Coolonaut’s Karma Smile is not an easy listen, and it is not meant to be. This is a record that confronts rather than comforts, one that stares directly at the chaos of the modern world and refuses to look away. As an artist statement, it feels raw, urgent, and deeply personal — the sound of someone who has reached a breaking point and decided to turn that pressure into music.
Originally from Scotland and now based in rural Australia, Coolonaut has built a sound that feels deliberately removed from modern trends. His music draws heavily from the spirit of late-60s psychedelia and mod culture, but not in a nostalgic or decorative way. Instead, those influences feel embedded in the bones of the project. The analogue textures, warm saturation, and unpolished edges are intentional. Recorded and produced on an 8-track setup, Karma Smile carries the grit and atmosphere of a different era, one where music felt handmade and urgent rather than algorithm-friendly.
This is Coolonaut’s third album in just two years, and it shows the evolution of an artist growing increasingly unfiltered. Where earlier records explored character sketches and personal quirks, Karma Smile widens its scope. The album confronts political violence, moral complacency, and the disturbing normalization of suffering in the modern world. The lyrics don’t posture or soften their message. They are direct, sometimes uncomfortable, and clearly driven by frustration and moral outrage.
What makes the album compelling is that the anger is balanced by craft. Songs like “Confabulation,” “Boganville,” and “Volvoman” still carry a sense of playfulness and personality, while tracks such as “Pebble Dash Heaven” reflect on memory and identity with a bittersweet tone. There’s a consistent thread running through the record: a deep belief that music should say something, even if that something isn’t easy to hear.
Sonically, Karma Smile leans into swirling guitars, punchy bass lines, and hypnotic rhythms that echo classic psychedelic and mod records without copying them outright. Coolonaut isn’t trying to sound contemporary, and that refusal becomes one of the album’s strengths. In a landscape dominated by polish and predictability, the rough edges here feel honest. The imperfections give the songs weight and personality.
What stands out most is the conviction behind the project. Coolonaut isn’t chasing approval or trends. He’s documenting his reaction to the world as he sees it — a world he describes as increasingly detached from empathy and accountability. That sense of moral urgency gives Karma Smile its emotional core. It’s not a protest album in the traditional sense, but it carries the same spirit of resistance found in the most meaningful records of the past.
Karma Smile ultimately feels like a refusal to stay silent. It’s a reminder that music can still be confrontational, political, and deeply human. Coolonaut may operate outside the mainstream, but this record proves that some of the most honest art is made far from the spotlight.
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