When someone in my newsroom talks about a “literary style”, it usually means a text with its own pulse, its own temperature, unafraid of vivid language. PERFECT BEASTS practically beg to be approached that way. All the more so because this is a band made up of musicians whose names have echoed across the British rock scene for years: John Mitchell (Arena, It Bites, Kino, Frost*, Asia), Nick Andrew (played joint concerts with Midge Ure and Guthrie Govan, John Williams), Darren Redick (Bernie Marsden, Grand Slam) and Steve Hales (Kepler Ten, R2 – A Tribute to Rush). Each of them arrives with different experience, different sensibilities, a different musical universe — and yet from the very first notes you can hear that they’ve met at a point where everything suddenly works like a well‑oiled machine.
But this isn’t just a meeting of seasoned professionals. PERFECT BEASTS play as if they wanted to tear established patterns apart from the inside. The album refuses to obey any rules — it’s accessible and boldly adventurous at the same time, driven by Mitchell’s emotional, primal vocals and guitars that sound unlike anything we’ve heard before. Much of that comes from modern technology, including Nick Andrew’s synthetic guitars, which give the music a feral, unpredictable edge. “Every riff has claws, every melody cuts deep” — and that’s exactly how it feels. The Redick–Hales rhythm section plays with instinctive precision: heavy when needed, but just as comfortable in more spacious passages where groove matters more than brute force.
All of this makes PERFECT BEASTS sound like a band with nothing to prove. They’re not chasing progressive virtuosity, not trying to be “the next big thing”, not hiding in retro nostalgia. Their music is modern but never cold; technical but never over‑intellectualised; catchy but never shallow. And at the same time — and this is the spirit of the album — there’s something wild and untamed running through it. From the opening “Three’s a Crowd” to the philosophical weight of “Perfect Beasts”, the band builds a world where rock energy meets unexpected influences, and every track becomes a small expedition into the unknown. As if four musicians who have played hundreds of gigs and recorded dozens of albums suddenly remembered what it feels like to play purely for joy — with a hint of anarchy. From the very first minutes it’s clear that PERFECT BEASTS have no intention of politely fitting into any stylistic box. “Three’s a Crowd” bursts in with force — the riffs have the “claws” Nick Andrew talked about, and Mitchell sings as if releasing the pent‑up frustration of an entire generation. It’s an opening that not only sets the tone for the album but also shows that the band treats rock energy as a starting point, not a destination. In the following tracks that energy never disappears, but it shifts shape: sometimes raw, sometimes spacious, sometimes tinged with electronics, sometimes rooted in classic guitar work.
PERFECT BEASTS build the album like a story — each track has its own character, its own weight, its own internal drama, and together they form a cohesive, surprisingly emotional whole. It’s a tight, sub‑50‑minute record made of ten songs with no filler — every fragment has its purpose and its place. “Three’s a Crowd” and “Non‑Stop to the Moon” served as early teasers of what the album would become, and it quickly became clear that PERFECT BEASTS were about to deliver a full‑length debut that would not only draw the attention of Mitchell’s fans but also surprise those who thought they already knew exactly what to expect from him.
“Three’s a Crowd” combines two layers: musical fury and lyrical anxiety — and only together do they reveal the full picture of the song. It opens with a bell, immediately followed by a blistering hit of snarling guitars and a rhythm section Metallica themselves wouldn’t be ashamed of. The attack never lets up: no pauses, no breath, just momentum, tension, and a razor‑sharp metal solo that cranks the heat even higher. It’s one of the most explosive openings on the album — the kind that instantly puts the listener in a “brace yourself, this is going to be rough” stance. That aggression fits the lyrics perfectly. “Three’s a Crowd” is a short, jittery story about someone barging into another person’s space with a force the narrator simply can’t tolerate. The first lines set the tone: haste, pressure, no room to breathe — exactly what you hear in the riffs. The refrain, “Three’s a crowd / Don’t take it personally”, sounds like an ironic attempt to soften a message that is brutally honest anyway. The strongest moment is the mantra “Stay the hell… stay away from me” — pure instinct, the need to reclaim distance and control. I loved this track from the very first listen.
