The Lunar Keys’ "pure as your protocol" is a four-minute neon cathedral of post-punk revival, a track that feels like dancing on the grave of 2007 indie sleaze while wearing tomorrow’s shoes. Released as the second single from their sophomore album Mirror Phase (out next spring via Night Train Records), the London quartet—fronted by the enigmatic Juno Vale—have distilled their live-wire energy into something razor-sharp and achingly human.
It detonates with a single, icy synth stab—think early Depeche Mode filtered through a cracked iPhone speaker—before the drums crash in: a motorik pulse that’s half krautrock, half dancefloor panic. Bassist Rex Harrow locks into a hypnotic two-note throb while guitarist Lio Wren unleashes a riff that’s all angular treble and delayed reverb, like The Cure’s Disintegration era on a caffeine jag. Then Juno’s voice slices through: "You said I’d be pure as your protocol / but I’m just code in a heart-shaped hole." It’s androgynous, urgent, soaked in chorus pedal—equal parts plea and accusation.
Lyrically, the song is a scalpel to late-capitalist intimacy. It’s about love in the age of algorithms: dating apps, read receipts, curated vulnerability. Lines like "Swipe right on my ruin / update me in real time" and the devastating bridge—"I ghosted my shadow / you archived the crime"—hit with the precision of a push notification you can’t swipe away. The chorus is a gang-shouted mantra: "Pure as your protocol / clean as your control"—backed by a wall of synth arpeggios that climb like server racks in a data centre.
The production (helmed by Dan Carey at his Streatham speed-demon studio) is immaculate yet raw. Every element breathes: the snare cracks like a breaking contract, the bass guitar growls through a fuzz pedal that sounds like it’s been dragged behind a tour van, and a single, detuned piano note haunts the breakdown like a glitch in the matrix. At 2:45, the song strips to just Juno’s voice and a pulsing kick—"If I delete the logs / will you still know my name?"—before exploding back into a final chorus that feels like a system overload. It’s danceable, devastating, and dangerously catchy.
Play it in a club and watch strangers scream the lyrics like a hymn; play it alone and feel the walls close in. Only complaint? It ends too soon. You’ll hit repeat before the reverb decays. The Lunar Keys aren’t just back—they’ve hacked the mainframe. Mirror Phase can’t come fast enough.
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