REVIEWS

Though evoking crime and chaos with a name like Abby and the Arsonists, their music softly blends pensive reflection with a healthy dose of detached humor on their new album, Caterpillars in the Walls. Opening track “Mood Ring” shows the more sincere side of the album with slice-of-life glimpses such as catching salamanders in a polluted creek woven throughout bright, shimmering jangle-pop. Next on the tracklist, “Carmela” displays their sillier side with an ode to the Sopranos character of the same name. Whether it be songs about the unglamorous lives of real-world, historical pirates, or the POV of someone who committed vehicular manslaughter, the common thread is a melancholy present in all the characters’ weird lives. Abby and her distinct voice act as a ringleader through the circus that is the human experience. If you weren’t really listening, you might miss the sadness baked in as the bright guitars and gentle percussion disarm and lull you into a sense of security. But if you let it, this album will burn you up with some gut-punching lyrics, like on “Reborn,” an unruly track that starts with heavy distorted bass and noodly guitar before Abby gets into uncomfortable confessions about desperately wanting to be reincarnated as her lover’s cat, a sink full of dishes that can’t be ignored, or their favorite shirt from middle school. Perhaps the lyric most reflective of the album’s profound hidden introspection is within the line, “If I was someone else, I’d still make all the same mistakes / They led me to you, babe.” —Dalton Spangler

Former New Orleans resident Kelby Clark is a composer and musician originally from south Georgia and currently based in Los Angeles, making acoustic-folk-banjo-drone music. Language of the Torch was recorded in Nashville, Tennessee, and released through Baton Rouge micro-label Tentative Power. The instrumentation consists solely of banjo and harmonium (pump organ), the silence itself acting as a third instrument. Stripped bare, Clark’s finger-plucking of the banjo and the low, light droning of the harmonium make for a plaintive, minimal, and melancholic but reflective album. Language of the Torch is more experimental, drone, and raga (a melodic mode central to Indian classical music that has been co-opted into a genre in its modern iteration) than it is traditional bluegrass or folk, though those influences are certainly there. His fingerpicking style could be described as American primitive guitar or country blues style, similar to that of John Fahey and Jack Rose. These terms describe an acoustic sound and style of composition very similar to each other, but at once inextricably linked together in their birth: American primitive guitar is inherently minimal and acoustic, and raga is a mode for improvisation. Listening to it feels like walking through a desolate land, perhaps a post-apocalyptic world reclaimed by the Earth, or maybe just Appalachia or the rural South, miles and miles of field ahead to traverse. —Daniella Cherner

Throughout The Convenience’s hyped new release, Like Cartoon Vampires, the vibe is very nostalgic. Its late-aught-era garage rock/post-punk revival influences are strong—you can hear Spoon in “I Got Exactly What I Wanted,” The Strokes in “Target Offer,” The Kooks in “Vanity Shapes,” etcetera etcetera. It’s jammy at its core, but with tight guitar riffs and well-paced momentum. It feels like the result of a clear vision: a precise, intentionally produced rock album made by talented, professional musicians. And they are absolutely that—also members of Video Age and Hovvdy, The Convenience has their formula down, and it shows. Like Cartoon Vampires is cool, replayable, easy to listen to, structurally solid, and ultimately, doesn’t do much for me. It’s musically congruous and offers some interesting cultural commentary, but overall, I find it pretty sterile. Taste is a funny thing—there are objectively worse albums I’m drawn to again and again, for their daring and heart, not despite their imperfections, but because of them. Like Cartoon Vampires is the inverse experience: a very refined, technically good album with enjoyable tracks I like, but don’t see myself revisiting much. But maybe I’m missing some magic you’ll discover. —Terra Durio

Deep Sea Diver has been a staple of the Seattle scene for years, though they did not get national attention until their 2020 release Impossible Weight. Rather than galvanize frontwoman Jessica Dobson’s confidence, this attention led her to doubt her instincts. Billboard Heart, the band’s follow-up to Impossible Weight and first album on Sub Pop, explores this self-doubt in detail. Billboard Heart opens with the title track, glimmering synths leading into a radiant song about accepting uncertainty in order to free yourself (“There’s plenty of those old tapes playing around inside my head / I’m welcoming the future by letting go of it”). Dobson channels her feelings of frustration and anxiety into her guitar playing, as though the instrument is an extension of her psyche (“What Do I Know,” “Emergency,” “Shovel”). On “Emergency,” Dobson wails and snarls away, anchored by Elliot Jackson’s synths and drummer (and Dobson’s partner) Peter Mansen’s tireless drum beats (from “Emergency”: “Don’t fan these sympathy flames / I’ll give you anything”). Amidst the angst, there are moments of optimism and hope. Billboard Heart is a triumphant follow-up to Impossible Weight and a reminder that it is always important to fight for yourself (from “Happiness Is Not a Given”: “Don′t go kicking and screaming / You’ve got to believe that there′s more”). —Mary Beth Campbell