“Bad Things Happen” works as a deliberate counterpoint to the album’s opener. Where “Three’s a Crowd” hits like a battering ram, this one starts far more gently, as if the band intentionally eased off the accelerator. The intro is soft, almost soothing, and the bite appears only in the choruses, where the riffs gain weight without overwhelming the melody — because despite the heavier guitars, the song remains surprisingly tuneful. The solos are very “Hales‑like”: melodic, precise, more emotional than showy. The structure mirrors the lyrics beautifully. “Bad Things Happen” is built on a simple but striking contrast: everyday helplessness set against the attempt to keep one’s spirits up. Mitchell opens almost cinematically — a piano falling from the sky and starving children are extreme, absurd, tragic images meant to show that chaos doesn’t need logic. The refrain, “bad things happen / despite our best intents”, is the key: even the best intentions don’t shield us from disaster. The second verse brings irony: we donate to charity, but have no idea whether it changes anything. And when apathy surrounds us, cynicism comes easily: “I don’t care, so don’t blame me.” The most interesting moment is the bridge — a sudden shift in perspective. Instead of lament: acceptance. Instead of despair: a grin. “Skidding in smiling… shouting ‘what a ride!’” sounds like the motto of people who know life can be brutal, but still believe it’s worth experiencing with eyes wide open. Music and lyrics walk hand in hand: calmer verses reflect helplessness, heavier choruses — rebellion, and the final tonal shift — reconciliation with chaos. It’s a song about recognising one’s limits and understanding that sometimes the only thing we can do is go through it all with dignity and a touch of humour.
“Heavy Is the Head” is one of those tracks where music and lyrics meet exactly halfway — and only then do they speak with full force. Sonically, it feels at times like Mike + The Mechanics meeting Guns N’ Roses: the verses are pastel, built on pulse and melody, while the choruses soar into full hard‑rock flight without losing elegance. Leoni Jane Kennedy’s backing vocals deserve special mention — they add light and space, as if someone opened a window in a heavy room. The lyrics explore the weight of awareness — the more we know, the more we feel our own limitations. Mitchell paints metaphysical images: we move like mountains, like stones, like tankers, like oceans — slowly, majestically, but with effort. It’s a song about a body that can’t keep up and a mind that sees less and less, even as it understands more. The chorus is a confession of weakness, delivered with tenderness and self‑irony: “my hands don’t work… I squint to see… I can’t hear high frequencies.” There’s no lament here — just acceptance that time does what it does. The second verse offers a counterpoint: “we’re light as dancers” — as if Mitchell wanted to remind us that despite the weight of existence, something fleeting and trace‑less remains in us. The bridge ties it all together: time grinds on, time doesn’t slow, so the only thing left is to “make the best of being around.” One of the album’s most mature moments — a song about ageing, acceptance, and the simple truth that the crown is heavy for anyone who lives and tries to understand the world.
“Genie’s Out the Bottle” is the moment where PERFECT BEASTS clearly veer into more alternative territory. The track is dynamic, built on a pulsing rhythm and sharp accents, but not as heavy as the album’s opening. This is where Nick Andrew’s synthetic guitars are most prominent — not as a gimmick, but as a tool for building tension and nervous energy. There are more of them here, and their tone adds a faintly futuristic flavour, as if the music itself were commenting on the song’s theme. This sonic layer fits the lyrics perfectly — the most political and most biting on the album. Mitchell writes with clear frustration, but also with an irony that turns the whole thing into a satire of the world we live in. The opening lines feel like someone being thrown out the door — literally and metaphorically. It’s a reckoning with power, with the suit‑and‑tie figures who appear and disappear, leaving behind mess, cynicism, and social exhaustion. The recurring image of “suited swine” and a clock striking “13” creates a grotesque atmosphere, as if politics were not only corrupt but downright absurd. The refrain “careful what you wish for” works as a warning: once the genie — the populist, the demagogue, the self‑appointed saviour — is released, he starts living a life of his own. The second verse is even sharper: lies, denial, arrogance, bonuses, contempt for ordinary people. It’s a text about a political class that not only refuses to listen but actively manipulates and destroys — and about a society that sometimes willingly falls for it. “Genie’s Out the Bottle” isn’t a lament but a bitter satire — a track where the alternative edge and synthetic textures underline the message: history loves to repeat itself, and we still refuse to learn from our mistakes.
