With “Island Poetry”, Boston outfit Mad Painter throw themselves headlong into the sprawling, theatrical spirit of 1970s rock. Led by songwriter, vocalist, and keyboardist Alex Gitlin alongside Al Hendry, Kenne Highland, Al Naha, Sharon Crumrine, and Julie Gee the band pushes roaring Hammond organ runs, layered vocal harmonies, and warm analog punch to the forefront, treating classic-era rock as a playground with no speed limits rather than a museum exhibit behind velvet ropes.
The album opens at full tilt, smelling faintly of overdriven amplifiers and hot vacuum tubes. On “Debt Collector,” an abrasive garage-rock riff drives an unyielding demand for accountability, spiraling into a breathless, wailing solo that screeches to an abrupt stop. That raw punch spills across the record’s punkier corners: “Empty Bottles” counters heavy grit with a bouncy, piercing loop to deliver a message of personal renewal, while “Spin Your Ventilator” turns stifling heat into a relentless sprint for cool air.
On “Suit Of Worries,” lively staccato hooks dance across a fast-charging rhythm to turn internal panic into buoyant release, matched in speed by the snappy, loyal pop-punk declaration of “You Dreamed I Was In Love.” Then defiance flares on “Stand Your Ground,” which races through skate-punk velocity and an anthemic, spiraling solo that stares down final judgment without flinching.
Then the canvas widens, wildly. Mad Painter pivot from sweaty basement floors to cosmic voyages and grandiose art-rock melodrama. “Nektarized” pulses with space-disco cadence and celestial wanderlust, launching listeners into dramatic galactic orbits. From there, the record embraces symphonic tragedy on “Tommy Lost It All,” tracking a fallen hero over sweeping chords and a soaring solo.
“Shadow of the Words” hurtles toward mortality with galloping heavy-metal speed and alarm-like dissonance, followed by the syncopated, eerie chase of “Two Horsemen.” “I Am The King” ascends from cascading melodies to explosive peaks, pondering the hollow burden of absolute rule before the doom-laden plod of “Circle Of Hands” closes things out in a slow, psychedelic fog.
It is an unapologetic, analog-hearted record that wears its dramatic ambitions openly. In a musical landscape that often demands tidy labels, Mad Painter remind us of how thrilling rock could be when it dared to chase every impulse across the dial. What good is holding the crown if you never risk losing your breath along the way?