I could say that if you are a hardcore kid who loves jazz, this band is a no-brainer for you. Yes, but that’s just too reductive. The assemblage that is Mike Dillon and Punkadelick pushes beyond that cool duality, with polyphonic percussion and multiple idiophones. Texas-born Mike Dillon, a veteran musician trained as a percussionist and vibraphonist, drives Punkadelick through hard bop into prog rock, seamlessly shifting gears to cumbia. I unknowingly walked into their set at Gretna Fest in 2023 and assumed this was a Lionel Hampton-type jazz situation, but they quickly shapeshifted into a Tito Puente vibe then seamlessly dovetailed to “I Wanna Be Your Dog”—in a song about Dillon’s bunny-chasing dog Bowie, a Stooges punch-in-the-face ode wrapped in a fluffy cumbia cloud titled “Cumbia Bowie.” What?! So then how does this type of inventive, seemingly paradoxical performance translate to a recorded experience? Their new album, Run White Boy Run, features Dillon and Punkadelick collaborators: drummer Nikki Glaspie (Maceo Parker, The Nth Power, Beyoncé) and pianist Brian Haas (Compersion Quartet, Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey, Nolatet) with additional contributions by 12 more musicians who alternately participate in Dillon’s musical moveable feast. The songs are orchestral, lush, heavy, tight, and wonderfully restless in their varied parts and time signatures. Dillon narrates, spitting gravel over the ethereal musicality of idiophones and keyboards. The chunky 1990s Sub Pop-style guitar on “Golden Ask” is offset by a bewitching string refrain courtesy of Rurik Nunan. “Get Your Gun” is a vintage cop chase à la bossa nova with slide guitar, jumpy vibraphone, and piano that shifts gears to a mosh part à la Bad Brains’ “Banned in D.C.”—with Stooges piano! They must know that the refrain from the last song still haunts you, yet they persist like daredevils on a highwire, adding layers of instruments and more musicians while raiding their own music crush earwigs to make an entirely new concoction. Exploring the intrigues of class, power, crime, and Bowie the dog, the album then closes with “Houser,” memorializing friend, collaborator, and fellow Texan-born musician Brad Houser (1960-2023) with an eloquent vibraphone and piano jazz funeral eulogy and a mournful big-sky-worthy lap steel goodbye. —Veronica Cross

Despite the name, there is nothing clinical about the new Doctors’ album Death to Life. Pivoting from glitzy power-pop and shoegaze to heavy post-punk, Doctors’ new sound reintroduces them as an almost entirely different band. Their new formulas result in several catchy moments punctuated by the clash between frontman Jonathan Joubert’s hush vocals and the band’s chaotic backing. However, this blend isn’t always seamless; on “Switch Back Heel,” the many layers of sound wash out the vocals, leading to a less than legible composition. But when it works, it’s almost cinematic. On “Pleasure,” “Angels Landing,” and “Squirrel Meat 2,” Joubert cuts through the noise, allowing the crunchy guitars and blasting drums to feel more aligned. His subdued nature as a frontman anchors each of these songs, giving them more emotional weight. The title track, an 8-minute-plus giant, illustrates the good and the bad of their sound as recorded so far. Starting strong, “Death to Life” opens with doomy guitar before stirring up the sediment with an infectious drum beat and downtrodden guitar around a catchy chorus and verse. The track only seems to get better from there as they break it down halfway through to pick up a faster beat layered with plucky guitars—but Joubert’s vocals come back more garbled and awkward. It finally syncs up for a new chorus, though the overall track feels a bit bloated and messy. At their best, Doctors stand out as another Gen Z band blending shoegaze with hardcore like Soul Blind or Narrow Head, and they have only begun cutting an incision into their potential. —Dalton Spangler

