"Bodies" is the debut album from EPRC - a duo drenched in conceptual aesthetics, leaning on abstraction as hard as they lean on synthesizers. Roberto Crippa and Elisabetta Porcinai have sculpted an auditory landscape that feels like an avant-garde soundtrack to an existential road trip: part trance, part anxiety attack.

Tracks like "Sometimes" and "I Know We Exist" flirt with repetition, hypnotizing the listener into a sonic limbo where each loop tightens, a snake coiling around fragile human emotions. The album’s core? Obsession with dualities - control versus surrender, violence against tenderness. The interplay between calm, ethereal harmonies and guttural percussion leaves you spinning, unsure if you’re about to be kissed or punched in the gut.

This tension works beautifully, yet sometimes it feels like the duo is "trying too hard". Is this careful balance organic, or is it meticulously crafted to the point of sterility? Either way, EPRC's language is fluent in abstract storytelling, even if the message can be maddeningly opaque. You won’t dance to "Bodies", but you might shiver, sweat, or stare into the abyss for a bit too long.

The ethereal soundscapes of "Calm and Silver" and the apocalyptic pulse of "War" offer stark contrasts, reflecting the unpredictable nature of the human psyche, much like a dream that refuses to follow narrative logic. At its best, "Bodies" feels like a high-stakes conversation between body and machine; at its worst, it veers into self-indulgent moodiness.

Is it revolutionary? Maybe not. But "Bodies" certainly knows how to haunt your thoughts, demanding a level of emotional engagement that leaves you feeling both violated and tenderly embraced by the synthetic folds of its sonic architecture.