Listening to Songs from the Underground, I get the sense that this album has been patiently waiting for the right moment to exist. Written during Gregg McKella’s busking years in the 1990s and finally released decades later, the record feels less like a debut and more like a time capsule carefully opened. There’s no rush here, no attempt to modernise the songs beyond what feels natural. Instead, McKella allows them to breathe, carrying their original spirit into the present with honesty and grace.
At its heart, this album is rooted in storytelling. The songs move between folk-driven intimacy, psyche blues, and alternative indie textures, forming what McKella aptly calls “space-folk.” That description fits perfectly. There’s an earthy, street-level quality to the songwriting, shaped by city life, but it’s constantly lifted by drifting melodies, glissando guitar lines, and subtle psychedelic flourishes. It feels grounded and cosmic at the same time.
What really stands out to me is the emotional balance. Songs from the Underground is neither overly nostalgic nor weighed down by its long gestation. Instead, it carries a light-and-shade quality that feels lived-in. These are songs shaped by observation, movement, and reflection, written without genre constraints and performed with the confidence of someone who has spent decades immersed in music for the right reasons.
The production by Martin Litmus plays a crucial role in that cohesion. His multi-instrumental contributions—bass, keyboards, synths, mellotron, guitars, and percussion—add depth without crowding the songs. Everything feels intentional and warm, allowing McKella’s vocals, guitars, clarinet, and synth work to remain central. The album never sounds overproduced; it sounds carefully tended.
Guest contributions enhance the record without distracting from its core identity. Nick Pynn and Eugene McClouskey’s violin parts add a haunting, almost pastoral quality, while Jeanette Murphy’s backing vocals bring softness and familiarity. Paradise 9’s Tyrone Thomas adds texture through lead and slide guitar, subtly linking this solo project to McKella’s broader musical universe.
Knowing McKella’s history adds another layer of meaning. From early gigs with The Presence alongside Marillion and Ozric Tentacles, to Image Wot Image, Dreamfield, and the long-running Paradise 9, this album feels like a distillation of decades of exploration. His involvement with projects tied to Nik Turner, Daevid Allen, and the wider psychedelic underground is quietly present in the album’s atmosphere rather than worn as a badge.
There’s also an underlying sense of urgency and gratitude running through the record. McKella’s recent health scare, and his openness about it, gives Songs from the Underground an added weight. It feels like an artist recognising the importance of finally letting these songs exist in the world.
For me, Songs from the Underground isn’t about reinvention. It’s about preservation, honesty, and finishing something that mattered. It’s a gentle, thoughtful album that rewards close listening and reminds you that some music doesn’t expire—it just waits.
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