It’s been four years since Neal Francis’ last studio album, In Plain Sight (2021)—his first release on ATO, and his breakthrough album that pulled many into his orbit. On his latest release, Return To Zero, the Chicago-based musician pulls from Chicago blues, New Orleans blues, classic soul, and ‘70s funk and R&B, pulling them all together to create a sound that transports you back 50 years, or perhaps just to a club on Frenchmen Street. Even the album cover—a photo of Francis sporting a shag haircut, edited to mimic old-school mimeograph printing—evokes the style of the ‘70s. This retro interest in decades past is nothing new: We seem to repeat styles and fashions every 20 years or so. Francis’ work is still fresh and modern while calling back to the musicians who inspire him, like Dr. John, the Meters, Allen Toussaint, and Sly Stone. Some tracks are more relaxed soul and funk precursors to the disco age, like “Need You Again,” “Don’t Wait,” and “Dance Through Life.” Others are a little more forceful, funk rock songs with a wonderful bassline, like “Broken Glass” and “Back It Up,” which I particularly enjoy. Even as Francis moves between piano ballads like “What’s Left of Me” and “150 More Times” to the aforementioned areas of the album that are more soul or funk focused, he never strays far from his target, his relaxed vocals anchoring the instrumental movement around him of the bass, piano, horns, and even synthesizer on “Dirty Little Secret” and “Can’t Get Enough.” Though this album distinctly evokes a bygone period, it’s something that could only have been made in the present day. —Daniella Cherner

At long last, Corey Henry & the Treme Funktet’s live tour-de-force has exited the dimly lit interior of Vaughan’s and entered home stereos. Since taking over the Thursday slot at the iconic Bywater lounge in 2013, Henry, a trombone-wielding alum of the likes of Rebirth Brass Band, Galactic, and Lil Rascals Brass Band, has transformed the weekly gig into a must-hear cutting session including funky horns, blistering guitars, and pounding drums. Henry released the sleek solo album Lapeitah in 2016 and dropped a brass band single, “Footwork,” in 2023, but neither of these efforts reflect the Treme Funktet that has helped Henry transform his weekly live gigs from something hot into an all out inferno. This rugged live album leaves ample room for well-established funksters like P-Funk sax man Greg Thomas and Papa Grows Funk guitar slinger June Yamagishi to truly get lost in cutting it up over these mean grooves. This show’s setlist highlights Henry’s contributions to the local brass catalogue (“Got Fire”), pays homage to local icons who came before him (“Hey Pockey Way”), and even includes a rendition of Travis “Trumpet Black” Hill’s seldom recorded signature piece “Trumpets Not Guns,” which is also set to appear on Hill’s long-awaited posthumous album The New Beginning this month. From fiery musicianship to choice selections, Live At Vaughan’s captures much of what is to love about partying late on a Thursday night at the endearing dive while the Funktet tears it up in the corner. —William Archambeault

I listened to For Melancholy Brunettes (& sad women) for the first time while bed-rotting after an emotional weekend—which felt appropriate. As promised, it’s a true sad girl album. Gentle string instrumentals and the symphonic swells of opening tracks “Here is Someone” and “Orlando in Love” invoke a dramatic moodiness that gives way to a more recognizable shoegazey-indie dreampop Japanese Breakfast sound on “Honey Water” and “Mega Circuit.” The tone swings back to profound melancholia on “Little Girl” and “Leda,” then takes a more upbeat turn on “Picture Window” and the Jeff Bridges collab “Men in Bars.” “Winter in LA”’s summoning of sunshine that won’t quite manifest clinches the overall aura of dreamy depression. But for all its sulky introspection and self-centered mourning, in this album dwells a recognizable beauty that indulges in pain and longing for better days (from “Picture Window”: “Are you not afraid of every waking minute / That your life could pass you by?”). I fit the title bill to a tee, and I can appreciate how the album’s reverence for life’s lows manages to create space for future highs—after all, shadows help emphasize the light. —Terra Durio

Since the band’s inception in 2017, loucey has played with a sound that is influenced by 1990s alternative rock while making it entirely their own—they understand their inspirations without becoming burdened by them. The New Orleans quartet’s debut full-length, participation trophy wife, finds the band moving toward trip hop, summoning the spirits of Portishead and Sneaker Pimps while still grounding themselves within the current era. This is, surprisingly, a genre that lends itself well to lead singer and songwriter Cherie McCabe’s musings about her experiences as a mother, and how this is tied to societal expectations and identity (from “controversial”: “It all feels so controversial / And it seems like role reversal / To be honest, I see both sides / To be honest, that makes me the bad guy”). The band is rounded out by drummer/producer Ben Lorio (Below Studios), keyboard/synth player Jeremy Phipps (People Museum), and guitarist Sam McCabe, together creating the moody atmosphere that anchors Cherie McCabe’s mesmerizing vocals. Lead single “illusions” is a breezy track about the tricks our brains play, while “alice” is a gorgeous and intimate look at the complexities of our needs and desires (“Could it be I want a baby to save me? / I have been conditioned for this, maybe / What if I want the love, want the touch, the feeling? / Does that make me a terrible villain?”). Other standouts include the sweet “leave the light on” and the title track, though no song on the album feels like a misstep. participation trophy wife is a smart and exciting album, a fresh take not only on trip hop but also what it means to be both a parent and a person. (loucey’s album release party is May 13 at Gasa Gasa.) —Mary Beth Campbell

