Money’s self-titled EP felt like lightning in a bottle—one of those rare moments where a young band captures precision, emotion, and complete artistic control at the exact same time. Every riff landed sharply, every transition felt intentional, and the whole thing carried a confidence that made the EP feel almost impossibly polished. It wasn’t just potential; it was mastery.

Stovepipe, their newest full-length, isn’t that.
And that’s exactly what makes it compelling.

Where the EP was tight, focused, and meticulously constructed, Stovepipe is messy, sprawling, murky, and proudly imperfect. It sounds like a band willingly stepping into chaos to see what evolves from it—letting edges fray, letting ideas breathe too long or crash too early, embracing the risk of imbalance.

The album begins with the warped, carnival-like swirl of “(Money Worldwide),” a playful, off-kilter intro that feels like being pushed into a funhouse mirror. Its chirpy, slightly surreal energy tricks the listener into expecting levity—before the entire illusion snaps and the real weight kicks in.

The moment “Freebaser” drops, the record reveals its teeth.
Huge, sludgy riffs collapse into the mix.
The bass surges like a mudslide.
The drums smash with reckless force.

Money leans far heavier here than they ever did on the EP—this is rock grit soaked in shoegaze haze, like Queens of the Stone Age vibrating through blown speakers. The vocals are submerged, drenched in reverb, deliberately distant. They aren’t there to guide the song; they’re there to haunt it.

“Motion Sick” drags the tempo down into a woozy, hypnotic crawl. Guitars ring out in long, droning waves before exploding into sudden bursts of booming riffs. The drums hit deep and deliberate, the bass vibrates like a living engine, and for the first time, the vocals float closer to the surface—still ghostly, but emotionally distinct. Its rigid, dragging feel matches the title perfectly.

“Year of the Rat” pulls the band back toward alt-rock territory—faster tempo shifts, detailed drum accents, a Deftones-like sense of tension and release. It’s not the catchiest track, but the back half locks into a swirling heaviness that leaves a strong impression.

The album’s emotional peak arrives with “SVTLIGHTNING,” a slow-burning wave of sadness and distortion. The guitars cycle endlessly in a loop that grows more hypnotic with each repetition. The rhythm section builds breathtaking weight beneath it, and the washed-out, shoegaze vocals drift across the top like fog. As the song swells, everything stretches into a massive, emotional crescendo. It’s one of Money’s strongest tracks across their whole discography.

“The Little Season” offers a warped, fragile breather, with slightly detuned acoustic chords that waver like they’re about to collapse. It feels intentionally unstable, a lo-fi meditation that connects the album’s chaotic front half to its crushing finale.

“Billy Pilgrim” closes the record by plunging into deep, monolithic heaviness. Its slow introduction erupts into some of the album’s thickest tones. The vocals shimmer faintly behind the distortion, almost angelic beneath the grit, while the bass rumbles like it’s shaking the room. It’s an exhausted, emotional ending—like the final exhale after carrying something too heavy too long.

If the Money EP was the sound of a band declaring themselves, Stovepipe is the sound of a band searching. It doesn’t strive for perfection or clarity; it leans into murk, distortion, and looseness. The vocals hide in the fog. The mix leaves rough surfaces exposed. Some ideas linger too long, others crash too suddenly. But the experimentation feels alive and intentional.

Stovepipe doesn’t surpass the EP—because it isn’t trying to.
It’s doing something else.

It’s showing a band evolving, stretching their identity, and refusing to stand still. It’s murky, loud, textured, and emotionally raw—a beautifully imperfect stage in Money’s growth. And those imperfections aren’t weaknesses; they’re the record’s entire point.

If the EP was the spark, Stovepipe is the smoke that follows—thick, strange, evolving, and impossible to ignore.