〜” takes me to a different place. It’s an explosive, suspended tribute to Aymara music. Crampton layers his guitars and sometimes they sound like only one, and sometimes they sound like a thousand. “Jallu” is anchored by this static, chugging riff while Crampton noodles across piled instruments. “Mallku Diablón” opens with loose strums and glassy tones, before distending into a compressed, avalanching scorcher.
