Here’s a feral, loud-eyed, slightly-unhinged review of the new PWEI album — loose, human, with typical PWEI energy. I’ve tried to let it breathe, snarl and punch as close to the band’s spirit as I can manage, adding a little swagger and sneer for good measure.
Author: John Bownas
PWEI’s Delete Everything: Smash the Reset, Burn the Cache, Blow the Fuse
Pop Will Eat Itself are back — not politely, not nostalgically, but like they’ve crawled out of the motherboard dripping gasoline and sarcasm. And their new album ‘Delete Everything‘? It doesn’t whisper. It detonates. Forget chin-stroking reflection and grown-up maturity arcs — this is PWEI kicking the digital world in the shins, slamming CTRL-ALT-DELETE on society, and daring anyone to ask why.
The title alone feels like a threat and a promise. Delete Everything. Wipe the slate, torch the feeds, drown the influencers in static. If the modern world is a hurricane of misinformation, algorithmic doomscrolling and bloody TikTok tricks, then Pop Will Eat Itself have waltzed right in with a chainsaw and a disco beat. Subtle? Absolutely not. Effective? Off the scale.
Critics have been howling about a return to form, but even that feels too tame. This is less “oh, the boys are back” and more “the boys stole the tank and drove it through the venue.” The album takes that classic PWEI soup — industrial grind, rave-punk torque, hip-hop swagger, moshing-electro lunacy — and sharpens it like a prison shank. Nothing retro, nothing diluted. Just raw circuitry, teeth and neon rage.
The engine powering this chaos is the glorious Crabb-Byker vocal tag-team — snarling one minute, snarling louder the next. It’s high-octane, hypercaffeinated, “dance or be trampled” energy. You don’t listen to this album. You grip it by the hair and hope you make it out.
Production? Filthy in the best possible way. Laser-precise but scuffed enough to feel dangerous. Tracks like The Slammer and Bruiser punch like someone rewired a night club through a generator on the verge of meltdown. Every beat lands like a fist wrapped in glitter. It’s loud — beautifully, deliberately loud — but lean. All tendon, no flab. Like they trimmed the fat with a blowtorch.
And somehow, despite the nostalgia-triggering name and history, this record feels weirdly now. The album’s obsession with media anxiety and digital exhaustion couldn’t be more 2025 if it came wearing VR glasses and trauma-scrolling spreadsheets. The anger is smart, the satire is sharp, and the dancefloor’s on fire.
Long-time devotees are already foaming over it — some even calling it their best since Pre-Mansell Exodus. That’s fighting talk, but honestly? They might be right. There’s something gloriously revitalised here, like the band rediscovered a forgotten red button labelled DO NOT PRESS and obviously pressed it twice.
If you’ve ever loved PWEI — even one molecule of them — this album will flip your table. If you’ve never listened before, Delete Everything is a baptism by breakbeat. It’s a reboot, a riot, and a reminder that Pop Will Eat Itself still know how to start fires better than most bands half their age.
Now stop reading. Hit play.
Delete your inbox. Delete your peace.
Delete Everything.
(Except this album — this one, you save and hammer on repeat until your speakers cry for mercy.)
Photos by Sara-Louise Bowrey from Electric Ballroom, Nov 2025.