On the heels of his second fully instrumental release, it’s clear that wildly talented singer-songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Walt McClements is firmly ensconced in his composer era. On a Painted Ocean spans seven tracks for a runtime of 38 minutes, anchored primarily by McClements’ stellar accordion work, this time accented with deep and reverberating pipe organ. Opener “A Painted Ship” will stir nostalgia in fans of McClements’ older work with bands like Dark Dark Dark and Why Are We Building Such a Big Ship? with its maudlin nautical atmospherics. On this track—as with many on the album—McClements plays with volume and scope quite a bit, building and layering the sounds to reach a fevered apex before stripping it all back down. “Cloud Prints” follows, sounding almost futuristic by comparison. Velvety, dizzying saxophone work by Aurora Nealand rounds out the song before we move into the title track, which beautifully captures the feeling of being inside a painting. Its elevated, celestial vibrations swell and ebb, the bassy organ sliding into the background as the punctuated accordion whispers into the shadows, blending seamlessly into “Sirens.” The rich tapestry of tones present in the melody here creates a balanced cacophony reminiscent of a thunderstorm. “Washed Up” brings the listener back down a bit before “Parade,” a massive 11-minute track that captures the highs and lows of a gorgeous Mardi Gras day, capped with the only vocals on the whole record—a field recording of a training on how to administer Narcan—woven through the instrumentals. Closer “Clattering” starts with a more electronic feel before moving into an organic space complete with lush horns. Overall, the album feels very much like the score of an emotional arthouse film. Perhaps a portent of what’s to come for McClements as he continues to explore the world of composition? —Erin Hall

Dominic Minix is a musical chameleon capable of changing the texture of his sound to suit different environments with ease. He’s perhaps best known for conjuring up skanking good times as the singer for local ska punk band BAD OPERATION. During his time in BAD OPERATION, the multi-faceted musician’s solo works have ranged from busy electronic production on his 2020 EP Sun Will Show Again to spacious ambient explorations on his 2022 album Swim. Prior to that, his guitar stylings backed diverse artists like Solange and Chief Xian aTunde Adjuah (then known as Christian Scott) while Minix fused punk, jazz, and hip-hop with his own projects like Yung Vul. Night Rider, one of two short EPs Minix has dropped this spring, finds him stripping his music down to its nuts and bolts: just his vocals and an acoustic guitar. Recorded at home, these three tracks create the illusion of sitting alongside Minix in a dimly lit room as he strums his guitar and waxes philosophically about life. “I’ve changed but I’m still the same,” echoes his voice on “Home.” It’s a fitting description of Minix’s eclectic musical journey that still manages to reflect his individual expression with every new turn. —William Archambeault

Despina—named for the Greek goddess Despoina, a daughter of Demeter and Poseidon (or Neptune, the Roman equivalent)—is the third-closest moon of the planet Neptune, a tiny natural satellite that is thought to be comprised of fragments of Neptune’s original moons. It is a fitting namesake for the debut EP from New Orleans’ My Neptune, which is itself a composite of the talents of Kate Baxter (vocals, guitar), Steve Garofano (drums), Elizabeth Grubbs (piano), Erica Keller (bass), and Caitlin Strokosch (cello), weaving together shoegaze, indie rock, dream pop, and chamber pop. Dark and lush, the songs gently build upon themselves, never overwhelming but instead urging the listener to pay attention and become absorbed in the sound. From the delicate opener “Nova” to the more experimental and cinematic closing track “End of the World,” this six-song EP evokes late night New Orleans wanderings with no destination or expectation in mind (from “Decatur”: “good friends you’ll never meet again / confess their sins, alright / you don’t mind / thoughts turn to prayers at the Abbey / around midnight / but you don’t mind this life”). Indeed, Despina reflects the beautiful and mysterious essence of the city it was created in, from the melancholy to the joy. —Mary Beth Campbell

