There’s a particular weight that comes with making a record completely on your own, and James Laurent carries it like a bruise, not a trophy. He might be from Huntington Beach, but there’s none of that sun-soaked pop-punk gloss here. Instead, this record lives in the shadows, steeped in grunge anxiety, gothic indie gloom, and the kind of mental spiralling that keeps you staring at the ceiling long after everyone else has fallen asleep.
Polarity sets the mood immediately. The guitars drag their feet, heavy and unresolved, while the vocals sound like they could splinter at any second.. Nothing here feels dressed up for effect. On my Altar pushes deeper into that emotional sacrifice, with Laurent treating love less like salvation and more like a ritual you willingly bleed for. The songwriting holds its own, but it’s the atmosphere that lingers — tight, uncomfortable, and slightly decayed around the edges.
Midas is where the album really bares its teeth. The idea of turning everything you touch into something broken rather than golden hits hard, and the production leans into that bitterness. theres a Country element I cant quite put my finger on, It’s thick, pressing in from all sides, yet there’s still enough melody underneath to keep it from collapsing under its own weight. anesthesia shifts gears into something quieter and more detached, capturing emotional numbness without drowning in theatrics. It’s one of the album’s most effective moments, though it does hang around a little longer than it needs to by the end.
Pardon me if i breakdown is unfiltered to the point of discomfort, which is exactly why it works. Laurent doesn’t try to clean up the chaos or make it palatable. It’s messy, self-aware, and painfully familiar. crashout lives up to its name, exploding into distorted overload and flirting with self-destruction. It’s exciting, but it also highlights one of the album’s few weaknesses — Laurent’s instinct to throw everything into the mix at once. A bit more restraint here could have made the impact sharper.
L’appel du vide marks a striking turn, leaning into intrusive thoughts and self-sabotage with a cinematic, gothic sweep that never quite slips into parody. That balance is hard to pull off, especially in a genre that often overplays its hand. Dancing with the Devil closes things out on a bleak, reflective note, circling themes of temptation, control, and personal collapse. There’s no tidy resolution offered, and that refusal to fake one feels honest.
What holds the album together is Laurent’s complete commitment to his own emotional world. Handling every part of the process himself gives the record a singular voice that’s difficult to imitate. You can hear the technical confidence in the layered production and careful construction. At times, though, that same intensity works against him. A tighter edit or an outside ear could have helped a few tracks breathe instead of spiralling inward.
Even so, this is a bold, fully-realised second album from an artist who clearly isn’t interested in playing it safe. James Laurent isn’t bending genres for novelty; he’s dragging pop-punk, grunge and gothic indie through his own emotional wreckage to see what comes out the other side.
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