Angerland’s “Commit A Madness” intrudes. From the first seconds, the track builds a claustrophobic kind of tension, the kind that seems to coil in the back of the mind rather than erupt outright. There’s a sense of slow, creeping dread baked into the production, as though the band has trapped a ghost inside the mix and let it whisper between the beats. Angerland has always flirted with the darker fringes of punk and noise-driven rock, but here they lean fully into a moody, almost cinematic soundscape that feels less like a song and more like a fever dream. It’s a journey through haunted corridors—personal ones, emotional ones, the ones you’d rather keep the doors shut on—and the band makes no promise you’ll come out the same.
The soundscape burns in slow motion, painting warped memories in flickers of fire, static, and fractured rhythm. What initially registers as heaviness reveals itself as something far more nuanced. Beneath the chaotic edges, there’s a line of melancholy humming like a loose electrical wire—soft enough to miss if you aren’t paying attention, but vital to the track’s emotional weight. Angerland balances noise and restraint so delicately that the track becomes a tug-of-war with itself: distortion rubbing against longing, aggression leaning into stillness, like someone teetering on the edge of saying something they’ve held back for years. That balance is what pulls the listener deeper. It’s not loud for the sake of volume; it’s loud in the way an unresolved memory becomes loud when you’re alone with it.
As the momentum builds, the song begins to twist the nerves. Little sonic shifts—a sudden tightening of rhythm, a tone bending just off-centre, an unexpected hollow in the mix—create a psychological push and pull. It feels like falling down a staircase in slow motion, every impact spaced out just enough for you to process the next one coming. The chorus doesn’t explode so much as it expands, swallowing space in a way that makes your heartbeat stutter. This is the part of the track that feels like the band reaching into your chest and adjusting the dial on your nervous system. There’s a tingling in the limbs, a racing pulse, and an almost physical sense of being pulled downward, deeper into the spiral. You’re horrified and hooked, even as the track whispers that madness might be the only “emergency exit” from the loop you’re stuck in.
By its final moments, “Commit A Madness” leaves a burn mark that’s hard to shake. It doesn’t cleanly resolve; it doesn’t grant release. Instead, the track lingers like an afterimage on the inside of the skull, the kind that flashes up again hours later when you’re not expecting it. Angerland has crafted a piece that doesn’t merely explore psychological unravelling—it simulates it. And in doing so, they’ve created something that feels terrifyingly intimate. For a song about being dragged back through the corridors of your own haunted past, “Commit A Madness” does exactly what its title promises: it pulls you to the edge of something unsettling and leaves a part of you wandering in that world long after the final note fades.