Sarah Quintana is a singer for all seasons, but her new release Baby Don’t is as timely as can be for this glorious spring—the album is as bright and warm as the lengthening days. A native New Orleanian, Quintana set out to make a Louisiana album. She gets that party going right away with the groovy opening track, “Laisse le Bon Temps Rouler,” a French version of the New Orleans R&B classic featuring Louis Michot on fiddle and Leyla McCalla on vocals and banjo. Quintana is delightfully whimsical, and songs like “Miami” and “Bump in the Road” put her pixie sensibilities on full display. But this album is also swamp sultry. In “Rolling and Tumbling” and “Tout Mon Coeur,” featuring Corey Ledet on accordion, the arrangements will make you want to get low with your two-step. Ultimately, the music of this place comes down to the people who play it, and the A-team she’s assembled offers a full musical spectrum of our here-and-now with an album tailor-made for sweaty dancing on a hot Louisiana night. —Holly Devon

Bay Area-based Scowl’s sophomore album diverges from the strictly hardcore sound established on their 2021 debut in favor of a genre-bending approach with arguably wider appeal, an evolution of sound originating in their 2023 EP Psychic Dance Routine. Instrumentally, Scowl’s hardcore punk origins remain evident in an intense landscape of power chords, distorted tones, and a driving tempo constructed by guitarists Malachi Greene and Mikey Bifolco, bassist Bailey Lupo, and drummer Cole Gilbert. In contrast to their previous album, Are We All Angels highlights a sidestep toward pop-punk with catchy hooks that showcase the range of Kat Moss, whose gritty scream vocals act more as an accent amidst clear, mellifluous melodies, relaying a varied and complex emotionality. The characteristic rawness of the genre serves as an ideal vehicle for an intimate lyrical exploration of heartbreak, self-doubt, and growing pains. Although the record lends itself to a more mainstream sound, Scowl resists the ideological pressure of selling out in “Cellophane,” with a criticism of the corporate music industry and a recognition of the complicity expected of larger musical artists: “We wrapped our death in cellophane / And sell you useless fuckin’ things / Convinced this is the only way.” —Victoria Conway

Sleep Habits is a project of Louisiana native and Loyola alumnus Alan Howard, who has worked with other local artists such as Wesley Wolffe, Noa Jamir, and Quinn Pilgrim. Per his electronic press kit, “Mourning Doves is a collection of older songs kept in his back pocket as life changed around him, allowing the time to define what these open spaces are to him and the possibilities of what they can be filled with.” On this EP, Howard focused on experimenting with new recording techniques inspired by Patterson Hood (of Drive-By Truckers) and Bill Fox (of The Mice), the latter of whom is especially known for his ‘90s lo-fi recordings made with a 4-track cassette recorder. Howard used a 20-year-old 16-track digital recorder for this EP, which compares in age and obsolescence to the 4-track recorders artists were using for their work in the ‘90s. Stylistically, the whole work reminds me heavily of Elliott Smith, Low, and Acetone in its subdued tempo, somber lyrical timbre, and almost apathetic but watchful tone. Even though it’s got that whole ‘90s slant to it, subtle things like the use of a drum machine on “Helen’s House” clue you in to the fact that it’s a modern release. The gentle waltz tempo on “Hold Your Name” and tempo and vocal tracking on “Space Between” immediately call to mind Elliott Smith, particularly his earlier work: Roman Candle (1994), Elliott Smith (1995), and Either/Or (1997). Though I mostly mention lo-fi and slowcore giants above, Howard melds some of that slowcore intimacy with a folk disposition on the closing track “Mourning Doves,” featuring some beautiful fiddle accompaniment and picked acoustic guitar melodies. This is a gorgeous, soft, and intimate EP, and I patiently await more of Howard’s work in this vein. —Daniella Cherner

SPELLLING, the avant-pop project of Bay Area artist Chrystia Cabral, has evolved over the years, from the dark, mystical minimalism of her 2017 release Pantheon of Me to the energetic late ‘90s-flavored rock of her most recent album, Portrait of My Heart. Built around Cabral’s own personal dealings with love, intimacy, anxiety, and alienation, Portrait wears its feelings on its sleeve, borrowing from rock, goth, pop, R&B, and nu-metal, falling into painfully familiar, overwrought territory more frequently than not—though this does make for good dramatic sing-a-longs (“Portrait of My Heart,” “Destiny Arrives,” “Drain,” “Love Ray Eyes”). Cabral’s vocals are gorgeous, veering from classic R&B pop star territory to ‘90s rockers like Alanis Morissette. The album ends with a cover of My Bloody Valentine’s almost-ballad “Sometimes,” with Cabral approaching it more as a pop song, stripping away much of the emotion of the original—an unfortunate irony given the album’s focus. Portrait is a fun bit of nostalgia that doesn’t quite hit the mark, though it does scratch the itch for angsty alternative rock, should you find yourself deep in your feelings. —Mary Beth Campbell

