On “Thirstland,” the first single from their upcoming LP Skinning, layers of guitars and a seesawing rhythmic tension showcase forward-thinking musicianship. The band strikes a rare balance—raw power and refined composition. It’s a track that nods to the fury of early ’90s grunge greats like The Gits while racing ahead on a futuristic bullet train of their own design.

Skinning arrives this fall (Oct. 7) as the band’s boldest statement yet: 12 tightly wound tracks of organized chaos, polyrhythmic mayhem, and fiercely feminist punk energy. With “Thirstland” as its pulse-pounding opening shot, we caught up with vocalist Rocky Mann and guitarist Eric Neilson to dig into the record’s emotional core, their collaborative creative process, and why Edmonton might just be the perfect breeding ground for boundary-pushing heavy music.

“Thirstland” feels like it’s constantly on the brink of implosion—in the best way. What was the emotional or conceptual core of the track when you were writing it?

RM: Thirstland was one of the first songs written for the album, and it went through the most evolution thanks to our live sets. It carries that slap-you-in-the-face joy from our debut but laid the groundwork for our shift into more reflective aggression. It’s still teetering on chaos, but in a more complex, polyrhythmic way that somehow stays accessible.

Your sound pulls from so many corners of heavy music—from post-hardcore to OG emo to hardcore punk. How intentional is that genre fusion, and how do you balance chaos with clarity?

EN: Yeah, Skinning is full of deliberate misdirections. You’ll hear technical hardcore break into shoegaze outros, pop rhythms melting into post-punk dreamscapes, bits of tape noise and spoken word riding cyclical beats, and then it’s right back into circle-pit fuel. That unpredictability mirrors human emotion—how one moment of contemplation can spiral into total rage. But we also resolve those tensions thematically across the album. It’s chaos with connective tissue.

The band has multiple composers across instruments and vocals. What does your songwriting process actually look like—more structured collaboration or beautiful noise until something sticks?

EN: It’s structured, definitely. I usually write the skeleton of a song—sometimes just a single chord—and imagine the full composition from there. What are the dynamics? What themes carry through? Then the rest of the band builds on it. Brian always brings in a few wild cards that challenge us in great ways. The writing process feels like solving a musical puzzle.

Rocky Mann performing at Sled Island 2024 (Photo by Shane Rempel)

Rocky, your vocals are raw and intense—such a vital part of the band’s power. How do lyrics and vocal delivery work into the creative process?

RM: It’s pure chaos at first. Eric sends over a demo, we all start working it out at practice, and I just start yelling nonsense into a mic. I record every take, collect scraps of ideas, then panic when we decide to play it live. The night before a show, I’m scrawling vocal maps like some kind of Morse code ritual, scribbling lyrics in the backseat en route to the venue, scrubbing up in a bar sink five minutes before stage time. Onstage, I forget it all and just feel it. The actual words congeal weeks later. It’s a pain in the ass—but it’s real.

There’s a visceral, almost physical quality to your music—it feels like it’s meant to be felt in the pit. How much does live energy inform your writing or arranging?

RM: A lot, especially for the vocals. We constantly tweak songs in rehearsal to make sure they hit hard live. Sometimes riffs we’re unsure about will become interlude experiments during sets—little clues about where we’re headed next. Live shows are a test kitchen for new ideas.

Edmonton’s heavy and punk scenes are often overlooked nationally. How has coming up in that community shaped the band’s ethos or sound?

RM: Heavy music is thriving here. Post-pandemic, there’s been a creative boom—people came back hungry to make noise. There’s pride in the old SNFU-era legacy, but what’s exciting now is how experimental and diverse the scene has become. I like to joke that Edmonton’s having its 90s Seattle moment. Isolated, extreme weather, working-class grit—it’s DIY to the bone. The insularity creates this low-stakes, high-support environment that really lets you take risks.

Eric Neilson performing at the Palomino (Photo by Shannon Johnston)

What kind of impact or reaction are you hoping listeners take away from “Thirstland”? Is there a specific tension or message you want to leave hanging in the air?

RM: “Thirstland” taps into this unsettling daily duality—conquering trivial bullshit while doom scrolls rage in the background. There’s this constant hum of dread, and we’re all just trying to function in it. That dissonance is the track’s heartbeat.

How are you approaching this next chapter with Skinning? What can you tell us about the new album?

RM: Skinning is 12 tracks of high-strung havoc—cheeky, paranoid contemplation and shredded anger. It’s a leap forward from our debut. More intricate, more unhinged. It pushes our progressive hardcore femme-punk vibe to the edge without losing our identity. It’s messy and intentional, just like us.

Bonus round: Can you tell us about the “Thirstland” artwork? What inspired the imagery, and how does it reflect the sound or themes of the record?

Artist’s note from Khagan Aslanov: The art is meant to represent an aging mama’s boy sulking into the ether of communal indifference. He was beautiful once, his mom said.