On All My Friends Are Dead To Me, Liverpool / North Wales band COW introduce themselves with a debut that’s scrappy, self-aware and quietly affecting. Sitting somewhere between jangly indie rock and fuzzed-out grunge, the EP feels intentionally rough around the edges — less concerned with polish than with capturing a moment, a mood, and a slightly bruised sense of humour.
The title track sets the tone immediately, pairing bleak one-liners with a wry delivery that never tips fully into self-pity. Lines about friends settling down while the narrator (Kyle) stands still land with a deadpan honesty that feels both funny and uncomfortably relatable. It’s this balance — melancholy offset by irony — that gives the EP its personality.
Musically, COW lean into fuzzy guitars, loose structures and an organic, almost live-room feel. There are clear nods to 90s alternative touchstones — Dinosaur Jr-style grit and Sonic Youth-esque textures — but the songs never feel like exercises in nostalgia. Instead, they sound like a band working things out in real time, confident enough to let imperfections remain, and track 3: A Blank Canvas For Weirdness fills me with hope-sorrow-excitement and dread.
Across the EP, the songwriting grows in ambition, culminating in Happy Birthday, an 8min closing track that explodes into chaos. Its climactic guitar solo is loud, messy and emotionally charged, providing a fitting release after the restraint of earlier tracks. It’s the moment where COW fully embrace noise, and it’s one of the most memorable points on the record.
All My Friends Are Dead To Me may not shout for attention, but it doesn’t need to. Its strength lies in its honesty and its refusal to over-explain itself. As a debut, it feels less like a finished statement and more like the sound of a band finding their voice — and doing so with enough conviction to suggest there’s far more to come.
*Kyle is/was in Gintis and Mexican Walking Fish and collects vintage leaf blowers.
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