In this dystopian novel by past Pulitzer Prize finalist Laila Lalami, a proprietary crime prevention algorithm sends Americans to private prisons called “retention centers” when it computes they’re likely to commit a crime in the future. Sources of input to the program include data about people’s dreams, harvested from a popular wearable sleep aid. But the story, inspired by Kafkaesque immigration detention procedures that existed even before the current administration put them into overdrive, focuses less on the science fiction elements and more on the quotidian nightmares of life in these quite plausible jails. Sentences are nebulous and easily extended, casual abuses by guards are difficult to stop, and prisoners are nickel-and-dimed for basic needs and the costs of outside communication. In an era where access to even a parole hearing in Louisiana is, in fact, denied based purely on algorithmic risk scoring, and federal authorities claim the right to detain and deport immigrants based on their “past, current, or expected beliefs,” this well-crafted novel is certainly worth a read, though it hardly feels like speculative fiction at all. —Steven Melendez

Anna Elena Torres begins her examination of Yiddish anarchist literature with a parable: Emma Goldman attends an anarchist convention in Amsterdam in 1907 at the same time as a Zionist convention, and tells off one of the Zionists she meets in a cafe: “The nation, the state, is the main source from which come all people’s trouble and misery… we people have enough trouble from the state without establishing another one and becoming like the new bandits.” The scene, read over 100 years later, grounds this intricately detailed work of literary historical analysis with the reckoning that though so much has changed since—including the near-extinction of Yiddish through assimilation (outside of ultra-orthodox enclaves), the Holocaust, and suppression of the Yiddish language by the state of Israel—the state’s control of violence remains. Horizons Blossom, Borders Vanish explores Yiddish literature and history, often quoting from the lively scene of anarchist and Yiddish periodicals that existed at the beginning of the 20th century (imagine, more than one newspaper!). In one striking scene, Torres writes of a woman distributing Yiddish and English pamphlets from a roof “like the sails of white ships” down to the streets, adding that this group used this tactic enough to beget a rumor that they had an aircraft. Throughout Horizons, Torres examines how Yiddish writers used references to the natural, the mystical, and the industrial to make art ranging from the Romantic to modernist, exploring ideas of diaspora and the injustices of capitalism. Throughout the text she also chronicles how the authors and the communities around them navigated political repression as they created art. While Horizons can feel dense at times, it features beautifully translated poems (including original translations by the author) and brings texture to a history of struggle. —Jesse Baum

Last month, the PATOIS International Human Rights Film Festival hosted a week of film screenings and community conversations at the Broad Theater. Preceding a screening of Heightened Scrutiny was a soul-stirring performance from Westbank-raised singer Joy Clark. Clark’s acoustic guitar, soulful vocals, and timely lyrics filled the room with a sense of warmth and unity. Her performance—especially the moment she paused to acknowledge Louisiana’s recent rejection of all four proposed constitutional amendments just days earlier—quieted the room with a shared, almost reverent pride. It was a moment that transformed the theater into something more intimate: a community. Clark’s set was the perfect lead-in to Heightened Scrutiny (directed by Sam Feder), a documentary that follows the legal battle to overturn Tennessee’s ban on gender-affirming care for transgender youth (United States v. Skrmetti). The film challenges mainstream media narratives by exposing the anti-trans propaganda used to skew public perception of trans lives and, arguably, to fuel legislation targeting trans communities. While the tactics depicted in the film are aimed at trans individuals, the parallels drawn to broader attacks on bodily autonomy—especially those affecting women, children, and minorities—are unmistakable. The film weaves in the personal and professional journey of ACLU attorney Chase Strangio, who argues the case before the Supreme Court as the first openly trans person to do so. Interviews with journalists like Jelani Cobb, Lydia Polgreen, and Gina Chua, along with activists such as Laverne Cox, help expose the direct pipeline from misinformation to anti-trans legislation. Heightened Scrutiny carefully lays out the facts of the case while also showing the reality of trans youth—offering a poignant contrast to how they are portrayed in mainstream media. We aren’t just following Strangio’s political journey and its emotional toll; we also meet 12-year-old Mila, who uses her voice to spread hope to kids like her—kids whose health care and futures may be at risk. —Nijah Narcisse

