Words by Michael Bradley
Out August 14, 2026
Via ATO Records
In recent years, one of the strongest and biggest voices in Australian music has been making a name for itself and you may have never heard it – yet. Having only publicly appeared just shy of 2020, the new sound is an anomaly with no certain birthplace and no certain destination. Sounding like the lovechild of the voices of Billie Holiday, Joni Mitchell, and Janis Joplin, it also has enough standalone qualities that bear little resemblance to anything else; it leaves interviewers baffled and audiences with their mouths agape, while their brain-cogs work overtime to identify and decipher the foreign signals received from the ears. All vain attempts to describe the indescribable aside, this voice has only one true title: Grace Cummings.
Hailing from Melbourne, Grace has been running the circuit since she released her debut album, Refuge Cove, in 2019 – which, like herself, was an oddity: Flightless Records were blown away after being shown a video of her singing and they reached out to gauge her interest in signing with them – on the condition that she had an album locked and loaded for release. She told them she did. She didn’t. Instead, she gave them a selection of folk songs she had created in her bedroom, and thus her professional music career was born. Pacing behind was her sophomore album, Storm Queen, an electric upgrade with a more varied showcase of her vocal capabilities – check out the opening track Heaven for provenance of her talent. Recorded during peak COVID social distancing restrictions, it remained relatively instrument-bare and void of the genuine use of a studio and a full band. Two-for-two albums with no drums! Grace’s drive to create something grandiose came to fruition with her third full-length release, Ramona. Recorded with famed L.A. based musician and producer, Jonathon Wilson (whose resume includes Father John Misty, Angel Olsen, and Roger Waters), it was again another great expansion, scaling the rungs of success and legendary posterity – I’m not alone in labelling that record a masterpiece. Performing her songs in Australia and around the world, wherever Grace plays, the public have the same pleasantly surprised response: “Holy shit, what a voice!”
Somehow, through the travelling, performing, press and public relations – and battling pneumonia – Grace has found the time to write and record an entirely new collection of songs for the release of her upcoming fourth album, Bloodhorse! Again joining forces with Jonathan Wilson, the twelve track release due in August is another milestone under the Melburnian’s belt. “In the past few years, I’ve gone through one of the biggest personal changes of my life. Bloodhorse! is an attempt to express the things I can’t say,“ explains Grace. Releasing albums in quick succession can welcome a loss in artistic integrity, with the songs feeling rushed and empty; but when the muses are present to draw upon, the creative spark can manifest an exception to the rule, as is the case here.
Grace prefaces the album and explains its title:
“A bloodhorse is a horse expected to be a winner. But they can often also be temperamental, fearful, fragile and easily broken. Sometimes I feel like I’m a trapped animal. And…when I go to sleep, sometimes it’s like I’m in the gate, twitching. And as soon as I open my eyes, I’m fucking running.”
The album opens with The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Morphine. Woodwinds introduce a big band orchestra at a towering volume and presence like a climax in a John Williams film score. If this sound is your introduction to Grace Cummings, you won’t expect what’s coming – if you’re a hardcore fan, you definitely won’t expect what’s coming. It cuts away to Grace singing with a piano, stripped-back and suave, like a slow-dance. Her voice is atypically high, airy and thin – nothing like her signature deep, commanding rasp. “I’m alive wondering if I’m dying,” she sings, offering a brilliant metaphor for the contrasting concepts of this song. Enter the fullness of her voice, beaming wide and bright, and then – BAM – a crazy drop into a river of deep electronic fuzz. The element of surprise is at full-throttle. I’ve no idea where I’m being taken but, equipped with a strong stank-face and a bobbing head, I can’t stop listening. “Here I have a moment’s peace/ something that believes in me/ morphine.” It’s clearly theatrical, a stunning segway into the second act. The distant sound of a droning vocalising choir gives off an undertone of an eery, ritualistic unsettling. Heavy, chunky bass lines break up the clunking, trudging pace of this journey. “The roof’s become kaleidoscopic morphine,” she sings, making clear the direction of the song: way out there on the edges of reality, astral travelling up into the cosmic ceiling before us. Its cerebral penetration is sufficient to get you vicariously stoned in the same way that Black Sabbath’s Snowblind or Sumo’s Heroína can make you feel far from sober. Complete with Grace’s larger-than-life wails strong with vibrato, the lighter tone of a string section offers another layer of dynamic contrast – heaven and hell. Another curveball comes in the form of the fuzziest harmonica I’ve heard in my life. It scratches and tears through the fabric of the song; I didn’t know harmonicas could cry but there it is captured on tape.
