Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon of static, Cursed, the seventh album from German-Swiss garage punks Bikini Beach, flutters and thrashes in equal measure. A sugar rush of fuzzed-out riffs collides with an undercurrent of existential dread—pure rock chaos wrapped in an electrified velvet glove.
Singer-guitarist Nils Hagstrom, bassist Charlotte Love, and drummer Flip700 create a sonic world in which grunge-soaked melancholy meets surf-rock euphoria.
This isn’t necessarily escapism—it’s more a soundtrack for watching the world burn in high definition (as we all are right now). “Everything has been cursed since 2020,” the band admits, and the album reflects that: blistering guitar lines claw their way through layers of distortion while lyrics spiral between personal despair and global catastrophe.
The ghosts of pandemics, war, and populist nightmares follow listeners through the noise, but there’s no time to wallow—only to howl.
Somewhere between The Stooges on a sugar binge and Ty Segall in a black hole, Cursed refuses to sit still. It’s 30 minutes of unhinged catharsis—ugly and beautiful, heavy and weightless, cursed and utterly irresistible.
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