In tracing the roots of German-Swiss trio Emily Kinski’s Dead (Oliver Spring, Thomas Kowa, René Ebner), one senses their fierce reverence for the raw, rebellious spirit of 80s post-punk and New Wave. Yet, they sidestep simple revivalism, blending that vintage pulse with electrifying, modern beats. Their sound defies confines, skillfully merging grit with bold invention, forming a thrilling synthesis that’s as fresh as it is fearless.
Black Light District calls upon this retrofuturism with its magnetic pull. The band’s second album pulls listeners into a world as dark as it is beguiling, a place where shadows cradle intrigue and touch upon a strange kinship, a whisper of love’s tenderness amidst isolation.
“This album for us is like a journey back to the 80s, to the music we would have loved in that decade and which we still love to hear and to make,” says Reed.
The band’s lyrics, though spare in word, ring with a searing strength, piercing deep, echoing humanity’s fierce longing to escape life’s unforgiving grasp. In stark, haunting harmonies and piercing poetry, Emily Kinski’s Dead shines a fierce light on existence’s raw, unvarnished truth—the stripped-down ache of being alive in a world unkind, where every note bears the weight of stark reality.
The journey begins with Emily, a cover of Clan of Xymox, a haunting prelude that glows briefly before plunging into the depths. In Dancing on the Battlefield, Kinski confronts a world weary with climate decay, debating with a fossil fuel executive who feeds the flames of destruction. Fabio Rincones’ video brings the story’s pulse to life.
Then, Cold Comfort lulls with deceptive warmth, its chorus swelling before giving way to Pink Pill, a slyly seductive anthem. With Nothingness, euphoria crashes; everything dissipates, leaving only bleak loneliness. Dead Loss pulses with breakbeats, a hurried exit where dark words betray its rhythm. Semaphore masks grief, leading into a trance, and The Mirror in Me brings shoegaze introspection.
The lyric video for The Mirror In Me frames a woman locked in her reflection—a figure half Narcissus, half something from The Hunger. Her gaze is heavy, bearing the weight of a soul wrestling with darkness, burdened by the world’s torment. Shadows coil around her, each line she mouths reflecting humanity’s raw sorrow. She stands, the quiet witness, trapped in a fractured image of suffering yet aching for the light, for release, for some fragile thread of redemption. As hate etches cracks into her spirit, her face becomes a mosaic of despair—a mirror to the ache of being alive.
Watch the video for “The Mirror in Me” below:
The bonus tracks—Why Can’t You Love Me? and Siren’s Call—delve into obsession and futile longing, each video deepening this world of Black Light District.
Listen to Black Light District, out below via Swiss Dark Nights, and order the album here.
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