They arrived late, and in the wrong place. When they broke out in ’94 with Sixteen Stone, Bush seemed like yet another British surrogate of a sound — grunge — that already had its prophets across the ocean. Too derivative for the purists, too polished for those nostalgic for Seattle’s mud. And yet, over time, they held their ground. Album after album, Gavin Rossdale kept alive a band that never really stopped, even when the world seemed to turn away.
Today, after The Art of Survival — already a solid return after intermittent years — Bush release I Beat Loneliness: a record that seeks neither redemption nor celebration, but something rarer and simpler: authenticity.
Grunge was never just a fad. It was a crack in the wall, a scream held in too long. This new album plays like the midnight diary of someone who has learned to be alone, but hasn’t stopped fighting; a work that digs deeper, setting aside survivor posturing in order to accept fragility and the passage of time.
No theatrics, no cheap nostalgia. Just a sound that still pulses — rough-edged guitars, subtle electronic pulses, and melodies that aim more for emotional endurance than the perfect hook. Gavin Rossdale, with his still-vibrant voice, embodies the grunge attitude. Scars is a wound that sings: scars are angels written on your body. The title track becomes a mantra: I beat loneliness. Not through heroics, but through the daily resistance of someone who never fully gives in.
The production is warm, dense, stripped of useless frills: a perfect balance of vintage and modern. There is space for scathing guitars, delicate synths, and above all for the soul of a band that has witnessed thirty years of change without losing itself. Some are content to merely survive, while others — like Bush — still try to say something. Even if the voice trembles, even if no one is really listening anymore.
Admittedly, the ending lacks momentum. There’s no spark to reignite the fire: I Beat Loneliness never quite forces its way among the brightest moments of their discography. But it remains a sincere record — imperfect and alive. Like those who wrote it. And thirty years after that first scream, that’s no small thing.