Coincidence nudges a life; fate reroutes it. Dedication and love for the craft do something else entirely. WIRED is that rare record that proves how those forces combine. It wears the band’s history on its sleeve — the formation, the breaks, the side projects, the time taken to breathe and return — and every pause and push is audible. Soft-toned melodies sit beside hard riffs and gut-punching lyrics; the whole thing feels lovingly pulled from the 90s and early 2000s, but not as imitation. Basement refashion that era into something singular: a record about finding yourself, about daring to experiment, and, above all, about friendship.
There was a real chance we’d never hear from them again — washed away in the churn of genres and trends, reduced to a memory. WIRED refuses that fate. It’s proof of what sustained love and commitment can produce. With the right people beside you, you can do anything.
Time Waster
An eerie opening note settles like a room you haven’t visited in years. When the drums hit, you’re instantly transported to a younger self — restless, searching, raw. Before Andrew Fisher sings, the music has already spoken; his voice arrives like a message from an old friend you haven’t heard from in eight years. The track leans into grunge-tinged textures, a brief surge that makes that younger version of you want to scream. That rush is fleeting, and the band eases back into the original beat, returning to something intimate and soothing. The ending leaves a hollow ache — a longing to reclaim lost hours — and that emptiness lingers, purposeful and resonant.
WIRED
The title track lifts the mood with buoyant momentum. Rather than spotlighting individual flourishes, the song is built around the band as a unit — each part bridging the next, keeping you rooted in the energy of youth when everything felt possible. It’s a night out captured in sound: loud, bright, alive. You were completely wired in the moment, taking everything in.
A wash of distortion opens the gate, then the real tune arrives with a hunger to show off technical chops. The band resists that urge and keep things simple — because sometimes restraint is the point. You can hear the mutual encouragement in the playing; the song is a reminder that simplicity can be its own kind of strength.
Deadweight
This track calls to you with a voice that’s both familiar and strange, like a half-remembered dream. The guitars — led by Alec Henery and Ronan Crix — pull and screech in a way that tugs at the same thought throughout the mix. Those threads hang like an apple on a branch, waiting to fall and become deadweight.
A mid-song tempo shift suits the structure perfectly, giving the band room to flex their command of dynamics. The slow, swampy beat lets notes thicken and settle; you find yourself sinking into the texture, swaying through the mud as if the choice to move forward were yours to make. The song’s weight is literal and emotional: it drags, it resists, and then it teaches you how to move again.
Broken By Design
A softer tempo opens this one, giving space for reflection. The first word — “Feelings” — lands like a cut: it stings, and you leave it there, stunned. The beat steps back to let the vocals breathe, only filling when the song needs it. Swells rise into something uplifting, then the ending returns to the original, leaving that reflective sting to linger long after the final chord. It’s a beautiful piece that fits the album’s arc: some things are broken by design, and those fractures shape what we hear now. A heartache may never fully heal, but it can still hold meaning.
Pick Up The Pieces
The pace snaps back and the beat hits hard, forcing a gear change that almost knocks you off balance. This is one of the album’s more aggressive moments, and it’s thrilling. The push-and-pull between instrument and vocal is electric — a contest that resolves in the chorus where everything snaps into harmony. There are moments that feel like decisive wins, but the track remains balanced: powerful and fierce, urging you to pick up the pieces and push forward. It’s technical when it needs to be and showy when it wants to be, but never gratuitous; the story doesn’t require an allout brawl.
Embrace
The siren returns, its ambiance taking control. The vocals guide you gently, pushing past the branches that hang across the path. A creeping uncertainty is deliberately manufactured, and when the surge arrives at the halfway point it hits with brief, exhilarating force. That surge recedes into ambiance, then the two parts begin to weave together. The song knows you’re ready to embrace what’s coming, and when the payoff arrives you feel elated — vindicated for having trusted the build — before it settles back down. It’s a lesson in patience: the payoff is worth the wait.