In only five minutes, I felt like I went through a record’s worth of emotions: contentment, confusion, disgust, pensive intrigue, raw passion, incredulous awe. Genre-defying, unconforming, inexplicable. My first listen left me so rattled I had to go out for a walk to process what I’d heard. I thought that Ramona was Grace’s magnus opus, but this track alone scrubbed that idea. What an incredible introduction to an album.
My God is the first song I heard from this album, long before it was recorded – still on her world tour, Grace performed this live a number of times. Perhaps it was the poorly recorded audience footage, compressed in their uploads to fleeting Instagram stories and YouTube shorts, but it underwhelmed me. Once officially released as the first teaser to this album, it began to grow on me; and now as I listen and write, it sounds tenfold better. It’s a rumination on rumination. An existential pondering on ourselves, others, and what connects us – or doesn’t. She explains, “Lyrically, this song is about hatred, jealousy, rage. The “God” here is the dark forces that are wrapping around us, that we scroll through, the toxic energy that binds us together in this modern world, and the fear we feed it every day.” Doomscroll for hours on end and come out dripping with dopamine yet feeling worse, and you’ll understand. The internet, the mobile phone – what, theoretically, should connect us the most, instead works to sever our ties through constant overload. Receptivity lacks but desirous hunger grows daily, and those with a mouthful are starving. “Half an eye, a hundred gnashing teeth,” she succinctly describes our consumption of a social aspect which quietly enslaves. The instrumentation throughout plays into the theme, feeling like a tireless struggle that goes on and on; music put to the myth of Sisyphus. The fatigue of inconsistent, heavy breathing is terminated in one final breath, and soothed over with the calm piano of the next track.
The waves level out with Paradise, a minute-and-a-half interlude which I wish were about ten times longer. The piano is melodic and intentional, reminiscent of the intro to Pink Floyd’s Great Gig in the Sky. The atmosphere is being built around us with brilliantly produced synths and soft vocals, tale-telling, scene-setting. The implications appear dark and mysterious, shrouded in the fog of an endless madrugada: “Paradise/ I’ve seen it once/ yesterday/ and Heaven is a place I’ve been/ just yesterday.” The rhythm is elevated with the addition of a minimalistic drum beat, like something straight out of a jazzy hip-hop break or a Matt Corby song. It feels like wandering through the freshly-trodden dirt trail of a bewildered forest, wide-eyed and fast enough to outrun the grim reaper but slow enough to remain invisible. Anything could happen; but before the story can continue, Grace ends it with the words, “Now every day is the same.” It’s an impressive buildup to a cliffhanger – with only twenty-six words, there’s enough to be left wondering but not too much to squander frolicking imagination.
Perhaps it’s not the end after all: FAKE also begins with the same style of piano and feels like the separated Siamese twin of Paradise. Grace says it’s a confession which took courage to write: “I thought whilst I’m here in the deep end, why not just lean the f*ck in.” It’s coming out on the other side; a tranquil rebuilding; reborn from the ashes with the breeze blowing cold in your face – the low flat-lining synth replicates an unnerving wind. The lyrics instil doubt like pseudo-gaslighting: “It’s gotta be a fake/ some kind of sick mistake/ something to break.” The song rises as it goes on, the synths and Grace’s voice becoming piercingly sinister. The searing hiss of doom-infected strings adds another unsettling edge before a change in tempo and a heavy section which feels like the leadup to an execution. The gradual intensification finds its peak with a sharp halt whereby there is a whole two minutes of nothing but droning synth. It’s a brilliant artistic decision – whether the music is fast, full, and comprised of an entire band, or one solitary sound, the feeling remains the same. Typically, two straight minutes of white noise would come across as trying and rub me the wrong way, but every time I listen, it never even feels like a minute. The hype convinces my investment by the edge of my seat; time out of mind. Grace’s intention is to signify the cinematic sequence of one’s head being dunked underwater before surfacing and gasping for air. “It’s Alice falling down the rabbit hole. And if they’re lucky, they’ll get away and start running.”