What are the consequences for those who enforce excessively harsh punishments—like gang investigations based on racially biased “evidence” such as tattoos, artwork, or even just being Black or Brown? What happens to the people who co-sign and profit from the school-to-prison pipeline, or who continue to ignore the glaring lack of rehabilitation for those convicted under 35? These are the questions I was left with after watching The Strike, a deeply affecting documentary directed by JoeBill Muñoz and Lucas Guilkey. The film, part of this year’s PATOIS International Human Rights Film Festival, lays bare the dehumanizing nature of the punitive U.S. legal system through firsthand accounts from formerly incarcerated men at Pelican Bay State Prison, a maximum-security facility in Crescent City, California. It’s been 36 years since Pelican Bay opened its gates—marketed at the time as a necessary response to the War on Drugs, meant to house “the worst of the worst.” The documentary revisits this history, showing how Pelican Bay’s Security Housing Unit (S.H.U.) became a model for “supermax” prisons worldwide. Designed for extreme isolation, the S.H.U. held prisoners in solitary confinement for decades—some without ever stepping outside, seeing their families, or even touching another human being. At first, I didn’t know how to feel. My sympathy for the prisoners was stifled by society’s dehumanizing view of incarcerated people. But as the film unfolded, I began to question that initial reaction. I felt anger at how easily society (myself included) turns a blind eye to suffering when it’s happening behind bars. The men interviewed weren’t just recounting stories of incarceration—they were exposing an institution of psychological, emotional, and physical torture. The Strike doesn’t just focus on punishment, it highlights resistance. It documents the largest hunger strike in U.S. prison history, organized by these very men in protest of the inhumane conditions inside the S.H.U. Their bravery, strategy, and solidarity were inspiring—and heartbreaking, given the cost they paid. The cinematography and the film’s pacing drew me in emotionally. The Strike opens with an archived 1989 speech by then–California Governor George Deukmejian, recorded during a tour of the newly-constructed prison. His voice carries a chilling blend of hate, violence, and grotesque pride. He speaks as if he’s a savior—yet stands firmly at the helm of terror. Though the film offers glimpses of hope—showing some of the men reentering society—I was left wanting more. What does the reentry process really look like for people who’ve spent decades in isolation? What resources exist to support their healing? And more urgently, what are the repercussions for those who upheld, ignored, or benefited from this brutal system? The Strike is more than a documentary—it’s a call to accountability. A reminder that justice doesn’t stop at a prison gate, and that we, as viewers, have a role to play in demanding something better. —Nijah Narcisse

I don’t have a great track record with David Cronenberg’s movies, despite my ongoing efforts. The king of body horror has just always been a bit too impersonal for my taste. Going into his latest, The Shrouds, I thought this might be the Cronenberg project that fulfilled my romantic tendencies—an ode to a dead lover, and all the strange grief that accompanies the void they leave behind, which mirrors the loss of Cronenberg’s own wife of nearly 40 years to cancer in 2017. The plot follows Karsh (Vincent Cassel) as he processes his wife’s death to cancer by inventing a new kind of grave—one in which he can watch her body in its various stages of decomposition via livestream, amidst the gray, sterile architecture of his design. After the graveyard is vandalized, Karsh attempts to get to the bottom of it, growing increasingly confused and paranoid along the way. The Shrouds is Cronenberg’s most personal film to date, though in an IndieWire interview, he noted that its personal content should have no bearing on the reading of the film. On this, I agree. However, in the same interview, he claimed he “never understood the people who think that my movies are cold,” that they all have “a huge emotional content.” But an emotional story does not simply mean a story about emotions. In his inability to feel his way through his grief, Karsh digs his heels into his physical loss—obsessing over his wife’s literal decaying body, and living bodies that resemble hers (most notably, her sister’s)—while the thing he confides in and relies the most on is an artificially sentient woman. The warmth he grieves is that of her body, not her spirit, or whatever you choose to call the animating force that renders us unique, funny, human beings. The movie’s ultra-modern set design, muted color palette, and heavy reliance on artificial intelligence (one scene functioning as a Tesla ad) make the aesthetics equally unfeeling. Cronenberg can protest all he likes, but there is a coldness to that, and I’ve never been drawn to the cold. —Marisa Clogher

Chain Reactions is a documentary film which consists of some of the finest horror directors and writers recounting their experience upon seeing The Texas Chain Saw Massacre for the first time and how the film has inspired their process. From Stephen King to Takashi Miike, Chain Reactions feels like a love letter to a cinematic experience that, even if someone hasn’t seen the seminal 1974 film, they might be drawn to it for the first time. Director Alexandre O. Philippe uses behind-the-scenes photographs and footage throughout this documentary to shine light on Texas Chainsaw Massacre director Tobe Hooper‘s DIY aesthetics, dispelling some of the mystery of its making, and the use of these images feels like a family album behind the narration. Chain Reactions may be redundant if you’ve already seen Texas Chain Saw Massacre, but for hardcore fans, Chain Reactions is an inspiring ode to cinematic storytelling. —Sara Nicole Storm

