Album Review: Untitled by Amuk – A Trip Through Belgian Acid Waves
Alright, buckle up, because this one’s a wild ride. Amuk’s Untitled album is like that weird cousin who shows up unannounced at family gatherings but somehow steals the show. Hailing from Belgium (you know, the land of waffles and questionable EU decisions), this electronic gem dives deep into the squelchy, brain-melting world of acid music. Released under their own label AMUK, it feels raw, personal, and just a little unhinged—which is exactly what makes it so damn good.
Let’s talk tracks. The titular track, “Untitled,” kicks things off with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face—but in a good way. It’s pure acid madness: pulsating basslines, hypnotic bleeps, and enough energy to power a small village. You can practically hear the Roland TB-303 screaming for mercy as Amuk twists its knobs into oblivion. What sticks with me about this track? It’s relentless. Like, if you’re not careful, it might hijack your brain and make you dance like an overcaffeinated robot. And honestly? That’s a vibe I can get behind.
Then there’s another standout—let’s call it Track X (because apparently naming songs isn’t Amuk’s thing). This one sneaks up on you like a cat in the night, starting off slow and brooding before exploding into a kaleidoscope of glitchy synths and stuttering beats. There’s something oddly cinematic about it, like the soundtrack to a sci-fi film where everyone wears neon jumpsuits and rides hoverboards. By the time it fades out, you're left wondering, “Wait…what just happened?” Spoiler alert: magic.
What makes Untitled special is how unapologetically itself it is. It doesn’t try to be polished or mainstream; instead, it embraces chaos and lets the music do the talking. Listening to it feels like stepping into a secret rave in some abandoned Belgian warehouse circa 1992. Sure, the production has its rough edges, but that only adds to the charm. It’s imperfect, unpredictable, and utterly addictive.
So here’s the kicker: after blasting through this album, I couldn’t help but wonder—if Amuk ever decided to name their tracks, would they lose their mystique? Maybe the lack of titles is the ultimate flex, forcing listeners to focus on the sound rather than the semantics. Or maybe they just forgot. Either way, it works.
Final verdict? If you’re into acid-electronic vibes that mess with your head in the best possible way, Untitled is worth every minute of your time. Just don’t blame me if you start hearing bleeps and bloops in your sleep.
