Asking what the label
Soft Machine means in 2026 is, perhaps, an idle question. As early as the
the Seventies, the cult band of the
Canterbury Sound is a musical "Ship of Theseus": an entity that, having replaced its members one by one, ends up sharing nothing in common with its original incarnation — yet without ever really making any abrupt shifts, or in any way explicitly "betraying" its own identity. The band's current line-up is: John Etheridge (guitar), Theo Travis (winds and keyboards), Fred Baker (bass), Asaf Sirkis (drums). The greatest
seniority belongs to the guitarist, whose first album as a member was "Softs", released in 1976 when his bandmates were Roy Babbington, John Marshall, Alan Wakeman and Karl Jenkins (yes: by then all the founders had already left the band, though Mike Ratledge did take part in the recording of a few tracks).
It's certainly best to avoid comparisons — with the past, but also with the most vital expressions of fusion
progressive contemporary, from
Monika Roscher ai
Niechęć, right up to the inevitable
Snarky Puppy. Better, then, to focus on music and emotions, and ask what feelings are evoked by listening to this new "Thriteen". The answer, unfortunately, is quickly summed up: none. What stands out most about the record is the vivid color of the cover art and the (commendable, alright) persistence in scant title-naming imagination… But also - and this is less praiseworthy - in the atmospheres, themes and compositional solutions of its thirteen tracks.
Let's be clear: everything here is played impeccably. High-level jazz-rock, flawless and free of rough edges. And free of any real spark, for that matter. It's not that one should expect a project that — lineup changes aside — carries more than half a century on its shoulders to be as fiery and unpredictable as it was at the outset, but here it's not just the fire that's missing. It's the ideas themselves. Practically every track drags along drowsily, and whether the sheen is sweeter or more nocturnal, more chaotic or more buoyant, it does nothing to change the fundamental lack of momentum.
It's only in "The Longest Night", credited to Theo Travis as is much of the album, that something finally happens. Luckily the track runs thirteen minutes, and on its own it gives the record a reason to exist. Here the musicians really do show they can build, vary and weave atmospheres together, moving from an oblique opening a step away from
Henry Cow, from pastoral sections to climaxes cleverly played out through tension and release.
Among the other tracks, the sprightly "Time Station" (written by Travis) and the sharper-edged "Turmoil" (Baker) stand out, if only a little. Here too there's a certain lack of direction (or resolution), but what keeps attention alive is at least the combination of recognizable melodic themes and guitar constructions that are intriguing to say the least (often built on big electric open-string arpeggios, somewhere between Rush and King Crimson).
In both the less focused passages and the ones that work better, the sound is above all shaped by Theo Travis's presence: sax, flute and duduk, often more cumbersome than decisive, occupy center stage almost constantly. It's something of a paradox, since it's actually his writing, when it takes flight, that gives the tracks a legible trajectory. Everything else runs aground within a few bars - and scatters just as quickly.
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20/04/2026