Automatic Lovers

Some records arrive politely. They knock softly, wait to be invited in, maybe wipe their shoes on the mat. The new self-titled album from Automatic Lovers does none of that. This thing crashes through the front window at 100mph, steals your cigarettes, necks your beer, turns the amp to ten and disappears into the night laughing like a maniac.

Officially released May 7th, Automatic Lovers is a filthy, thrilling, lip-snarling blast of punk rock’n’roll from a young Madrid gang made up of Whisky David, Arhurr Crash, Passedout Kid and Juan Sinovas — four names that already sound like they should be spray-painted on the back wall of some doomed club where the toilets don’t work and the band is louder than God.

This album doesn’t care about trends, playlists, algorithms or polished modern nonsense. It cares about hooks, speed, swagger, danger and sweat. It worships at the altar of the New York Dolls, Heartbreakers, Dead Boys, The Vibrators, and every glorious degenerate who ever thought three chords and bad intentions were enough to start a revolution. And guess what? They were right.

From the opening kick to the final smoking crater, this record is all killer and no filler. “Wasting Time” comes out swinging like a broken bottle in a backstreet argument — snarling vocals, razor guitars and enough attitude to power Madrid for a week. It’s rude, sharp and instantly addictive.

Then there’s “High Degree,” a strutting street anthem that stomps through the city with shoulders back and middle fingers raised. It sounds like neon lights reflected in puddles at 3am. The kind of song that makes you want to walk faster and cause minor trouble.

“Pushin’ Too Hard” is a runaway train with no brakes and no interest in stopping for civilians.

“Long Gone” show that beneath the leather jackets and bad decisions, Automatic Lovers know how to write songs about regret, loss and romantic wreckage.

Then comes “Out of Control,” which feels less like a title and more like a mission statement. It’s the soundtrack to quitting your job, stealing a traffic cone and running toward whatever comes next.

“Hardbeat” is exactly what punk rock should be: dumb in all the smartest ways, sleazy in all the right places, and built to make your chest rattle. It’s got that beautiful trash-can glamour where the groove is ugly, sexy and irresistible.

Meanwhile “WGTEYEO” (which sounds like a secret code shouted through beer foam) is another blast of street-level fury and glorious confusion. And then the band throw curveballs.

 By the time “Shoot at Me” hits you’re left grinning like someone who survived a beautiful accident.

There’s real emotional damage under the swagger too. “What Do I Know” shows that they will never go soft — they will just bleed louder!

“Take My Hand” dives into twisted B-movie horror punk territory, all knives, blood and desperation, like a love letter written in lipstick on a crime scene wall.

“Twist and Die” rounds the album off and mixes heartbreak and self-destruction with a chorus that should have a warning label attached.

What makes this album hit so hard is that it never feels fake. There’s no cosplay here. No retro posturing. No “look how punk we are” nonsense. This sounds like four people who genuinely believe rock’n’roll should still be dangerous, stupid, sexy and fun. And in 2026, that feels revolutionary. The production keeps the dirt where it belongs. The guitars slash and burn, the rhythm section kicks like a mule, and the vocals swagger between sneer, shout and full-blown alleyway sermon. Everything sounds alive. Imperfect. Human. Which is exactly the point.

In a world of over-edited sterile music made by committee, Automatic Lovers is a glorious middle finger with lipstick on it. This is not an album for sitting quietly and appreciating from a distance. This is an album for spilled drinks, bad dancing, busted speakers, split lips, missed buses and waking up with someone else’s stamp on your hand. Madrid should be proud. Punk rock should be proud. Automatic Lovers haven’t made a debut album — they’ve started a riot in style.

For more information: Automatic Lovers