“Bloody hell. What’s that?” my next-door-but-one neighbour’s partner says, spitting her tea back into the mug. At least, that’s what I imagine happened the first time I gave Machine a run-out on my 500W subwoofer. The dog disappeared for hours too. True story.
The man behind the mayhem, Kevin Martin, may need no introduction to some. With two decades of experience and multiple aliases, most notably as The Bug, he has forged a distinct niche in experimental music by blending dub, industrial, and grime into a sound uniquely his own. From his early work with GOD to the innovative King Midas Sound, Martin has consistently challenged musical conventions. He gained acclaim with London Zoo (2008), which delved into London’s underground scene, and its follow-up, Angels & Devils (2014), which expanded his palette through diverse collaborations with artists like Massive Attack, Grace Jones, Fennesz, and Earth.
Martin doesn’t dabble in sound—he bludgeons with it. And with Machine, his first proper full instrumental record under this alias, the gloves are off. Imagine the character “Machine” from 8MM, that dark, gimp-masked figure in the Nic Cage thriller, except instead of committing terrible acts in a dimly lit basement, he’s somehow controlling a monstrous sound system. That’s the essential vibe here. This album feels alive, like a snarling beast of metal, bass, and dread, on a fraying leash ready to be let loose on a world where speakers, eardrums and chest cavities tremble in anticipation.
At its core, Machine is about pressure. Not just the kind that rattles your ribcage when sub-bass hits a speaker, but the atmospheric weight of a world collapsing. This is a post-apocalyptic record in every sense. From the crushing basslines to the grim terror of its synths, Martin composes music that sounds like a city reduced to rubble and howling winds, overseen by AI robotech overlords. As a purely instrumental piece, it speaks louder than words ever could—an embodiment of collapse, of machines outliving their creators, and of sound systems too small to contain the horror.
The opening track, ‘Annihilated (Force of Gravity)’ sets the tone with this intense, kinetic listening experience, as if gravity itself has been weaponised. Martin’s ability to craft soundscapes that absorb and overwhelm becomes immediately apparent. You can feel the ground shift beneath you, with each pounding beat resonating not just in its impact but in the silence that follows. When the brutal force of the bass hits, it’s like demolition charges dismantling any remaining sense of structure.
Yet, within this decay, there is also precision. Machine isn’t just about noise for the sake of a cheap thrill; Martin weaves an intricate, if sometimes suffocating, texture into every moment. Tracks like ‘Bodied (Send for the Hearse)’ deliver a mix of smothering subterranean drone and industrial clang, while distorted 4/4 rhythms tick on in an infinite loop of inertia. The machine-like precision of the beats draws you into a trance, each kick drum deeper and deadlier than the last, while the rest is corroded by acid from within—a slow, painful destruction in progress.
Much of Machine plays with this juxtaposition between blunt, overwhelming power and meticulous attention to detail. ‘Inhuman (Let Machines Do the Talking)’ is one of the album’s darkest moments, where feedback swirls like a nest of angry hornets fighting their inevitable death in the face of a slow, mechanical doom bassline riff. It’s as though Martin is both celebrating and mourning the ascent of the machine, a feeling intensified by the album’s relentless pacing. The thematic obsession with dystopia and technological overload is not subtle, but it doesn’t need to be. The music here speaks of extinction, the hum of digital life outlasting the organic.
Nevertheless, through all this, there are moments where it feels like Martin is teasing at the possibility of a melody, as if beneath the corrosive layers there’s still a pulse beating faintly. ‘Vertical (Never See You Again)’ hints at this, the bassline oscillating in a way that almost gestures toward familiarity, before it’s swallowed whole by a swarm of static. It’s that tension—between life and the machine, between rhythm and chaos—that makes Machine so fascinating. It teeters constantly on the edge of collapse but never quite lets you escape.
If you need comparisons, then think of acts like Sunn O))) or Swans for the effect. But Martin’s work as The Bug is also steeped in his love for dub, which gives these tracks their unique rhythmic drive. You can hear the influence of sound system culture in every pulse of bass, and it’s clear Machine was built with the physicality of sound in mind. This album demands to be played loud, to shake walls and rattle skulls. The funniest comment I saw on The Bug‘s Instagram after he surprise-released a stream of this album was, “when I listen to The Bug, my neighbour also listens to The Bug.” And honestly, that’s probably the best possible tagline for this colossal record.
It’s not meant to be an easy listen. For fans of heavy, boundary-pushing sounds, Machine offers a masterclass in the art of dystopian, sonic obliteration, where dub, noise, and industrial elements burn together in the heart of a crumbling crucible. Machine will leave a lasting scar in contemporary electronic music – a reminder that sometimes, the future sounds like the end of the world.