“Non‑Stop to the Moon” is one of the album’s most instantly catchy moments, yet it’s also a song that brilliantly fuses musical energy with a nostalgic, slightly ironic lyric. The opening hits hard — almost cheekily so — with guitars crashing in at full force, a densely working rhythm section, and a short but excellent solo from Andy that immediately raises the pulse. Then the verses settle into a smoother, almost swaying groove, only for the choruses to return to a strong, AOR‑style beat. The bass stands out throughout — broad, prominent, leading the way. Near the end, John delivers a guitar flourish of his own, and the finale has a distinctly futuristic shimmer, as if the track were lifting off toward its own imagined future. This musical architecture perfectly carries the lyric, which tells a story of lost faith in the future — but with nostalgia, humour, and a touch of bitterness. Mitchell begins with decades‑old dreams: flying cars, space‑age kitchens, the optimism of the Apollo era. A world in which the future felt bright and full of promise. The refrain, “non‑stop to the moon”, sounds like a slogan from a 1960s NASA poster, but in the context of the song it becomes a question: why aren’t we there yet? The second half of the lyric contrasts those old dreams with today’s reality: “alternative facts”, app addiction, a divided society, young people lost between truth and fiction. Mitchell doesn’t preach — he simply shows how far we’ve drifted from that earlier optimism. The bridge, however, offers a glimmer of hope: “spread your wings and fly!” — a call to reclaim vision, courage, and curiosity. “Non‑Stop to the Moon” is therefore a song about disappointment with the present, but also about longing for a time when looking up at the sky meant believing tomorrow could be better — and the music, with its energy and futuristic ending, underscores that longing beautifully.
“Undertow” unfolds in layers, just like its lyric — from something seemingly calm to a full, inevitable pull downward. It begins with a choral line that sounds like an echo from somewhere distant, almost spiritual. Then the drums enter, giving the track its pulse, while the pulsing guitar and Mitchell’s warm vocal lead us toward the first climax. The chorus is dynamic and expansive, with a clear surge of emotion. In the background, the keyboards add depth — courtesy of Nick Andrew, followed by a fusion‑style guitar solo — short but intense, like a flash in the dark. The verse smooths out again, only for the chorus to strike harder the second time. The ending erupts into wild hard rock, as if all the accumulated tension finally had to explode. This structure mirrors the lyric, the darkest and most symbolic on the album — full of apocalyptic imagery, spiritual exhaustion, and the cyclical nature of history. Mitchell writes like a chronicler of a world long past the point of reason. The first verse sets the tone: a city, a desert, an afterglow — a place everyone ends up in, though no one can explain why. “Undertow” becomes a metaphor for a force that drags us under — political, social, existential. The recurring “wise man” motif appears throughout, not as a prophet but as a helpless witness. In the first instance he looks to the sky, in the second to the ground, in the third to people — and each time he reaches the same conclusion: the world has gone too far, and peace has become a tool of manipulation. “They are weaponising peace” is one of the album’s most powerful lines. The second verse shows the logic of retaliation — “you take from me, I take from you” — a balance that fixes nothing. The third becomes almost mythic: an empty god, a thousand years of nothingness, history teaching us what we already know. The only escape is a rocket — literally and metaphorically — an attempt to break free from the undertow before everything collapses. The chorus ties it all together: we are being pulled into something we don’t understand, and no answers will be given. The music, with its pulsing, rising tension and explosive finale, captures this perfectly — as if the entire track were a wave that first rocks you, then drags you, and finally overturns you.
