Foxing's self-titled fifth is a declaration of self

Change is all they've known, and with each successive record, they've gradually unwrapped who they are and will be – for themselves and no one else.

Yet, doing things purely for yourself often feels unnatural, almost impossible, as our gaze tends to shift outward to witness the world unravel. In such chaos, it's hard not to succumb to pessimism and the perpetual cycle where cultural and emotional stagnation overlap – after all, the world is an often miserably dull place. How can anyone find happiness amidst the mess? In these moments, joy becomes something we must construct ourselves. Finding that spark begins and ends by anchoring ourselves to those rare instances or individuals who can extract glimmers of light from the surrounding darkness.

Foxing channels this ethos into their creative process, evolving their sound while staying true to their core identity. This is their record.

As more ears listen and more bodies fill venues, most bands lose control over their art. But Foxing is different. They've pulled tighter on the reins with each record, refusing to let go of their vision. That's why their fifth album feels appropriately self-titled. It's a declaration of who they've always intended to be: a self-reliant, unboxable band with Midwest emo roots that just as easily transform into post-hardcore powerhouses, synth-pop dreamers, post-rock giants, and more. Such a statement may even be limiting.

In staying true to themselves, Foxing confront not only external pressures but the internal too. To see oneself, however, is not without doubt, fear, and a draining pessimism that weighs deeper than the Mariana Trench. The album's towering first single, "Greyhound," finds the band's front, Conor Murphy, confronting these feelings, or absence of, with sobering clarity. "I've been feeling like I ain't got nothing left to give," he confesses, a sentiment that serves as the album's emotional epicenter – ironically centered on being empty, numb, and weary. This weight deepens as the album progresses, most palpably when Murphy hesitantly asks in the chorus of "Hall of Frozen Heads": "What if it shatters? / Or what if it doesn't matter anymore?."

Pervasive melancholy aside, Foxing feels like the culmination of everything they've been working toward. While some listeners may have been lukewarm to the bright-eyed art-pop of their previous record, Draw Down The Moon, hindsight reveals it was an imperfect yet necessary step toward reaching their creative zenith. The blips, bleeps, and sheen of it all – the wonder and pink-hued fantasy, shocking and polarizing as it was – have now converged into modulating hums of misanthropy on their latest effort, quivering on and off as if scanning for signs of life. Meanwhile, the escapist glow of their previous record flickers in hesitant convulsions, forcing us to accept that "This all there is / this is all there is," as guitarist Eric Hudson grips us with horror on the fast and furious "Hell 99." These are hard-to-swallow confessions – sick-and-tired attempts to convey a full-hearted message of hope, a rare flicker for us equally weary listeners to latch onto. Thankfully, their distant signal reaches home and strikes their strongest chord yet.

In the same breath, when fear and reluctance are expressed earlier on in the record on the Patiently powerful "Greyhound," Murphy declares, "I wanna be Saul to Paul in Damascus" – a desire for this radical shift of the internal that cannot be quieted – literally. As much as they aim to maintain this sentiment of futility, Foxing is a band driven by a loud passion, a passion that sometimes bubbles beneath the surface, waiting to erupt, and at other times, bursts into the open. Whether through the undulating ebb and flow of "Secret History," the artsy hardcore blitz of "Hell 99," or the cataclysmic build and release of "Looks Like Nothing," each performance is delivered with an intensity that convinces us that any song on this record could be their last.

By leaning into powerful dynamics and their natural propensity for climactic moments, Foxing has crafted a remarkably emotional statement about feeling emotionless. It's a simmering frustration, an anger born not from any one source but from the overwhelming convergence of everything: the pressures of modernity, grief, failure, and the crushing weight of unfulfilled futures. The result is a sensation so oppressive it becomes impossible to cry, scream, or even be who you were meant to be. In a world under constant hell, Foxing, by choosing themselves and self-sufficiency, asks: why not choose joy and be your most authentic self, today and tomorrow?