Geese’s Getting Killed Review: Poetic Post-Punk in Freefall

Annette Geneva
Oct 14
4 min read

GEESE

Getting Killed (Partisan Records / Play It Again Sam)

Written and recorded in a flurry, Getting Killed feels like five twenty-somethings trying to outrun their own thoughts with guitars strapped to their backs. It’s panic and poetry in the same breath — a cinematic experience from start to finish. The band is rebelling against their own good taste and somehow making something better for it.

I have not heard anything Geese have done before this album, simply because I got really stuck on this baby. If you want to hear what it sounds like when a band’s talent outruns their age and slams face-first into genius — Geese is it.

Geese Getting Killed review

Cinematic, as much as everything about it. It just bursts into your life, knocking over furniture and bleeding out of its mouth before even saying hello. Getting Killed is a perfect name for an album — the marketing, the imagery, the design — everything is pure art. It’s difficult to look away.

Track by Track: a breakdown of your breakdown:

Trinidad
It kicks off like a carnival in a war zone. “There’s a bomb in my car!” Cameron Winter screams, but it’s like a low panic, not a full-blown scream. Funky, distorted, and disorienting, the groove is undeniable — but everything around it is in flames, including the car. The kind of opener that dares you to keep up and keep going.
Cobra
Jittery and infectious, it’s all twitchy guitars and off-kilter drums, but at the center of it is something deeply human: the need to be wrong, loudly. Is it a love song? Is it a song about desire? I don’t know, but I sing along loudly. “Baby, you should be ashamed. You should be shame’s only daughter."
Husbands
This is the band at full gallop — chaos harnessed into rhythm. There’s no break here, just a layered storm of drums and vocals that sound like someone confessing through a megaphone. It shouldn’t work. It absolutely does. I love this song; I listen to it like it’s an extra shot of caffeine in the morning. ‘Husbands’ is a hinge track: fragile on one side, fracturing on the other. It’s a vivid example of what makes Geese compelling — their willingness to bend form, to make you lean in just to keep your balance.
Getting Killed
Here, the title lies. Everything comes at you fast: wonky synths, spoken-word breakdowns, backing vocals harmonising like some sort of 70s rave, sudden yells that feel like threats. It’s a brilliant mess — and completely intentional.
Islands Of Men
A bratty, bitter little anthem — sarcastic and jagged. Like if Parquet Courts tried to cover Blur while being tasered. It’s pure Gen Z disaffection with a killer bassline.
100 Horses
“All people must smile in times of war” — sounds like Cameron is in a trance. How is he doing this so effortlessly? It should be haunting, but it’s so addictive. What ‘100 Horses’ does best is live in the margins — between order and chaos, irony and sincerity, the spectacle and the confession. It whispers rather than shouts, but the whisper is full of weight.
Half Real
“They may say that our love was only half real.” Love isn’t dead, but perhaps it’s incomplete — fractured by distance or damage. The line “I’ve got half a mind to just pay for the lobotomy” becomes grotesque longing, perhaps a wish to erase pain, to forget what was felt. The song carries a bruised elegance. The arrangement underwrites the tension — minimal where it can be, but never surrendering space. There’s room for the silence between notes, for breaths, for regret. In that space, the voice cracks.
Au Pains du Cocaine
This is the closest they get to tender — still wired, still strange, but you can feel the ache pulling at the corners. This song could be a lullaby if it wasn’t so afraid of sleeping. I absolutely love it; I’m obsessed with it. The video clip definitely runs parallel with the lullaby vibe.

Bow Down
The drums, the guitars — they circle around the vocal like a ritual. The song unfolds not through dramatic shifts but through accumulation: layers, insistence, a pull toward reverence and resistance at once.

Taxes
This one sounds like a quiet breakdown in real time. Winter delivers each line like a man on the edge — defiant, but oh so divine. “If you want me to pay my taxes, you better bring a crucifix.” A slow spiral in soft light.

Long Island City (Here I Come) The comedown, the exit wound, the final postcard from a city that doesn’t know your name anymore. It ends like it began — unresolved, half-laughing, arms open and bruised.

Cameron Winter’s voice lingers — sometimes snarl, sometimes howl, sometimes whisper — always somewhere in the zone. The lyrics don’t make you comfortable: “There’s a bomb in my car,” “must smile in times of war,” “getting killed by a pretty good life” — all of them equal parts threat and confession.

Getting Killed isn’t easy. It’s the sound of a band deciding they’d rather burn down the room than redecorate it. It’s youth in freefall, but they make the landing look like performance art.

It’s post-punk, art rock, jazz nightmares, improv noise, and existential dread all mashed into one vinyl sleeve. And it’s never boring — not for one second.

Buy it on vinyl because digital can’t contain this thing. Let the needle catch all the weirdness. Let the speakers shake the room. And when it’s over, play it again — louder — because the noise ALWAYS knows something you don’t.