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Converge
You feel it before you hear it. When you hear it, you can’t un-hear it. A low, persistent noise throbbing in the background. Scientists say it registers between 30 and 40 hertz. It’s been heard in Ipswich, Massachusetts. Auckland, New Zealand. Windsor, Ontario. It’s been haunting the population of Taos, New Mexico, for decades. It’s been linked to suicides in the UK. Not everyone can hear it. No one knows where it’s coming from. They call it The Hum. Converge have taken this mysterious real-world phenomenon and re-imagined it as a physical manifestation of human suffering. “What if the Hum is the culmination of all the pain in the world creating an audible hum across the universe?” vocalist and lyricist Jacob Bannon posits. “Something noticeable to others operating on a similar frequency.” Hum of Hurt follows Love Is Not Enough as Converge’s second full-length release of 2026. Like its predecessor, the album presents a bleak but empathetic assessment of the human condition and its ongoing deterioration. Unlike Love Is Not Enough, the songs are rawer and more exposed. “When we got together to write, we ended up with a lot of material,” Bannon says. “We realized it was two separate albums.” Hum of Hurt is a different record than Love is Not Enough, but just as volatile and potent. “It’s not part two,” Bannon points out. “The only unifying thing we talked about when we started working on this entire project was, ‘Let’s make a noise rock record.’ But we never really did. The first one isn’t a noise rock record. This one has moments, maybe, but it’s not a noise rock record either. It feels more like an emotional hardcore record than the first one, which is probably more metal leaning. Really, we just gave birth to another Converge record.” Opener “Slip the Noose” kicks off with a furious cannonade from drummer Ben Koller before launching into the kind of short, grinding frenzy that wouldn’t feel out of place on Jane Doe. “Doom in Bloom” is raw and bloody, as guitarist Kurt Ballou’s spiky riffs scrape against Nate Newton’s bass and Koller’s drums. You can practically hear Bannon’s throat getting sore. “It’s just fucking dark and right at you,” he says of the track. “Lyrically, I’m talking about how middle-aged introspection doesn’t always bring light. Maturity doesn’t heal wounds.” “Dream Debris” is a gripping, doomy epic born out of a single note that builds to a booming crescendo. “It’s got a lot of twists and turns but it’s dense and heavy and really simple, and that was by design,” Bannon says. “When we were working on it, we were saying, ‘Does it need anything else?’ We decided it didn’t because it’s just so fucking heavy.” Lyrically, “Dream Debris” has at least one line that will ring in the heads of listeners everywhere: There’s nothing to win if there’s no one to lose. “I go on a bit of a rant in this song,” Bannon says. “But the idea is that passion withers, and only the broken and beaten and worn out will stay in places of discomfort because they have nowhere else to go.” Then there’s the title track, which is one of the most propulsive and metallic songs on the record. Thematically, Bannon examines the prices we pay for the lives we pursue. “I’ve given 35 years of my life to creating art and music in some way,” he says. “There’re parts of that I really cherish, and I appreciate the home and support structure this community has given me. But I’ve also been shackled to this for 35 years. I don’t do anything else. In a way, I’m not the man I want to be. I want to work on my deficiencies, and this is me acknowledging that.” The album also features a new rendition of “I Won’t Let You Go,” the original version of which was recorded for the 2020 video game Cyberpunk 2077. “When we recorded that years ago, Ben did the drums in California and then we put it all together here,” Bannon explains. “It didn’t have that room energy that happens when we’re all together. This version is demented and wild and a really uncomfortable listen. It feels right.” Hum of Hurt was recorded and mixed by Kurt Ballou at God City in Salem, Massachusetts, with engineering assistance from Zach Weeks. Bannon and renowned UK artist Thomas Hooper collaborated on the album artwork. “These are songs about working through hurt, through pain, both emotional and physical,” Bannon says. “That’s a very real psychological energy that we all experience. If I’m feeling that, maybe I’m resonating something that is being felt by others. Even if I try to mask it, it’s still there. Maybe the hum is everybody that’s operating on that frequency. We’re all feeling something.”
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Death Lens
Death Lens might be the perfect punk band for the moment: four working class, multicultural musicians from Southern California who write stage-dive anthems for the oppressed, wielding a message of resilience and a sound of sweat-soaked celebration that appeals to outsiders of all stripes. What’s Left Now?, their first album since 2024’s Cold World and their second for Epitaph Records, is Death Lens’ most fully-realized record yet: crunchy, urgent, melancholy, raging, and so goddamn easy to headbang along to. What’s Left Now? is the product of two tumultuous years for Death Lens, both as people and as bandmates. The year Cold World dropped, the band toured for nine long months, honing their craft as live performers and increasing their fanbase tenfold. However, all of that time on the road stress-tested the band as an interpersonal unit, and Death Lens ended up shedding two members from the subsequent growing pains. Ultimately, they bounced back stronger than ever, gaining guitar virtuoso Ernie Gutierrez into the core lineup of frontman Bryan Torres, guitarist Jhon Reyes, and drummer Tony Rangel. Now, Death Lens are closer as friends and more musically in-sync than they’ve ever been, and What’s Left Now? is a testament to their glow-up. “Every time we feel like we’re gonna implode, we end up expanding,” Torres exclaims. “We thrive on stress and the energy of anxiety.” What’s Left Now? is an honest record by a band who’ve always cut the bullshit. Growing up in lower-income homes 20 miles east of Los Angeles, Death Lens’ members weren’t afforded the privilege to effortlessly ascend in the music scene. They’ve had to grind for every opportunity they’ve gotten, and they continue to write music for people just like them. “Our messaging is towards those who always feel like they don’t have a voice,” Torres explains. Their new record includes songs about first breakups (“Am I A Drug to You?”) and learning to be genuinely, uncomfortably true to yourself (“Out of My Skin”), but also tracks about trials that are far more challenging to conquer. “Saints in the Panic Room” speaks to a present-day nightmare that Death Lens’ own families and communities are facing on U.S. soil. “I’m talking about the ICE raids, things close to home,” Torres says. “Immigrant families who don’t have papers. These are the struggles that we talk about every day.” What’s Left Now? captures that dichotomy with creativity and candor. A fist-pumping punk-rock escape, and a hard dose of reality. Because for Death Lens, one doesn’t exist without the other.