The sound transitions into the next track, Bloodhorse!, kicking off with a thick, brooding, Morphine-influenced saxophone. The rhythm quickly jolts alive, and a marching drum beat takes this bloodhorse off galloping – whether I like it or not, I’m going along for the ride. With consistent confidence, Grace sings about the false pretences we try to turn into auto-affirmations of love, essentially tricking ourselves into being happy – the classic “if you’re depressed, just be happy.” The unrealistic goals we can set for ourselves, impossible to attain. “Remember how your dollies play/ not a frown from day to day/ on the smooth of dolly’s face.” Lines like these make clear that Grace’s songwriting continues to strengthen, able to squeeze so much emphasis and meaning into so few words. For added bonus, she throws in another valuable message with the line “Nobody cares for the birds.” I know this will largely go overlooked, but it’s an existentially important biblical morale: when the walls of our circumstances are closing in on us, it can do us good to remember that concerning ourselves with the trivialities of societal life is futile – nature does not concern itself with how it looks in the mirror yet goes on living just the same, arguably better off. “Grace, just straighten your spine and try to stick to the design.” Affirmations are all good and well but becoming something you’re not is a deadly mistake. The striving for the impossible does not slow but instead ends abruptly.
The point is made with the next track, Bloodhorse! (take two). As much as The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Morphine kicked reality out from underneath me, this also made me question my sobriety. It’s a bizarre, AI-generated, modern hard-R-country song with explicit lyrics and an over-the-top autotune that grinds on the ears. It’s the audible representation of the dolly’s smooth face, the “happiness” that’s on sale. It’s acceptable, it’s desired, and it’s popular – but it’s not real. A very catchy 45-second snippet, it’s devoid of life, soul, and imperfections; anything that makes music magic. It’s making a statement with a no-f*cks-given humour that I think Frank Zappa would appreciate. Grace intentionally lets this end the A side of the record: “It’s the end of Act 1. From there you have to flip it over and the clouds open up.”
I’m Not Crazy brings another surprise with Grace not sounding like Grace. It’s a quaint psychedelic-pop song, its chorus a catchy melodic hook. I think they made the right decision releasing this as the second single to tease the album because it’s an entry level song for both seasoned and casual listeners of music. The fantasy-like softness of the sound paired with the questionable lyrics has this song sitting in my mind’s eye as a psychotic girlfriend; the kind who hides behind sweet innocence but won’t hesitate to stab you in your sleep. Therefore, it follows the theme of the album; the metaphorical masks we use to be anything but ourselves. “This is a song about violence. It has a dreaminess to it, dissociation maybe,” she explains. “I used a different voice to sing it. I wanted to sound innocent, pretty, vulnerable, which is sometimes a place you can hide, if you are afraid.” This is one of those tracks to put on repeat because it does its job and won’t lose its flavour.
A lifelong fan of the heavy-hitting pioneers from the golden years, it’s no surprise that Grace has included an unabashed homage to John Lennon. The song is full of references to his songs and philosophies and how they still relate to life nearly five decades since his murder. It expresses what many of us freaks do: we look to the songs for guidance, for healing, and for life. The addition of a string section gives this bittersweet track a twist of hope and tranquility. Inevitably, these are the days we are more than ever facing the losses of the icons who influenced everything we hear today. It’s a hard pill to swallow to go listen to a playlist and realise that 90% of the artists are dead, but it shouldn’t detract from the enjoyment – the art is made to outlive the artist and exist for the betterment of humankind. “John, can you hold me like a baby ‘cause I don’t wanna be alone,” is Grace’s way of saying that the music nurtures. It’s a cute little sentiment about our feelings towards music and those who made it.
WITCH! WITCH! WITCH! comes out swinging with a crunchy guitar tone and a get-up-and-dance beat. Embodying the nature of the song like a method actor, Grace had a scythe in hand while recording the song’s chorus, “I sold my soul to the reaper man.” It’s about feeling powerless under the weight of daunting thoughts of our mortality and promised end. Instead of moping about it and wasting the time we have, this is the flipside: celebrating life by accepting death. The first half of the song is the useless dread while the other half is gleefully staring down the grim reaper, egging him on. Piano and organ lead the way out as the sound expands into an instrumental calamity, ending on a high.
If that was a metaphysical death, the mood of the next track is perfectly fitting. My Island and Me is a sombre and insightful, bluesy piano-led meditation on facing one’s fears. It reminds me a lot of St. James Infirmary in that it finds a contented middle ground between unsettling doom and what feels like a just triumph. The song has no sense of being written, like it spawned out of a primordial swamp in the deep south. It limps from the starting line and the story is prefaced with the words, “pack up your bags, we’re going down.” This is where, for the first time in the album, the mask is taken off. The stripped-back steadiness of the accompanying piano allows Grace to be direly honest; the truth isn’t always pretty, but if you pay it enough attention, you can find the beauty behind the eyes. