Four Seasons in a world of Blue
or
How to survive in a world aching of horror
– a look back on 2025 –
By John Wohlmacher
Living through 2025 often feels like being suspended in some strange virtual reality. With each month, the odd movement that has existed for most of the past century, but had become more magnified since the pandemic lockdown – or, if you want to be more nostalgic, the death of David Bowie at the start of 2016 – invades every ounce of sensory perception. Elements of the social contract that had been agreed upon to stay veiled for the broader public are now playing out in front of our eyes: what once was codified is now spelt out plainly! “Yep, we are doing this.” The fact this rather vague phrase could apply for most of what occurred in 2025 should alarm you. From state rulers withholding crucial evidence on their involvement in structural crimes to billionaires purchasing media corporations to corporate overlords investing in the war industrial complex and multiple genocides being whitewashed with the application of liberal semantics, everything hidden in emails and redacted notes is now just out in the open. And what’s worst about that is how the claim of a polite society just accepts those hellish configurations as agreed upon power dynamics. Everyone is frustrated but hey, what can you do.
I asked myself that question many times this year. As a writer and artist, my voice has a limited impact that is confined to its reach. It would be more fitting to discuss who you should pick in Dispatch: Blazer or Visi. But who would I be if I don’t document what I see, instead choosing to remain behind the curtain of limitations politeness dictates? Ultimately, these boundaries are being stepped over by those in power – through police force, through media manipulation, through social media censorship. So why confine myself automatically, like many writers and artists?
Frankly, when I was conjuring images of living within the future of Blade Runner, I imagined it as a stylish exercise of noir-mysticism, from incredible fashion to neon lighting, brilliant asian food and synth soundtracks. Well, at least the asian food is great over here. But the rest is substantially lacking! This cyberpunk dystopia is not very punk, and the cyber is mostly just people confused by an online world owned by mega-corps – there aren’t even keyboard cowboys anymore! And so, I made my own mythology, which follows this introduction: four cycles, which are testament to what it felt like to live in 2025, to observe a world on the verge.
– Spring –
I had already heard the best record of 2025 months before the year arrived. Like a ghost, it reframed every moment this year had to offer: Perverts is a truly singular work of our time, and I am glad I gave it so much time when I wrote about it. Ethel Cain, who embraces her standing as anti-Popstar, is the rare artist who understands how hard it is to be transgressive in a world post “Irreversible”, where Throbbing Gristle have become just another artefact of postmodern art history analysis. At the time, I described the album as part occult spell, part hideous “found footage” horror relic – a polymorph journey into an abyss, with its audience becoming complicit within its many configurations of terror and painful reflection. But there’s more to this work – some which I can and some that I cannot describe. Perverts, in a way, is a generational document of somebody who grows up in an era where boundaries and limitations no longer exist. The ultimate experiences used to be confined in a ritual cycle of depravity, either enshrined within elite decadence or festering within the sewers of social isolation – Eyes Wide Shut or 8MM.
It’s intentional that these two are films by two directors that have, respectively, been deemed the very greatest and the very most hackneyed. Kubrick is often considered the cinematic artist, while Schumacher’s name has been synonymous to most as a hired ghoul, whose campy queer aesthetics are often at odds with his earnest subject matter. Truth be told, both create worlds that reflect postmodern perspectives of identity crisis. Both tell stories of diffuse power dynamics, where the rich hold all the cards and any moralist code of conduct is simply an illusion presented to common folk to hold them at bay. Both are obsessed with violence, and discuss it as a means to escape that central power dynamic – yet they are too cynical to allow it as an achievement. And both are very weird when it comes to sex, with Kubrick’s gaze becoming almost asexual in how coldly he documents naked bodies and desire, while Schumacher understands it as just another performance, a drag act. In their eyes, the world is somewhat ridiculous.
Maybe they were right, considering that for Cain, the tribulations 20th century heroes had to endure to reach the core of their obsessions are no longer necessary. You don’t need to venture into subterranean VHS markets or grift your way into a palace-like villa to find access to the ultimate transgressions – they are now mere steps away. When Cain wrote of the sexual hypnosis of nuclear plant architecture, the equation of sheer physical power as harmful light of god’s form, it was meant to highlight that in the current era, every transcendental limit experience is equal to our daily life. We are mere acolytes to a sinister geometry of self-annihilation. Like the opening words of Hellraiser – “What’s you pleasure?” – Cain engulfs her audience in a maze of mirrors. One of my co-writers has, to this day, not heard the album, citing that he is afraid of it. I think I understand – who isn’t subjected to fear these days?
One album that lit up my spring this year was the radiant Wish Defense by FACS. The album almost seems like a contradiction of Cain’s gaze, as the Chicago trio worked with Albini to present a vibrant, edgy, abstract idea of the current day. I often think of how Sonic Youth navigated the world post-9/11 on Murray Street when I listen to the record – not because it’s stylistically similar, but because both share an embrace of the surreal, abstract to overcome alienation and dread. There’s a bit of Glenn Branca and Tin Machine in how defiant these compositions are – I can totally understand why the mighty Steve Albini chose to produce this album, even when his passing one day prior to finishing it was left to fate alone. Wish Defense isn’t so much optimistic as it is cataclysmic, using virtuous craft for emotional catharsis. Especially live, where the trio developed the pieces into stark crystalline sonic architecture, did it feel like the quintessential punk album of 2025: deeply authentic and explosive. And, for those counting along, it doesn’t even mark the band’s best material (that’s likely Void Moments or Present Tense).
– Summer –
Suddenly, I felt catapulted back by 30 years! This summer, I saw two of my favourite bands live, playing to massive crowds, it can be argued at their peak of worldwide authenticity. The Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails, in the flesh! To be fair, I had seen Billy Corgan, in multiple configurations, many times over the years, though this marked the first time I was in the presence of Trent Reznor – but that’s besides the point. The past of the 90s has cut itself sharply into 2025: these bands are now the Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin of a young generation. After the NIN gig, a young guy walked over to us old-heads, shaking our hands and revealing he traveled far to see his favourite band, looking for witnesses to present that this was, possibly, the best day of his life. I asked him his age – he was just 20. After and during the Pumpkins gig, I chatted with fathers next to me, who had brought their teenage kids to the mosh pit. I asked one afterwards how old he was: 15. The father proudly presented that this was the first time in a pit for both of them. I recounted how I had seen SP the first time his age, just – you know – many many years ago.
What has happened, I wondered, that the music that mattered so much to me is now the catalyst for a whole generation to reconnect with guitar music? Part of it is the incredibly emotional value within these angry songs, which speak of an unforgiving societal structure which subjugates human beings into slaves – both have used a variety of metaphors to characterise this oppression. But then there’s also the inherent iconography within their live shows. Corgan, obviously, has always been keen on the art-school dynamics of occultism and the provocation of playing the heel. When in Berlin, a fan moshed with a Pumpkins-mask, Corgan was quick to turn the moment on its orange head: “I say, FUCK mister Pumpkin-head!” Cackling among the elicited boos, Corgan knows full well that he’s playing along to his chosen image of difficult antagonist, while guitarist James Iha retains his motionless, straight face of friendly bewilderment. When the band briefly drifts into a Black Sabbath cover, which Iha sings lyrics-in-hand, it’s palpable that these guys are as keen of Rock mythology as they are happy to satirise it. That makes them human, and somewhat de-ages them. Where other Gen X Rock bands drifted into the miserable territory of trying to live up to outer standards, the Pumpkins always were somewhat ramshackle. Now, finally (mostly) reunited, they can marvel at the wonder that they have survived and continue to find valid expression.
The counterpart of that was when no other than Santa Claus crowd-surfed, and made Trent Reznor break his composure! Nine Inch Nails’ concerts have been, through and through, an emotional and physical thrill ride – possibly standing as candidate for the greatest tour ever! From the moment the black curtain “cube” surrounding the B-stage fell and the overhead lights stuttered to life, revealing a somber Reznor introducing solo piano renditions of some of his most naked material, to the orgiastic and nightmarish delivery of “Gave Up” to red and blue strobes, the fantastic, multi-layered fabric reflections of “Reptile”, to the immense gravity of the finale “Hurt” (which left Reznor in tears at my show), it was a singular, astonishing experience that transformed the arena into the sweat and angst soaked art-show of the “Broken Film”. When, during the first break of “Reptile”, Reznor stared right ahead into the crowd, he seemed to almost naturally embody Twin Peaks’ horrid entity BOB. Indeed, the lighting and overall visual design often seemed directly influenced by David Lynch’s work, just as there were moments of sheer presence where Reznor seemed to embody the charismatic glow of David Bowie.
Reznor is now in his early 60s, and what this astonishing tour – which often rotated obscure and lesser-played songs into the setlist – showcased was that the artist understands himself as an archivist of his oeuvre. His two prime idols of multimedia artistry – who are also friends and collaborators – are gone, leaving him to bear the torch forward. And, astonishingly, Reznor can prove that he digested their influences and artistic spirit into his own work, presenting a multimedia Gesamtkunstwerk that invites ruthless engagement. His tour was more of a performance piece art installation, which invited the audience to dive headfirst into an ever-changing experience, from acoustic balladry to Art Rock to Rave to Industrial Pop. That Reznor seemingly used Tarot Cards to signify individual movements of that show does not surprise me: there was something larger happening here, something more notable than a Rock concert. For 2026, additional dates have been confirmed – it can only be assumed what form these images will transform to by then.
While the vibrant images projected onto curtains at the Nine Inch Nails show are the best to be seen this year, the very worst has also sadly burnt itself into our retinas. I’ve written before about the constant horror we face in light of multiple genocides and the political and medial ignorance of the realities of those situations, but one thing I – partly intentionally – omitted is the role journalism plays in all this. But, you know, sometimes it’s valuable to do so – because one of the most horrifying things that grazed my eyes in 2025 were columns, or think pieces, by fellow music journalists who, under the guise of media critique, were indulging in the most vile showcases of white supremacy, racism and fascistoid propaganda one can imagine. I reserve to not name names – maybe I should… – but I am assured that I don’t have to – the decay is clearly visible. Examples are many: from the claims that awareness for the Palestinian plight was merely cynical instrumentalisation used to sell records, when in reality many outspoken artists had shows cancelled and were bullied by bookers or venues to avoid any clear political statements, to the equation of political discourse as buzzwords – the most vile one I’ve seen was likely a writer referring to “the buzzwords, such as #genocide”. Honestly, the moral corruption in a field already rife with idiocy is paralysing!
I’ve been vastly critical of my field – hell, one reason why I left behind German music journalism for the much more rewarding waters of BPM was that, besides a few rare gems, the absence of intellect, political intelligence and curiosity was baffling! Yes, most music critics in the larger publications famously don’t even listen to albums anymore, rather play-debating which classic artists they find overrated or lusting after mainstream starlets they interviewed and gave full-star reviews to, all while marginalised people and independent artists are written off as curio. If you, dear reader, encountered this text as a music journalist, this can already be taken as proof that you are not the type I speak of here, because the type I speak of won’t engage with foreign perspectives, won’t challenge their bubble, won’t look beyond their pitiful goon-caves. So you, dear reader, are fine, and I’m here to chat and drink and vibe any time! But if 2025 has taught me one thing, is that I won’t return – either to mainstream journalism or writing in my own language – when it comes to music writing, and I honestly am bewildered how many journalists see the moral corruption in people they still deem “friends” when those very people play down genocide or fascism with the same haughty, patronising, mocking tone they usually reserve for female or brown or queer or fucking weird artists who they are too illiterate and uneducated to understand, without rightfully stepping away in boycott of such pieces. Because frankly, we are a public voice – even if we just talk about music – and our platform should be used for what we believe in: to oppose any and all of the fascistoid horrors we see occurring. We have one small window, and while those who would need to read this text won’t, we should unite on this matter.
– Autumn –
Maybe more people should step away and take a break, at the movies. One Battle After Another proved that political art was alive and as vibrant as on the height of New Hollywood! A wonderfully grotesque, radical, vibrant journey into counter-cultural defiance, Anderson’s fable found an emotional expression for a movement’s moral core, gave modern fascism a repugnant face with Sean Penn’s “Sgt. Lockjaw” and de-mystified racist myth. In a landscape of mostly tired and flat dramas, he presented an engaging vision, which was as light hearted as it was gravely alerting. He even found a dynamic and unique depiction for a chase sequence in the film’s thrilling climax, flirting with action-film tropes. Even if this isn’t counting as among Anderson’s best three works, it should sit quite confidently in his top 5.
Equally confident and emotionally resonant was David Cronenberg’s The Shrouds. The Canadian originator of ‘venereal horror’ is now in his early 80s and reflecting both on the loss of his wife (and editor) and his bright light slowly dimming. In that, The Shrouds becomes a film on the nature of decay – physically, spiritually, morally, but also of reality. When the protagonist’s wife repeatedly enters his bedroom, a dream or ghost or something in-between (see also: billy woods’ use of this spectral succubus recurrently appearing in his lyrics), she slowly seems to come apart, losing body parts, finally breaking to the touch. It’s such a harrowing, but oddly warm experience: a film that flirts with absence as erotic motif, until – in the end – nothing is left but the journey into an uncertain interzone.
