PERTINAX REVIEWS
By Rebecca Cullen
Pertinax – a word meaning to persist, stoically. A divinely interesting title, which quite perfectly represents the mystique and depth of the music within. UK alt-pop band and united couple SURIS return this year, with a full-length album that’s boldly artistic, unexpected, and brilliantly gripping.
​
Thirteen original tracks, a creative atmospheric production style that’s unique in both its melodies and tones, Pertinax is a fascinating independent album, from a dream-pop experimental duo whose songwriting consistently explores the unknown in a fresh, poetic fashion. As an introduction to that approach, Mended is superb – an unorthodox set-up, with intimate vocals and a strong groove, a long-form melody blending folk and power-ballad qualities, building towards a simple, snappy and satisfying hook.
​
It’s a huge, momentous opening moment, a rising energy that showcases both the versatility of our lead singer, and that of the ever-evolving sound-design and musicianship that supports her. The music is a joy to escape into, genuinely imaginative and original, and then there’s the lyrics – the final resounding sentiment, that nothing is more beautiful than a mended thing. The idea and sound are wonderful, and quickly prompt you to listen back through the full arrangement, to dive into the warmth and concept all the more so.
To describe this band in a shorter frame, SURIS is mysterious but relatable – modest and light to impassioned female vocals, a profoundly colourful array of synths, drums, keys and other instruments, cascading through the airwaves in an ambient to energised way. Meanwhile, the songs and stories meander from unpredictable to pure and catchy, always gathering a momentum and groove that’s uplifting to lose yourself within.
​
This description suits the opener, but even more so, it suits the following song Last Train Home pretty perfectly. We begin with intrigue, and wind up amidst an all-together-now explosion of unity and catchy optimism. The unusual and the satisfying walk hand-in-hand, and that makes for a brilliantly refreshing listen. All the while, these concepts and musings, the thoughtful depth and provocative poetry of songs like Now, with its welcomed twist of saxophone (from the very talented Felix Flower), are incredibly moving, inspiring, and effectively linger in the mind – long after the melodies have settled.
​
“Did you think a beard would hide your shame” is a sensational opening line, Eruption fearlessly diving into a scornful and confronting story, which again feels as poignantly original, quirky, and catchy as ever. Then we move into something uplifting and hopeful, for Whole, before the soaring rock swagger and snappy lines of Take all she brings inject a vibrancy and an earworm that’s addictive to let play.
​
The creativity of the project continues to exceed itself, as Huma delivers an other-worldly, atmospheric gem of a track, with a depth of both design and concept that’s powerful. The song tips its hat to the likes of Pink Floyd, Queen and Kate Bush, in its poetic and powerful scene and artistry. We then move into a more familiar, calming sense of reflection and piano-led intimacy, for Still Life – ultimately an energised anthem, which is no doubt superb to witness in the live setting.
​
During the album’s second half, a touch of something Tori Amos-like leans towards a more classic ballad, for the unforgettable and impassioned Armour of Love. Then we’re taken on a more stirring journey, for the again provocative and intriguing Listen – a big-band crescendo elevating the progression of the song in an unignorable and impactful manner.
​
At the penultimate moment, Born to be with you is divinely performed – piano and voice, riding bass, a rising rhythm, a self-confronting introspection and resulting brightness and power that’s euphoric. Then to finish, unique keys and natural-world fragments lay down a compelling new scene and story, for the creatively poignant poem and supreme musical build up of Fugue; one of several personal favourites.
​
Of all the albums to cross the airwaves this summer, Pertinax is easily the one that most notably prompts you to spend more time with it. A single listen does not suffice, and these ideas, melodies and outbursts stay with you, and leave you wanting to re-explore the intricacies of the full journey.
​
Why this title? What connects these ideas and feelings? There’s so much to unpack, and yet at the same time, the cinematic presence and performative charm of the project lets the music simply engage with and entertain its listener. In short, Pertinax is stunning, and impressively free in its artistic and playful creativity.