To Catch a Predator was a short-lived reality television show where an adult decoy played the part of an adolescent in order to capture a sexual predator via the internet, and once contact was made, police would make an arrest. Predators is a documentary that focuses on the lifespan of the show and how it shaped the individuals who took part in its conception. Throughout its short run on Dateline NBC in the mid-2000s, To Catch a Predator inspired similar groups and law enforcement to find predators by using the internet. Predators tells the backstory of how the show was created, how it impacted society, how it confused the lines between entertainment and policing, and how it inspires people to take the law into their own hands. Director David Osit manages to draw conclusions on the necessity of reality as entertainment, and his personal narrative with his own childhood sexual trauma makes Predators a hauntingly beautiful work. —Sara Nicole Storm

Dead Lover is a colorful, raunchy take on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Shot on 16mm over the span of 16 days, the film feels like a forgotten German Expressionist film akin to Stephen Sayadian of Dr. Caligari fame, with its bright neon colors and brash humor. Grace Glowicki directed, co-wrote, produced, and stars in the film, reinterpreting Frankenstein with a more queer and modern syntax. The main character, “Grave Digger ” (Glowicki herself), meets the love of their life at the graveyard where they work. Things take a turn for the worst when their lover dies and they have to be made anew. With the use of a small casting crew, Dead Lover reuses characters, which adds to its quirky, disturbingly funny quality and feels like you’re watching a long-lost theatre piece made by Kenneth Anger. —Sara Nicole Storm

An inky bird sculpture made of salvaged plastics recalls the oil-soaked birds of the 2010 BP Deep Horizon oil spill in the exhibition Plastic, The New Coal, curated by Monique Verdin and Patricia Watts. Titled “Darkening Skies (deep water),” the sculpture reflects Pam Longobardi’s ongoing Drifters Project that repurposes salvaged ocean plastics. Sponsored by apexart, these artists and designers use research with personal and cultural storytelling to address regional climate crisis where racism and late-stage capitalism intersect. These themes are amplified by their installation at the Descendants Project Education and Cultural District, a Vacherie nonprofit based in racial equity and environmental justice, created by twin sister co-directors Jo and Dr. Joy Banner. Located within Louisiana’s Cancer Alley, a region disproportionately impacted by the plastic industry’s hazardous chemicals, historically Black and Indigenous residents face higher risks of cancer and other health issues, having launched multiple lawsuits, including 2024’s win against the Greenfield grain terminal. Like coal, plastic manufacturing is dependent on fossil fuels, which emit high levels of greenhouse gas. As critique, these artists use some of the same discarded materials and symbols of this ecological abuse in their work. In Midlo Center for New Orleans Studies and Design Jones’s developing Liberation Labyrinth environmental and racial justice meditation garden, Juan Carlos Quintana’s reprinted painting “Tour #2 (Sacrifice Zone)” shows a Mississippi River map with factories, refined products like Domino Sugar, and chemical brands. It framed the performance, “What do the Stars See when they Look at the Mississippi” by Verdin and Nick Slie, from their Invisible Rivers project that contemplates the river’s former courses, disasters, and the shape of the Indigenous land pre-contact. Luba Zygarewicz’s ALVEARE Luminoso, a kinetic acrylic mobile sculpture of hexagonal cells, recalls the cooperative work of honeybees, mirroring Liberation Labyrinth’s young hive colony. Installed on an old live oak tree, the reflective panes of this mobile can be scraped to measure air quality. In Shana M. griffin’s installation Soil, jarred soil samples from former plantations tie the legacy of slavery to modern-day Cancer Alley. griffin dovetails her black and white photographs of these sites to a library of cultural, political, and ethnographic histories of African descended people, including her monumental photography project SEEING BLACK. Hannah Chalew’s sculpture “Bottomland Chimera” merges spill-off waste and discarded paint with metal and ink (re)generated from natural and industrial sources: An alocasia plant pops through a pink trash heap, creating a decolonial hybrid trompe l’oeil. In Renee Royale’s Polaroid series “Landscape of Matter,” photos are buried in rhythm with moon cycles to produce alchemical reactions. The resulting otherworldly abstractions are byproducts of the chemicals in the soils, hinting at how they impact the bodies of residents. If the urgency of this exhibition wasn’t clear enough, consider that Taiwanese Formosa Plastics Group awaits the greenlight to build one of the world’s largest plastic manufacturing facilities in St. James Parish, or the Trump administration’s sweeping attacks on people of color, immigrants, the environment, and the humanities. Longobardi’s bird of recycled plastic is the canary in the coal mine warning: time’s up! (Plastic, The New Coal is still viewable online at apexart.org/watts-verdin.php ) —Veronica Cross