dune reaper Ignite with Cathartic Debut Single “forever asleep”
From the clang of steel beams to the crash of cymbals, dune reaper have taken the grit of their blue-collar roots and transformed it into a sonic eruption. The Burlington, Ontario duo—Hunter Murray (drums, vocals) and Nathanael Smith (guitar)—have arrived with their debut single “forever asleep”, a track that takes the exhaustion of working life and detonates it into an anthem of rage, despair, and defiance.
At first listen, “forever asleep” is unsettling in its contrasts. The song begins with languid, echoing guitar chords that shimmer in empty space, paired with Murray’s weary, almost resigned vocal delivery. It feels like the opening of a confessional, a voice cracking under the weight of weeks spent clocking sixty hours, of bills stacking faster than wages can keep up. But then the mask slips. The drums crash in, Smith’s guitar mutates into a fuzzed-out monster, and Murray’s voice rips into raw screams. The sudden heaviness isn’t just stylistic—it’s symbolic of the pent-up anger beneath every tired breath.
This is not music polished for radio gloss. Produced by Justin Koop—the veteran ear behind records from Finger Eleven, Billy Talent, Walk Off The Earth, and Silverstein—the recording at Burlington’s B Town Sound captures feel over perfection. Koop allows the duo’s chemistry to breathe: guitars tracked in a handful of takes, drums pounding with live urgency, vocals delivered days later with shredded intensity that mirrors the song’s subject matter. The result is immediate, visceral, and deliberately unrefined—rock music that bleeds.
The lyrics of “forever asleep” serve as both diary and declaration. Murray sings of exhaustion so deep it borders on numbness, a condition familiar to anyone who has worked until their body aches and yet still wonders how the bills will be paid. Addiction lurks in the background—not romanticized, but acknowledged as a coping mechanism when the grind strips away healthier outlets. Lost ambition drifts through the verses, reflecting dreams deferred until “the weekend to breathe.”
But buried in the bleakness are sparks of resistance. Lines that hint at shedding old skin, of power still simmering within, remind listeners that this is not surrender—it’s survival. The refrain, delivered in screams that claw against the wall of distortion, becomes less a cry of defeat than a cathartic purge. It’s as if the act of voicing frustration is itself a form of defiance against the monotony that threatens to bury creativity alive.
Lyrically, dune reaper aren’t dressing exhaustion in metaphorical finery. Their words are plainspoken, even blunt, but that is precisely their strength. These are not abstract ruminations—they’re the exact thoughts one mutters driving home in the dark after another endless shift. The honesty is disarming, and it gives the track its rallying power.
There’s something fitting, even poetic, about Murray and Smith meeting not in a studio but on a construction site. Surrounded by heavy machinery, endless noise, and the physical toll of labor, the duo began to envision a sound equally industrial, equally unrelenting. The fact that their origin is steeped in sweat and callouses is more than trivia—it’s the spine of their music.
Their sonic identity thrives in contrasts. Clean guitar passages collapse into distorted chaos. Drum fills tumble from restraint into riot. Vocals pivot from weary confessions to throat-tearing bellows. It’s a rollercoaster of moods and intensities, echoing the highs and lows of their lived reality: moments of calm introspection smashed by the abrupt violence of routine’s demands.
Comparisons to two-piece heavyweights like Royal Blood, The White Stripes, Black Pistol Fire, and The Black Keys are inevitable, but dune reaper steer their stripped-down arsenal into darker waters. Their riffs brood more than swagger, their choruses burn more than shine. If the aforementioned bands spark with blues or garage grit, dune reaper coat their sound in doom and punk urgency. Think Highly Suspect colliding with IDLES and a dash of HUM’s cosmic weight.
In their own words, Murray and Smith describe “forever asleep” as a rebellion against limitation, a release of creativity forced to wait until after hours. It’s the classic clash between day-job necessity and artistic hunger—a collision that defines much of modern independent music.
For dune reaper, this isn’t theory. It’s lived experience. Murray describes weeks that stretched to sixty hours, leaving only scraps of energy for writing or recording. Smith admits the process was fragmented, with riffs born in tired evenings and drums tested in stolen moments. And yet, from that chaos, the music emerged not diluted but sharpened.
That paradox—working class constraint birthing unfiltered art—gives the single its backbone. “forever asleep” is more than just a personal outlet; it’s a rallying cry for anyone crushed beneath routine yet unwilling to surrender their dream.
Debuts often play it safe. dune reaper do the opposite. “forever asleep” doesn’t ask politely to be heard—it rips attention with serrated edges. The opening lull is deceptive, a trick that lures the listener into a false sense of calm before unleashing a surge that is both physical and emotional. Live, one imagines it as a setpiece designed for chaos: the kind of moment that sparks a pit, a shout-back chorus, or both.
And though the song revels in heaviness, it never feels gratuitous. The band’s mantra, “make music loud again,” is not nostalgia—it’s intent. Loud, here, means unapologetically real. It means amplifying frustration until it becomes catharsis, turning private despair into communal release.
At a time when much of rock music is polished for playlists or engineered for algorithmic bite, dune reaper arrive as a reminder of why noise matters. Their sound is unvarnished, their message blunt, their execution raw. But in that rawness lies authenticity—the kind that doesn’t just resonate, but rattles.
“forever asleep” is a debut that acknowledges exhaustion without romanticizing it, that voices frustration without masking it, and that insists passion can still exist within suffocating routine. It’s for the burned-out, the overworked, the dreamers with sore backs and calloused hands. It’s a lifeline disguised as a scream.
As the band’s momentum builds and a single-release show looms, one thing is certain: dune reaper are not here to quietly enter the scene. They’re here to kick down the door, amps roaring, sweat flying, and steel-toed boots stomping the floorboards.
So turn it up. Let it shake the drywall. And when the chorus of “forever asleep” explodes, remember why noise like this still matters—because sometimes, survival itself needs a soundtrack.