By Ian Ureta of Alte Magazine
On Pertinax, Suris Are Out Here Writing Songs About Feeling Too Much
​
There’s something quietly rebellious about an album like Pertinax. Suris, composed of the duo of Lindsey and David Mackie, have decided to make something defiantly sincere. It’s the sound of two people who have been doing this long enough to know better, but went ahead and did it anyway.
​
“Pertinax” literally means “resolute,” which is fitting, because this album refuses to apologize for caring deeply about things. It’s a record full of lush arrangements, dramatic vocals, and uncomfortably honest songwriting; the kind of thing that makes you realize how allergic most modern music has become to risk.
​
The first track, “Mended,” arrives like a transmission from a different era, the place where 70s mysticism and 80s romanticism got drunk together and forgot to go home. Lindsey Mackie sounds like Stevie Nicks if she’d fronted Purity Ring, while David’s production layers shimmering synths and guitar textures that teeter between comfort and unease. The song’s title is optimistic, but the tone isn’t quite; it’s about trying to put yourself back together when the world keeps handing you the wrong pieces. It’s the perfect thesis statement for the album: beauty and ruin, cohabiting politely.
​
“Last Train Home” picks up the tempo, and suddenly you’re in what sounds like an Arcade Fire B-side; if Arcade Fire had the restraint to stop shouting about suburbia for five minutes. The track pulses with urgency but avoids the self-importance that usually comes with that territory. It’s cinematic, but not in a “look, we’ve got string sections!” way; more like the cinematic feeling of being the only person left on the last carriage home, staring at your reflection and wondering if you’ve already missed something important.
​
“Whole” is the point where the album leans into its art-rock credentials. It’s the most obviously Kate Bush-adjacent track here, but what makes it work is Lindsey’s vocal delivery; unguarded to the point of it being conversational, like she’s telling you something too personal but can’t help herself. There’s a fragility in how she phrases the chorus, a kind of emotional risk that feels rare these days. You can tell this isn’t a song built for playlists; it’s one of those tracks that sits quietly in your brain until it decides to hurt you a bit later.
​
Then there’s “Take All She Brings,” which opens with an upbeat, jangly rhythm that could almost fool you into thinking it’s a feel-good track. Spoiler: it’s not. It’s a song about giving too much of time, of love, of energy and realizing that nobody’s coming to refill the tank. It’s got this Florence + The Machine-before-the-theatrics energy, all tambourine and ache. It’s one of the album’s standouts because it weaponizes charm; it sounds sweet, but there’s poison in the sugar.
​
The back half of Pertinax settles into reflection. “Born to Be With You” is a slow, smoky ballad that feels like early Bowie after a long night of thinking too much. It’s patient, self-contained, and utterly sincere. Lindsey’s voice — rich, slightly cracked, full of restraint — carries it effortlessly. It’s a song about companionship, but not in the Hallmark sense; it’s about the quiet, unglamorous kind of love that survives the weather.
​
And then there’s “Fugue.” Oh, “Fugue.” This is the part of the album where Suris stop pretending they’re playing by anyone’s rules. It’s huge, weird, and operatic; imagine if Celine Dion and Björk tried to write a song together, and somehow it worked. The song builds into this layered, dizzying crescendo that feels like a reckoning. Not a conclusion, but an unravelling. It’s the album’s final statement, a reminder that art doesn’t have to resolve to mean something. Sometimes you just end on a sustained note and let it haunt people.
​
What makes Pertinax compelling isn’t just that it’s technically flawless; it’s that it feels lived in. You can hear the fingerprints all over it. The production is detailed but never sterile; the performances are passionate without drifting into melodrama. Suris don’t sound like they’re chasing a sound; they sound like they’ve already found it, years ago, and just decided to polish it into the shape of who they are now.
​
What’s more interesting is how Suris take all those influences and fold them into something unmistakably human. There’s no irony here, no wink at the camera. Pertinax is, at its core, a record about being earnest in an age that keeps trying to convince you not to be.
​
That might be why it hits so hard. Because while everyone else is busy making clever music about detachment, Suris are out here writing songs about feeling too much. And that’s what makes Pertinax special: it’s not trying to be relevant. It’s trying to be real.
