After the widescreen experiments of From Here and the orchestral pageant of Sinfonia, the sixteenth studio album from New Model Army, Unbroken, pares things back to a “roots” grammar. It's a tactical decision that lands through experience — the kind that only accumulates across decades. In support of the album, the legendary British rockers — now some five decades in the game — return to Bucharest with a December 2 show at Control.
“First Summer After” sets the tone with bass and drums speaking first, and as Justin Sullivan’s vocal enters, people “talk in riddles” and drift toward “silence.” “Language” sharpens the focus with its flinty guitar and martial snares dissecting euphemism, the lyric warning that “the language of war will bring us war.”
“Reload” distills Unbroken's ethics into a single line—“It’s only debt that trickles down,” and elsewhere spits “If I have to see another fucking Union Jack flying on the orders of the government, I’m going to be sick” The rhythm marches with the plodding persistence of a world impacted by neoliberal economic injustice. It invites comparisons to the protest urgency of Midnight Oil and the low-end hypnosis of Killing Joke, but with something more intimate. The repetition feels like a modern call to action—where the picket line is no longer sufficient in the age of Luigi Mangione.
Midway through, there's the skeletal “Cold Wind,” a lone guitar and brushed drums framing Sullivan as he admits, “I need a cold wind here on my face, I’m burning up inside” In contrast, “Coming Or Going” is tense and clipped, its hook as plain as the predicament: “It’s OK, all the never knowing/ Never knowing if I’m coming or going.” The push—pull between motion and stillness here mirrors the experience of workers who never know when the next shift (or eviction notice) will come.
“If I Am Still Me” and “Legend” form a thematic pair on self-identity vs subjective mythos. The former wonders what remains after decades of often-futile activism and relocation—“I have to see if I am still me.” The latter plays with swagger, naming the wound—“stolen people on a stolen land”—before turning the critique inward: “You were the brand that you created.” In their own way, both songs acknowledge that the personal narratives of the present are shaped by the stories communities tell about themselves, where "truth" and "fact" exist in one's own plane of the multiverse.
The final third of Unbroken expands the emotional palette. “Do You Really Want To Go There?” provokes and questions through a mid-tempo groove and swirling guitar, where “now silences are long and loaded and detonation is near” “Idumea” then turns to ritual, summoning Barbara Kopple’s seminal documentary Harlan County, USA, nodding to the Sacred Harp tradition often associated with the line “And am I born to die?” while New Model Army’s own lyrics take a different path. Finally, “Deserters” closes the album with a slow procession; instead of celebrating soldiers, it honours those who walk away from unjust causes: “Let the columns of the righteous pass us by,” because “They only shoot deserters they can find.”
Throughout its runtime, Unbroken makes vulnerability audible. Rather than offering an easy catharsis, the songs conclude like debates that continue at the next meeting, march, rally or riot. But Unbroken also doesn't romanticise struggle. The politics are explicit—corporate greed, nationalism and neoliberal pieties—but they are delivered without sloganeering or wokeisms. It acknowledges communal, working-class fatigue while insisting on the importance of showing up and an ongoing dialogue about how to live ethically amid systemic and moral decay.
Listeners who approach Unbroken expecting anthemic hooks won't find them. In its quiet intensity, something rarer is offered — a soundtrack for mutual aid where resilience is practiced through shared rhythms, attentive listening, and collective voice. Yes, it requires patience, but as the streaming algorithms and marketing "community" co-opt music crafted for immediate attention, New Model Army offers a record with patience and trust in the audience. In the end, that may be music at its most radical.
