From its opening chord, The Big E announces itself as something slightly strange, but immediately compelling. Built from a classic band lineup without hiding behind production sheen Editrix build a sound of intricate, mathy interplaying lines that interlock like puzzle pieces while somehow never slipping into abstraction.

With deceptively danceable grooves, the tracks unfold with the jagged precision of Gang of Four or Wire, maintaining the loose-limbed thrum of a band playing live in a sweaty room. Moments of tightly coiled energy give way to walls of fuzzed-out breakdowns, channeling a hardcore intensity with a cooly detached vocal delivery. The bassline on Real Fire could rival some of the most frenetic math rock, but the songs remain satisfyingly coherent, with undeniable momentum.

A comparison to Stereolab feels apt in the sense of discipline on display, with every player locked into a tempo as they explore its contours and test its limits. The bass lines burrow under the skin dragging into ever stranger grooves as the drums click and clatter, and there’s a freshness to their arrangements. It’s a kind of wildness that only works because the band are so locked in with one another. It’s weird on purpose. Fascinatingly weird.

What makes The Big E really special is the bounce. The way the songs pogo forward, jittering and jerking in odd directions without ever losing their footing. What’s Wrong has that lurching, off-kilter energy that recalls NoMeansNo or Minutemen but there’s no shouting. The vocals stay in a sweet and weirdly cheerful sing-song like a carousel melody, giving a surreal brightness that cuts against the sharp angles of the instrumentation. The band lock into a wiry punk groove and then crash into a wall of fuzz from a Dinosaur Jr. record with thick and muddy distortion. Then, just as quickly, they’ll pull it all back into a kind of math-punk reset.

Every song is satisfying, surprising, and just the right kind of tricky, treating punk not as a pose but as a framework for genuine musical exploration in the lineage of Television and Devo, twisting the formula in all sorts of unexpected ways. The drumming is expressive, frenetic, and theatrical. There’s an eccentricity here that’s captivating, and a chemistry that can’t be faked.

Like the most inventive outliers of the late 70s and early 80s, Editrix fuse punk’s wiry intensity with intricate rhythmic interplay and offbeat melodies, often landing closer to math rock. The musicianship is often jaw-droppingly good, but the vibe remains scrappy. Editrix still sounds like a punk trio, but they’re playing in ways that few would dare, with weird little corners and jagged left turns. The band are unafraid to switch between tightly wound tracks and more exploratory, slow-burning cuts, making weird music that moves and grooves. It’s experimental, but it slaps, never losing sight of momentum or melody. Wonderfully inventive and full of offbeat charm, shining with musical curiosity.