The cover of Raw Muscular Power, the new album from Norwegian rockers Death by Unga Bunga, shows all five members as the snarling heads of an outrageous, underground comix-style hydra—a writhing mass of gnashing teeth, bulging eyes, and gyrating faces closing in on an unlucky warrior swinging a battle axe. That sets the right tone for an album that is a masterclass in rock ‘n’ roll clownery of the highest pedigree—a defiantly unpretentious gem delivered by a band whose sound could rightly be described as a kind of monomaniacal five-headed beast.
It takes a long time to transform into a proper rock ‘n’ roll hydra, but these boys have put in the miles. They started with a mod-leaning 1960s garage sound on 2010’s Juvenile Jungle, then shifted toward indie rock eclecticism (So Far, So Good, So Cool in 2018), and finally into the muscle-bound, rock-centric clarity of their last studio album, 2021’s Heavy Male Insecurity.
On Raw Muscular Power, Death by Unga Bunga take the most substantial musical concepts from each era and dial them in precisely to bring to life a chimera of tastefully neurosis-lined noisy power-pop. The tight, ten-song collection seethes with the wild, forlorn emotional intensity of every notebook-doodling, daydreaming middle schooler. It is anchored securely by a combination of hard-earned musical craft, stylistic simplicity, and, perhaps most importantly, a sense of humor.
Raw Muscular Power opens with the title track: A meditation on exhaustion, endurance, and alienation that rocks out with an infectious immediacy. The chorus, “I’m in control of my own reality,” comes across as both a bold statement of fact and a kind of plaintive self-affirmation—the kind a therapist might tell you to tape on your bathroom mirror.
Then we’re onto “I’m Really Old”, where strapping guitar and handclapping amplify a sense of seething internal combustibility. An anxious flurry of furiously infectious sound reminds us that these boys have rhythm, not just blues.
Raw Muscular Power wears its influences on its taut sleeve, right next to its aching, sincere heart. We hear this most unapologetically on “Starman”—about Paul Stanley of KISS. It’s also the first of two tracks featuring collaborations with other rock artists, this one with Haley Shea of Sløtface. Anchored by an irresistibly catchy keyboard riff, it offers listeners a chance at a kind of catharsis by proxy, momentarily ascending by imagining a past that never was—all this, regardless of whether your crush thinks Paul Stanley looks dumb in his Starman get-up.
“Therapy”, Death by Unga Bunga’s collaboration with American lo-fi rock songwriter Mike Krol, delivers a righteous double bludgeon—directly hitting the head and heart. Spasmodic bursts of guitar tear through the mix with unholy confidence while relentless melodic energy pulses through textured layers of sound. We hear what Mike Krol does best: using noise to evoke raw, visceral humanness. The track represents the extreme end of a spectrum that Raw Muscular Power balances precariously throughout: an unfiltered rawness on the one hand and a polished, accessible sheen on the other.
We get the best of both worlds on “Camouflage”, an invitingly combustible track featuring lead singer Sebastian Ulstad Olsen pining with woeful specificity for invisibility—something he can never have unless, of course, he’s wearing the ghillie suit from the single’s music video.
Raw Muscular Power draws to an explosive close with Death by Unga Bunga’s first song in Norwegian, “Ring meg hvis du trenger en venn”, which translates to “Call me if you need a friend.” When the group released this track as a single, they shared drummer Ole Steinar Nessett’s phone number on social media, inviting fans to “call if they need a friend”. The line was reportedly open for a few weeks before the end of the calendar year.
On Raw Muscular Power, Death by Unga Bunga confront and pulverize existential crises at a frenetic pace, bringing them (if only temporarily) to the point of detonation. The result is a shattering burst that leaves a pulsating, vulnerable tenderness that makes listeners want to do it all over again. It’s the kind of record that sounds great coming out of good speakers—but no less powerful bleeding out of bad ones.