Toronto-based MADLANDS emerge in 2026 carrying the spirit of a time when rock was messy, emotional, and unpolished—when art was art, not content, and meaning wasn’t dictated by metrics or algorithms. Driven by the belief that art should unsettle rather than simply be consumed, the band thrives on tension, contrast, and unpredictability.
Their first official single, “WITCHING HOUR”, serves as the ritualistic threshold to their debut album Symphony for the End of Time, due out on September 11, 2026. Dark and hypnotic, the track captures a state of emotional suspension—where fear outweighs intimacy, desire blurs into fantasy, and time is allowed to pass without resolution. Sonically blending 1990s alternative grit with gothic atmosphere and restrained urgency, the song unfolds slowly, drawing the listener inward rather than pushing outward.
Lyrically, “WITCHING HOUR” explores the impulse to hide one’s true life behind curated surfaces, distorted mirrors, and imagined expectations. It reflects a world frozen in self-observation, where bodies, identities, and emotions become trapped in their own reflections. As both an introduction and a warning, the song sets the tone for an album that confronts illusion, self-fixation, and the cost of choosing reflection over truth.
Review
MADLANDS lean fully into vulnerability on “Witching Hour,” the haunting introduction to their debut album Symphony for the End of Time. The repeated confession that “love is never enough” doesn’t come off dramatic — it feels tired. Like someone stuck in a loop of doubt, questioning their own worth while trying not to let it show.
The lyrics sit in that uncomfortable space between fear and honesty. There’s a constant tension between hiding and being seen — tying yourself up in expectation, freezing inside reflection, letting time pass instead of confronting what’s real. It captures that late-night spiral where insecurity feels louder than logic and intimacy feels just out of reach.
“Witching Hour” doesn’t offer resolution. It lingers in the feeling. Brooding and introspective, it reads like a quiet unraveling — a moment of self-awareness that’s both heavy and painfully relatable.