Nuclear Fusion

"Nuclear Fusion" doesn't so much begin as continue — it arrives mid-momentum, as if the song was already happening before you pressed play, a consequence of "Nonagon Infinity" being a seamlessly looping album where every track bleeds into the next. The riff is hypnotic and slightly nauseating in the best possible way, a descending figure that spirals downward without ever truly landing, propelled by percussion that sounds like it's being played inside a concrete tunnel. The guitars have a thick, furred quality, analog warmth paradoxically serving something that feels cold and mechanical. Mackenzie's voice sits in the mid-mix rather than commanding the front, almost another texture in the weave. Lyrically it orbits destruction and transformation — atomic-age imagery used less as political statement and more as a metaphor for unstoppable momentum. It belongs to the Australian psychedelic underground's obsession with infinity and collapse, that strain of garage music that wants to be both primitive and cosmically large. Best experienced in headphones at high volume during late-night transit, when the city outside looks abstracted and the barriers between things feel temporarily dissolved.