When I hit play on Temple Of The Mind, I wasn’t sure if I was getting into a moody retro pastiche or something genuinely new. Let’s face it—trip hop tends to be locked in amber, like a nostalgia-rich snapshot of the late ’90s, all smoke rings, fuzzy vinyl scratches, and melancholy, midnight vibes.

But Casino Square doesn’t settle comfortably in that old, familiar room. Instead, they drift quietly down a corridor that branches off somewhere unexpected, inviting me to follow. So, I did.

I found myself paying attention to the textures first—deep, sprawling basslines rolling beneath washes of muted trumpet. Alexandre Leguillon’s trumpet, particularly, feels essential here: each note more whisper than shout, more invitation than intrusion. It’s as though he’s slipping secret messages into the atmosphere, nudging rather than declaring his intentions. Antony Josse, the band’s other half, curates this mood impeccably. Josse—known from Headcharger, a band from an entirely different sonic planet—handles production and guitars, spinning a web of sound that’s intriguingly subtle yet never timid.

But wait—let me back up. I just dove right into the vibe and totally skipped over properly introducing the band behind all this, right? Let’s fix that first. Somewhere between Caen and Le Mans, someone lit a candle for trip hop—and instead of it flickering out like some dim homage to a lost decade, Casino Square fanned it into something alive.

Casino Square, at its core, features Antony Josse, who swapped the heaviness of his Headcharger days for something slower-burning but just as explosive, and Alexandre Leguillon, whose trumpet moves like a ghost across the mix—sometimes ambient fog, sometimes a punch to the ribs. Their chemistry feels lived-in. You get the sense they’ve spent years chasing the same moods, learning to build tracks where guitars groan low and horns weep above flickering beats.

But now there’s a shift—Temple Of The Mind marks the moment Casino Square anchored firmly by new voices. Emmie Sitter brings a kind of hushed command. She doesn’t belt, she doesn’t wail. She occupies. Her softness has gravity. She delivers every line like a private note you weren’t meant to read, but you do anyway. And Jay Ree—previously heard in the dub-reggae blend of City Kay and Zenzile—adds texture that cuts right through the haze. His voice doesn’t clash with the trip hop scaffolding, it melts into it, like rain into pavement. One moment he’s rhythmic and tight, the next he’s loose and expansive. That’s range. That’s control.

Temple Of The Mind consists of just five tracks, but in terms of scale and depth, it plays out like a cartographic expedition through inner worlds — from dark, almost surreal textures to flashes of hypnotic light and gentle vocal warmth. There is no attempt to squeeze the sound into narrow genre constraints. Instead, what drives it is art, emotion, intuition, memory.

It all begins with Egine. Smooth, moody beats immediately wrap around you. The guitar here is less of a riff and more of a dissolving thought. Emmie Sitter’s vocals float above it — airy, yet full of internal pressure. Then comes Temple Of The Mind, and a different energy kicks in. Jay Ree takes the foreground — his rhythm hooks you somewhere between reggae, hip-hop, and spoken word, while Emmie returns as an ethereal counterpoint. They move as if in separate dimensions, yet within the same body. The track flows in waves — pulling, swaying, blurring. There’s something deeply personal in it, and something cosmic at the same time.

…And Yet They May is an entirely different universe. Post-rock and trip-hop intertwine into a near-ritualistic sound. There is no clear beginning or end — the track plays more like a meditative current. The vocals resemble shadows more than phrases. Its uniqueness lies in how unpredictable each listen can be. It could bring ecstasy, melancholy, or something else entirely — something you do not even know how to name yet.

Prophecy is the moment where it becomes clear: Casino Square know how to transform genres into new forms. The track is built on nostalgia, yet constantly refuses to submit to it. Jay Ree’s rap in the verses leads like a shaman through atmospheric fractures in the production. The chorus pulls you into modern pop, but without losing its depth and artistic texture. It is one of those tracks that feel both familiar and completely new.

And finally, Across The Line. Water drips, space stretches, the final descent begins — not into darkness, but into a quiet light. This one stands as its own piece. A slowly and insistently unfolding bloom. If you’re into trip-hop, art pop, ambient, or melancholic downtempo, this release belongs on your shelf.

If there’s anything I struggled with, it was that as I moved through the EP multiple times, certain sections began blending into one another. Perhaps Casino Square built too consistent a mood—so immersive and singular that distinctions between tracks blurred, like memories after a particularly vivid dream. It felt intentional rather than careless, but I found myself wishing occasionally for sharper contrasts, even jarring transitions, just to shake my attention back to reality.

Yet even that observation highlights Casino Square’s greatest strength: their ability to craft a complete atmosphere. Each listen felt like stepping back into the same room, rediscovering details previously missed—a slight echo here, a whispered backing vocal there, an intricate guitar line concealed behind a wash of ambient noise.

Ultimately, Temple Of The Mind left me somewhere between dreaming and awake. It’s subtle, unhurried, patient. When the EP finished, I had the strange sensation of waking from something significant, unable immediately to recall all the details, but aware that something had shifted.

It’s rare that an EP sticks with me this way—not because of earworm hooks or explosive production tricks, but precisely due to its understated confidence. It nudges, rather than grabs. And somehow, by choosing subtlety, Casino Square left an indelible mark.

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