ALBUM REVIEWS
If you ever suspected this current wave of Irish guitar music had peaked with the likes of Fontaines D.C. and The Murder Capital, think again. With their impeccable debut album ‘Letter To Self’, Dublin quartet Sprints place themselves into the conversation, building on what’s been a steady rise through the live circuit, having sold out recent shows at London’s 800-capacity Scala and Dublin’s iconic Button Factory.
Marrying intricate alt-rock with fierce bursts of noise-punk and grunge, the four-piece (comprising vocalist Karla Chubb, guitarist Colm O’Reilly, bassist Sam McCann and drummer Jack Callan) last spoke to NME in the depths of lockdown, itching for the social interaction that intrinsically underpins their music. “It helps being around the energy and the buzz of the city, that’s what inspires most of the songs”, Chubb said at the time.
Yet, for all its moments that will no doubt incite chaos in the live arena, this is a record that unapologetically bares its soul. The opening verse of ‘Cathedral’ – a haunting track that sees Chubb vocalise her anxieties as a queer woman that grew up in the Catholic church – reaches its climax, before a blast of distortion heightens the tension: “Maybe living’s easy / Maybe dying’s the same,” she sings. The sense of catharsis that defines ‘Letter To Self’ is formidable and powerful.
The slow-burning intro of ‘Shadow Of A Doubt’ hangs in the darkness for what feels like an eternity, as Chubb comes to terms with her trauma. “Would you help me stop the screams,” she begs, as the track fades into nothingness; the midpoint of the album. A spiralling and queasy guitar line then leads in ‘Can’t Get Enough Of It’ – a mechanical chord progression that’s wholly resemblant of the vicious circle Chubb finds herself locked in: “And I can’t sleep / And I can’t dream / And I can’t sleep / And I can’t leave.”
Yet for all its heavy-hitting subject matter, the beauty in ‘Letter To Self’ is the optimism it leaves you with, the noise well and truly drowning out the pain in an empowering fashion. O’Reilly’s dynamic guitar lines battle against the lyrics, keeping things upbeat in the likes of ‘Literary Mind’ and maintaining the dramatic flair on the eerie ‘Shaking Their Hands.’ This is a dynamic album that is reflective of the muddled world we find ourselves in – delivered with a fortifying sense of honesty from an essential emerging band.
ALBUM REVIEWS
The leather jackets and skinny jeans worn by Noah Dillon and Chandler Ransom Lucy have become something of a signature, and the pair have hovered around the edges of the pop worlds in New York and Los Angeles for quite some time. First highlighted by NME during the Dimes Square resurgence in 2023, The Hellp have gradually stepped away from their earlier indie-sleaze imitation and leaned into something far more thoughtful. Their wild, neon-tinged party vibe has been traded for a more cinematic electronic approach that still holds onto a confident, self-aware attitude.
Dillon and Lucy started releasing music as The Hellp in 2016, with early mixtapes rooted in the chaotic nights and carefree behaviour once associated with NYC’s indie-sleaze staples like LCD Soundsystem and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Over time, though, they’ve earned a steadily growing respect from critics. That rise has come through both their underground gigs, which have included a show at London’s Corsica Studios with Fakemink as support, and through Dillon’s expanding visual work that recently reached Rosalía’s ‘LUX’ album and a pair of music videos for 2hollis.
As ‘Riviera’ approached release, the duo shared: “We knew our next project would need to be a bit more mature… we refuse to become stagnant. ‘Riviera’ is more solemn, restrained and impassioned than anything we’ve done before.” The finished album feels like Dillon and Lucy carefully balancing identity and openness, theatricality and direct emotion.
The lead release, ‘Country Road’, carries a late-night heaviness, the kind of confession you would quietly tell a friend in a club’s smoking area. Its lonely tone is surrounded by glitching electronics and a rising bridge that points to the exhaustion that follows endless nights out. Tracks like ‘New Wave America’ and ‘Cortt’ deepen what the duo mention in their liner notes as a “desperate story of the disparate Americana.” Both pieces broaden the album’s emotional landscape and offer clear-eyed commentary on reluctantly stepping into adulthood.
When ‘Riviera’ shifts into ‘Doppler’, the tone brightens for a moment as hopeful synths lift Dillon’s words about yearning and heartbreak into an emotional peak. And in the final moments of the record, The Hellp land on something instantly familiar to anyone who has drifted away from the club scene. The Kavinsky-like opening of ‘Here I Am’ nods to their early inspirations, while the closing track ‘Live Forever’ arrives with a slow, grounded maturity, built around Dillon repeating the line: “I don’t want to live forever.”
‘Riviera’ holds far less disorder than The Hellp’s earlier releases. This turn inward marks an important risk for a duo once fuelled by the momentum of a downtown New York comeback. By easing off the frenzy, The Hellp have stepped out of the party’s lingering haze and returned with a style that feels more refined and more aware of itself than anything they have created before.