“Chasing Daylight” is the album’s breath — a ballad that doesn’t need grandeur to hit the hardest. It begins with delicate taps on the cymbals, a subtle bass line, and two guitars weaving gently around each other. John sings softly, with that warm tone of his that immediately sets the emotional temperature. Between the verses there’s a short solo — more like a sigh than a showcase — which later melts into the background. The chorus is slightly livelier but still blends seamlessly with the arrangement. In the second half another solo appears, followed by violins that add lightness and melancholy. The ending returns to the airy mood of the beginning — as if the song were closing in the same light it opened in. This musical delicacy fits the lyric perfectly — one of the most intimate and hopeful on the album. “Chasing Daylight” is a song about emerging from darkness, about slowly reclaiming light, and about the quiet things that hold the greatest strength. Mitchell begins with the image of looking into the sun, which “seems impossible” — as if the very act of reaching for brightness were an act of courage. It’s a song about fear that returns, but can be named, tamed, and eventually pushed aside. The “paper crown” motif in the chorus is a beautiful strike at false power — at people and situations that seem mighty but are, in truth, fragile. The key line, “in the end it’s the quietest sounds that get heard”, ties everything together: real change and real healing come from subtle places, not from noise. The second half of the lyric reflects on years of chaos and blindness, but also on hope: what remains after the storm may finally begin to grow. “Chasing Daylight” is a song about a gentle but determined fight for clarity — and the music, with its softness, violins, and swaying pulse, carries that story with remarkable tenderness.
“On A Curve” sounds from the very first seconds like a tribute to jazz‑rock classics. A very prominent, springy bass leads the way, while the vocal — slightly sharp but perfectly clean — adds bite. In the middle section there’s a brilliant dialogue between bass and guitar, giving the track a lightly jazz‑tinged feel. One could almost mistake it for a funk‑rock tune, just delivered in a sharper, more modern form. The groove, the pulse, the instrumental conversation — all of it makes “On A Curve” stand out with its rhythmic swagger. This musical lightness and funk‑like elasticity contrast with one of the album’s most biting lyrics. “On A Curve” is a story about stubbornness, blindness, and the rejection of facts — about people who cling to their beliefs even as reality collapses around them. The opening lines set the tone: “ship of fools”, “ignoring nature’s rules” — an image of collective stupidity sailing straight toward disaster. The recurring “living with the dinosaurs” motif highlights the anachronism of such thinking, its dangerous detachment from the modern world. “The truth deranged / is closing all the open doors” captures the essence of today’s information chaos: truth twisted into a tool for shutting possibilities rather than opening them. The refrain, “we’re on a curve”, can be read as a reference to the curvature of the Earth and scientific denialism, but also as a metaphor for change — unstoppable, inevitable. In both cases, the subject of the lyric stands on the wrong side: the side that refuses to listen or learn. The second verse adds more imagery: disappearing mountains, ignored evidence, “stupid sacrifices”. It’s a song about frustration with irrationality — about how difficult it is to talk to someone who rejects reality because it doesn’t fit their narrative. The music, with its jazz‑rock pulse and funk‑driven nerve, acts as a counterpoint: a light form carrying a heavy message, making it one of the album’s most direct social commentaries.
“Every Saturday (One Night Only)” sets the scene from the very first second. You hear the murmur of voices drifting out of a pub — as if the door has just swung open and pulled you inside. Then the bass comes in, followed by keys and a gentle drum pattern, until a sweet rhythm guitar appears, laying down a soft backdrop for John’s understated vocal. The chorus brings a sudden rupture: John raises his voice, the rhythm sharpens, and the whole track surges with rock energy. This contrast repeats throughout — calm verses, punchier choruses — leading to a juicy guitar solo, after which the shout‑driven chorus returns once more. In the final moments everything smooths out, as if the pub were slowly emptying and the lights dimming. This musical dramaturgy fits the lyric perfectly — the most cinematic and the most human on the entire album. “Every Saturday (One Night Only)” is a story about pub regulars — people who meet in the same place every week, each carrying an unfulfilled dream and a private burden. Dylan waits for his song, as if it might change his life. Gina once dreamed of India, but life got in the way. Tommy wanted to sing, but “life’s what happens when you’re doing other things.” And then Angus appears — and suddenly the tone shifts. His story is a quiet tragedy no one noticed, because a smile can hide anything. At that moment the song stops being a pub chronicle and becomes a commentary on loneliness and how little we truly see when we look at the people around us. The chorus — “One night only / we’re all here together tonight” — feels like a collective sigh, as if this one night were an escape from everyday life, from problems, from everything that can’t be changed. The “caged bird” metaphor ties it all together: we sing because we must, because it’s the only way to survive. It’s a song about ordinary people trying to feel extraordinary for a moment on a Saturday night. About a community that lasts only until last orders. And about the fact that everyone carries something unseen — until it’s too late.
