It didn’t start with a band. It started with fragments.
Unfinished files on a hard drive.
Raw, distorted soundscapes that didn’t fit anywhere else. Something darker. Something more urgent. That’s how BARCLAY’S came to life—born not out of ambition, but necessity.
This was Alex McGrath’s way of saying what couldn’t be said through his work with Turner. A private outlet, more aggressive and electronic, that slowly evolved into something communal and living. It became a band. Then it became something even less definable—a six-piece collective that shifts shape like a fever dream, one night bleeding into free jazz, the next into a wall of hardcore noise.
Their debut show ended not with applause, but with Alex vomiting in the alley behind the venue.
Not out of weakness, but because giving everything you have—your voice, your story, your truth—isn’t always cinematic. Sometimes it’s ugly.
Sometimes it takes everything out of you.
Since then, BARCLAY’S has refused to follow any script. Their performances are not sets; they are rituals. There’s a list of songs, sure, but the list is more suggestion than structure. With members trained in jazz, they lean into spontaneity, into chaos, into vulnerability.
No performance is the same.
No night is safe.
And that’s the point.
They call it feverdreamcore, but it’s not a genre—it’s a state of being. It’s the sound of trying to hold yourself together while the world insists on falling apart. And within that noise, there is “comatose”—a song that isn’t here to comfort you. It’s here to hold a mirror up to the storm.
The inspiration came from 12 Monkeys, from a passing mention of the Cassandra Complex—the myth of a prophetess cursed to always speak the truth, but never be believed. That idea hit Alex hard. Because how many people today live in that curse? The scientists, the activists, the artists, the truth-tellers—screaming as the planet burns, as rights are stripped away, as history repeats itself—and no one listens.
“comatose” isn’t written from a place of superiority. It’s written from exhaustion. From standing at the edge and shouting into silence. From wondering if anyone, anywhere, still hears.
And maybe they don’t.
But BARCLAY’S plays as if someone might.
That sliver of hope—that desperate faith—is what keeps the song alive. It’s not designed for radio or algorithms. It doesn’t beg to be shared. It exists because it has to. Because even if one person hears it and feels less alone in their truth, then it mattered.
Listening to BARCLAY’S is not about escape. It’s about recognition.
It’s about staring into the noise and finally seeing yourself.
It’s about knowing you’re not the only one screaming in the dark.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
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