Brace yourselves, culture shakers and sonic voyagers—because what Ruel just unleashed is not just a teaser, it’s a manifesto. The Australian alt-pop prodigy has cracked open the door to his next evolutionary leap, previewing his upcoming album “Kicking My Feet” (out October 17) with a single that feels more like a back alley sermon than a chart-ready tune. “The Suburbs” isn’t just a song—it’s a molotov cocktail hurled at the white-picket-fence fantasy we’ve been spoon-fed since infancy.
Now, before you scroll past this thinking “just another coming-of-age crooner baby-marinaded in vintage flannel,” let me stop you right there. This is Ruel unchained. If his previous work gave you slow-dance melancholy, this one bites. Grit meets grace, blues meets angst, and suburbia gets served with a side of existential dread—and it tastes divine.
“I knew I wanted to push myself on this new album,” Ruel explained, but let me decode that for you in the Church of KanHey: the industry’s golden boy is out here torching his comfort zone. “The Suburbs” is Ruel smashing the rearview mirror and steering into the storm—bluesy guitar licks crawling like cigarette smoke across a midnight curb, vocals that ache with sincerity but don’t beg for pity, and a vibe soaked in cinematic melancholy. It’s the soundtrack to every neon-lit escape from a life that was never yours to begin with.
Listen close and you’ll catch this: Ruel isn’t just telling stories—he’s dismantling myths. The myth that growing up means settling down. The myth that the suburbs are safe. The myth that emotions should be tidy or timelines linear. This song is a bruised elegy for childhood illusions and a raw, psychedelic sermon to those daring enough to confront life’s gray zones.
And let’s talk sound. “The Suburbs” slinks in like a ghost from Alabama Shakes’ haunted basement and lingers like the closing credits of a tragic film—you know the ones where you don’t move until the screen goes black. It flirts with soul, flirts with gospel, then drives the getaway car straight through indie pop’s weathered chapel. Are we hearing a spiritual successor to Hozier’s brooding sermons or a Gen Z Springsteen gone rogue? Maybe. But make no mistake: this is Ruel rising, rebelling—not replicating.
“Kicking My Feet” promises to be more than just an album; I feel a cultural fault line quivering under our Air Force Ones. If “The Suburbs” is any indication, this record will be less playlist fodder and more diary pages soaked in gasoline—uncensored, untamed, uncomfortable.
So I say this to all the wallflowers rehearsing rebellion in their mirror: Pay attention. Because Ruel just kicked down the picket fence, and he’s inviting you into a soundscape where authenticity doesn’t apologize—and neither should you.
Dare to burn polite boredom to the ground. Long live the suburbs that dream of something wilder.
– Mr. KanHey