“Perfect Beasts” opens with trumpets, as if announcing something ceremonial, before plunging straight into sharp, metallic riffs. When the vocal enters, the track softens, though the snarling guitar underneath reminds you that this gentleness is temporary. Midway through, the music smooths out and John sings with striking nostalgia — a moment of suspension, as if the whole song were taking a deep breath before the next blow. After this, the music hardens again, leading into a wide, expressive solo. The finale is full‑on metal — powerful, decisive, expansive — closing not only the track but the entire album with force. This structure mirrors the lyric, the most philosophical ending on the record. “Perfect Beasts” is openly inspired by Nietzsche, but delivered in an emotional, musical, physical way. It’s a story of transformation: from a “beast”, a creature driven by instinct, into someone who consciously shapes their own life. Zarathustra, mountains, ash, fire — these form a mythic frame for a single idea: find the chaos within yourself and turn it into strength. The refrain, “to create a dancing star / find the chaos in your heart”, distils the song’s essence: growth is born from unrest, not comfort. Running through the lyric is a critique of the “last man”, the crowd that prefers entertainment to thought, and the motif of eternal return — the idea of constant becoming rather than reaching a final form. The closing repetition, “from a beast to a superman”, works like a mantra. Not triumphant, but encouraging: transcend yourself, endlessly. Combined with the metal finale, it sounds like a call to become a “perfect beast” — someone real, aware, creative.
“Perfect Beasts” is an album that doesn’t just impress — it leaves a mark. This isn’t another rock release you listen to once and shelve. It’s a record that grows with every spin, built with a level of dramaturgy, purpose, and emotional logic that’s rare today. It’s also an album that proves rock can still be exciting, provided someone has the courage to play it their own way. PERFECT BEASTS aren’t trying to be “the new Genesis”, “the new Rush”, or “the new Porcupine Tree”. They are the first PERFECT BEASTS — and you can hear it. Mitchell delivers some of the finest vocals of his career, Andrew creates guitar worlds unlike anything else out there, Redick plays bass so broad and elastic it sometimes feels like a second guitar, and Steve Hales — drummer and lyricist — binds everything into a single, coherent narrative. His role is absolutely crucial: he gives the album its literary backbone, and his lyrics are not just commentary but an integral part of the storytelling. This is a record unafraid of weight, but also unafraid of silence. Unafraid of irony, but also unafraid of tenderness. Unafraid of politics, but also unafraid of metaphysics. It contains anger, melancholy, humour, nostalgia, philosophy, and simple human empathy. And most importantly — it contains truth. The kind that doesn’t need grand declarations, because you can hear it in every note.
“Perfect Beasts” is one of those albums that appear rarely — not because there aren’t enough good musicians, but because there isn’t enough courage to create something truly one‑of‑a‑kind. PERFECT BEASTS have that courage. It’s a record that sounds modern without losing emotion; technical without ever turning cold; catchy without being shallow; diverse yet as cohesive as a well‑written novel; intense yet capable of fragility.
Ten tracks, just under fifty minutes, zero filler. Every song matters, every song contributes, every song leaves a trace. It’s an album you can analyse, dissect, interpret — but above all, it’s an album you can simply listen to. Loud, quiet, in focus, in the car, on headphones — it works every time. If contemporary rock has a future, it sounds like this: uncompromising, intelligent, emotional, and full of character.“Perfect Beasts” isn’t just a great debut. It’s a record with the potential to become a benchmark. And it’s entirely possible that in a few years we’ll be talking about it as one of the most important rock albums of this decade.
Highly recommended.