And then there was Sinners: a film so successful, it might have saved the uneasy ‘niche’ of non-conformist genre filmmaking in America! Breaking with multiple traditions of storytelling and depiction in mainstream cinema, it used many aspects of black culture – and black music! – to explore structural oppression, violence and racism. It found so many intelligent and colourful nuances to elaborate on dynamics usually reserved for heavy handed Oscar bait, instead wrapping it in the fiery, nocturnal intercourse of musical, horror and western, that it is hard to pull just one out to highlight. But truthfully, my favourite moment might come early on, when one of the two twin brothers portrayed perfectly by Jordan ventures to confront the mother of his dead child, a Voodoo priestess, and finds himself disarmed and cracked wide open by his desire and love for this dangerous woman. In this quiet passage, Coogler elaborates so many things about black masculinity and the uneasy dynamics romance can hold, that I’m certain many white viewers missed the transgression of the moment. But then, hey, Sinners also supplied us with the single most thrilling musical sequence of the year – and possibly decade – when an entire barn collapses history in on itself. What a film!
And if those three aren’t enough – well, are they? – then I also warmly refer to Weapons and Keeper. Two beautifully strange and intimate horror films, made by two directors who seem to progressively explore how much they can get away with when it comes to break structures wide open and insert politics into our unconscious fear. Weapons uses multiple perspectives to explore the heavy weight of addiction on a small community through a brilliant metaphor, while Keeper conjures a nightmarish story of generational violence that, ultimately, transforms cruelty into rebirth. Using fairytale images and dynamics, both are much more intelligent than people give them credit for and reward exploration!
– Winter –
Every cycle leads to the end, to the dark, the cold, the unfamiliar. I saw Swans close an arc, (possibly) finishing an era at the height of their power: a spiritual experience! For any development, old empires need to fall. It was possibly the most surprising one when discourse finally hit the end of Taylor Swift’s imperial phase. The Life of a Showgirl was maybe not the subjectively worst record I had heard this year – that would go to the cringeworthy and wholly inane A Complicated Woman by Self Esteem, which did not hold a single enjoyable song, whereas Swift had “The Fate of Ophelia” – but let’s not mince words here, it was a baffling disaster. From the often flat compositions (of which many were, umh, taken from other artists, except the one which gave credit to George Michael but had nothing in common with its alleged blueprint), to the immature and clunky lyrics, the lack of self-awareness and just good craft was shocking for an entertainer like Swift, who has proven many times how good she can be when focused. I don’t think that, besides the mentioned “The Fate of Ophelia”, there is a single composition here I wouldn’t switch stations if it popped on the radio – and worse, many of the lyrics were actively aggravating. “Wood” sticks out as the nadir of Swift’s career as a writer, but the perspective of “Actually Romantic” is so strained and convoluted, totally misunderstanding Charli’s intended observation of the insecurities women face within the music business world, and then delivering such graceless and lame attempts of a diss that it made Swift the immediate loser of the non-existend feud, it’s incomprehensible how this record was made. Even the artwork is lacklustre. How the richest current day pop star of the world OK’d the album remains a mystery. But it’s clear that her imperial phase, which already seemed a little shaky after the uneven TTPD, is over. Swift will return, but like many in that place, will have to reflect on her approach a little.
As for me, there were many small, personal developments which opened my eyes to a better tomorrow. I traveled, a lot, and – hey – survived Venice, the cinematic interzone that claimed so many protagonists of classic film stories! I found warmth in the embrace of front-Jesus Lizard David Yow, whose hands gripped me in the front row of their show and were shockingly warm. As warm as the smoke that David Lynch filled his lungs with, who grew icy this year, when we lost the greatest American artist of our time. And I thought of his words, “The fire is coming!”, when I unsuspectingly saw Agriculture open for Chat Pile – both fantastic, but the former a force so incredibly compelling that I was immediately rendered hopeful for the future… of what? A future. Something, better than this, brighter than now.
I saw an echo when I visited Mark Leckey’s current career retrospective in Berlin. A fan since I saw his unbelievable work in London’s Tate Britain, this retrospective promised a lot – and overshot my expectations! A lurid living nightmare, it transformed the gallery space into a liminal labyrinth of uncanny, brutalist urban crawlspaces. I won’t spoil any of the sights, but will say this: the experience changed how I understood how far art can be taken, how intuitive and emotional imagery can be when totally unbound by the boundaries of logic and polite societal norms. And how even a grey, even surface can become the canvas for wild dreams.