Sever
A distant start that soon suffocates. Here the vocals take full control with a sharper edge, forcing the rest of the band to step back. It’s striking to realize everything that came before and this moment of aggression come from the same group; it’s a reminder of their range. Short and pointed, the track doesn’t overstay its welcome. It won’t be everyone’s favourite, but beneath the bite are softer undertones that hold the piece together. Its presence enriches the record’s emotional palette and proves the band can pivot from tenderness to bite without losing coherence.
The Way I Feel
A classical opening sits far off in the distance before a tsunami breaks and the sound becomes overwhelming. That shock persists for a long stretch, and it’s hard to tell where the pullback will come — until the second half, when the song briefly calms before the wave returns. It’s a rollercoaster: after the second break the band sways between soft and hard, the frequency of those shifts almost exhausting. But when you grasp the narrative — when you understand the attempt to convey the way I feel — everything snaps into place and carries you like a coursing river. The track is exhausting by design; it wants you to feel the churn, the confusion, and the eventual clarity.
Satisfy
A joyous beat that makes you want to get up and dance with friends, accompanied by a sweet melody that can take you somewhere if you let it. Uplifting moments invite clapping and swaying; the verses pull you in and the chorus holds you there. No single part dominates — the song works as a whole. Placed where it is on the album, it functions brilliantly: an accessible, catchy moment that can introduce listeners to the band. It’s soft in the right ways, hitting those memorable notes at the perfect time. Played at the right moment, it will satisfy almost anyone.
Head Alight
A heavily distorted bass line from Duncan Stewart opens and threads through the whole song, giving the track a unique gravity. Instrumental spaces step back at key moments, letting the vocals come through like a distant sun breaking cloud. Even in those far-away moments the distortion remains, a constant that paradoxically lifts you up. The song makes your head feel alight — weightless and buoyant — proving that even the heaviest notes can become uplifting when handled with talent and intention. It’s a rare inversion: heaviness used to elevate rather than bury.
Longshot
A simple drumbeat from James Fisher sets the tone and holds the centre as everything else shifts around it. The drums provide a steady anchor through changing tunes and chords, offering a brief two-second respite that only deepens the impact when the song returns. Short and sweet, it’s nearly perfect for any occasion — a compact moment of focus that closes with quiet confidence. The restraint here is a strength; the band trusts the small gesture to carry weight.
Summer’s End
What a way to close the album: a farewell that invites you to dance. From the upbeat opening to its steady follow-through, this feels like the band having fun and inviting you along. There’s no single technical marvel because the perfection is in the whole: each instrument has its moment, and even the vocals step back when the music asks them to. It’s the perfect way to finish — a summer’s end filled with joy, sadness, love, and pain. The song can pull you in any direction; all you have to do is let it. It leaves you with the bittersweet sensation of a season ending and the quiet hope of what comes next.
Conclusion
When I first listened to Basement I thought of those underground punk bands from the 90s and early 2000s — the ones you’d find in hidden bars or abandoned buildings. Everything about WIRED wants to scream nostalgia, but it’s crafted so that reflection becomes learning. The album is a comforting voice that isn’t hard to hear; it invites you in rather than demanding attention.
With its harder highs and softer lows, there’s a genuine guarantee that there’s something here for everyone. This is an album you can play anywhere: at a family gathering, in a car with friends, or during those intimate, quiet moments. It leans heavily on emotion but does so without feeling burdensome. Listening to WIRED is like meeting an old friend — one you used to be very close to — and telling them your journey. You realize they’ve always been there in spirit.
Technically, the record is confident without being showy. The band knows when to pull back and when to push forward. Moments of distortion and aggression are balanced by tenderness and restraint. The interplay between Alec Henery, Ronan Crix, Duncan Stewart, James Fisher, and Andrew Fisher is the album’s beating heart: each member contributes distinct textures that, when combined, create a whole greater than the sum of its parts.
Emotionally, WIRED is generous. It doesn’t hide its scars; it displays them and then teaches you how to live with them. It’s an album about time — time wasted, time reclaimed, time that shapes who we become. It’s about the small, human acts of showing up for one another and the quiet courage of making music that matters.
WIRED is a warm, bruised, and ultimately uplifting record. It honours the past without being trapped by it, and it offers a clear-eyed look at the present with hope for the future.
Rating: 8/10
