Mark Ciani is a man who, over 25 years, has played keyboards in punk-ska bands and overseen the creation of some fairly conceptual releases. Now, he’s our guide through the underground passages of his own soul.

In his case, these passages are more expansive than they first appear. As you immerse yourself in The Catacombs, it feels like wandering through a narrow alley in the heart of New York City, where every turn brings new faces, stories, and styles.

The Catacombs doesn’t have polished compositions with meticulously measured sound. Every track is deliberately left slightly “raw“—the sound sometimes stalls, then suddenly erupts into a hum, or dissolves into a mist. This gives the music a sense of movement. Rustles, sighs, transitions—it all evokes a midnight stroll where the streetlamp flickers on and off, and you’re trying to make out the outlines of something deeply personal. That might just be the album’s driving force. Songs that seem dark at first glance conceal reflections of something alluring and almost magical.

Mark Ciani has clearly listened to plenty of classics. The influence of Big Star, Wilco, and The Beatles smolders on the periphery of each track, but it’s woven in so carefully that at times, it’s barely noticeable. There are moments of indie rock, a light acoustic haze, and even glimpses of ambient music. You could say he doesn’t so much borrow direct references from old favorites as absorb their atmosphere, blending it with his own ideas and lyrics. At times, romantic imagery emerges. Other times, a fragment of a restless rhythm throws off your breath, only to be replaced by the calm echoes of nighttime ambience.

The most intriguing part is that despite the album’s overall somber tone, there’s a certain lightness to it. Yes, this might be an album about loss, about the ways people build obstacles for themselves. Yet somehow, within these shadows, there’s a unique charm. A sense of an unfolding story lingers throughout, with each track offering a new detail that invites the listener to pay closer attention, to dive deeper, and to find themselves in these vast, uncharted spaces.

Somewhere Between the Shadows

The Catacombs opens with Cut Me Up—a soft, almost weightless track where keys and vocals create the illusion of stability. But that illusion quickly crumbles. As the song progresses, the melody gains density and clarity, becoming more grounded, only to give way to the next track, which shifts the direction entirely.

Some Kind of Purgatory is one of the album’s key moments, a song that sets the central theme—emotional uncertainty, the space between hope and disappointment. A purgatory with no exit, only endless movement in circles.

The mood shifts slightly from here. Second Chance sinks into melancholy and introspection, while 73 Seconds erupts like an internal explosion. Loud, silence-shattering guitar riffs create tension, jolting the senses.

Midway through the album, Chernobyl throws everything off balance. A heavy, dense alternative rock track with powerful guitar work, sharp vocals, and an energy that strikes immediately. It’s bold, aggressive, yet calculated in its intensity.

Even after this surge of power, Mark Ciani doesn’t ease up. Holding on to that Line strips things down to a near-minimalist sound, drawing the listener into a subconscious atmosphere. Then comes Too Wise to Enjoy, and suddenly everything feels lighter. One of the album’s most melodic and “commercial” moments, it offers a brief sense of ease.

Lousy Sunday Breakfast feels almost like a joke, but with a serious undertone. It starts with warm, enveloping guitars that create a sense of comfort, only to suddenly escalate with heavy riffs and an overloaded sound. It leads straight to the finale—The Catacombs, the album’s climax. Nearly five minutes of hypnotic, ever-shifting sound, as unpredictable as time itself.

All of this is challenging to pull off, but the effect comes from Mark’s flexibility as a storyteller. He isn’t afraid to blend genres, shift tempos, or weave in everything from cryptic whispers to bursts of shimmering light. Maybe this comes from his past, when he experimented with different bands and styles. Now, he has a full set of tools and ideas at his disposal, all intertwined into a single thread—meeting each other’s gaze as if they’ve long been waiting to spin together in a dance.

The Catacombs fits a rainy autumn day, an early morning after a long night, or maybe just a random evening when you want to tune into sounds unafraid of being unpredictable.

Mark Ciani shows that music can exist in spaces we often perceive as dark. And in that space, it pulses with life—gripping, surprising, yet always leaving room for the listener’s own thoughts. To me, that’s the true charm of The Catacombs: it pulls you inward, and there, far from the noise of the streets and the rush of the world, sound continues to resonate, inviting you to discover something unexpected—perhaps even something beautiful.

*This review was made possible by SubmitHub