And just to make that clear: of course you should pick Blazer! Because Dispatch is all about learning that love doesn’t require to be tortured – real love is unconditional. Sure, Courtney is great, but she’s also a very broken person who hungers for confidence and uses romance as a means to tell herself that she can “fix it”. Mandy on the other hand provides understanding and affection precisely because she understands that being a human requires flaws. She actually cares about her opposite, and doesn’t try to challenge Robert to see how far his demand for love can stand testing. So, good that we cleared that up, Blazer all the way.
So here I am, on the collapse of the year. With all the old fears, all the old hopes. Nothing to be desired, everything to be assumed. But I’ll be alright. I still kick rocks when the walking is good and pretend at the chain link that I am the wood as I’m leaning my head back, saying, “Take me, I ain’t gonna scream”. In the end, through all the blood and the dust, it all will make sense. You and I will be here, for yet a new dawn. So stay with me, and never forget:
I love you.
Here are my favourite albums of 2025:
1.: Ethel Cain – Perverts
2.: Armand Hammer & The Alchemist – Mercy
3.: Swans – Birthing
4.: Erika de Casier – Lifetime
5.: FACS – Wish Defense
6.: Chat Pile & Hayden Pedigo – In the Earth Again
7.: Ramleh – Hyper Vigilance
8.: Geese – Getting Killed
9.: The Murder Capital – Blindness
10.: Circuit des Yeux – Halo on the Inside
11.: Agriculture – The Spiritual Sound
12.: Model/Actriz – Pirouette
13.: Ethel Cain – Willoughby Tucker, I’ll Always Love You
14.: quannnic – Warbrained
15.: MurderMartyr – PoemforNothing
16.: Oneohtrix Point Never – Tranquilizer
17.: FKA twigs – Eusexua
18.: Ichiko Aoba – Luminescent Creatures
19.: Whirr – Raw Blue (Released physically and to streaming in 2025)
20.: Nerves – Iarmhaireacht
21.: billy woods & August Fanon – Gowillog
22.: Elucid – Interference Pattern (Released on NYE 2024)
23.: Turnstile – Never Enough
24.: Preservation & Gabe ’Nandez – Sortilège
25.: Suede – Antidepressants
26.: Benjamin Booker – Lower
27.: Little Simz – Lotus
28.: Greet Death – Die in Love
29.: Quadeca – Vanisher, Horizon Scraper
30.: Danny Brown – Stardust
31.: Florist – Jellywish
32.: keiyaA – Hooke’s Law
33.: Shearling – Motherfucker, I Am Both: “Amen” and “Hallelujah”…
34.: billy woods – Golliwog
35.: yeule – Evangelic Girl Is a Gun
36.: Freddie Gibbs & The Alchemist – Alfredo 2
37.: They Are Gutting a Body of Water – Lotto
38.: MIKE – Showbiz!
39.: Deftones – private music
40.: Open Mike Eagle – Neighborhood Gods Unlimited
41.: Water Gun Water Gun Sky Attack – Six Tenants Killing One Homeowner Six Times Over
42.: Jiles & Grubby Pawz – Griot
43.: Earl Sweatshirt – Live Laugh Love
44.: Rochelle Jordan – Through the Wall
45.: Big Thief – Double Infinity
46.: Alex G – Headlights
47.: Imperial Triumphant – Goldstar
48.: Mac Miller – Balloonerism
49.: Haunted Horses – Dweller
50.: Lana Del Rabies – Omnipotent Fuck
51.: Water From Your Eyes – It’s a Beautiful Place
52.: Sudan Archives – The BPM
53.: Squid – Cowards
54.: Panda Bear – Sinister Grift
55.: venturing – Ghostholding
Honourable Mentions: Antropoceno – Natureza morta ⦾ death’s dynamic shroud.wmv – 4k God Projected on the Smoldering Ashes ⦿ FKA twigs – Eusexua Afterglow ⦾ Javiera Electra – Helíade ⦿ Matt Berninger – Get Sunk ⦾ McKinley Dixon – Magic, Alive! ⦿ Oklou – Choke Enough ⦾ Perfume Genius – Glory ⦿ SUMAC & Moor Mother – The Film ⦾ Stereolab – Instant Holograms on Metal Film
My 2025 playlist, for your enjoyment:
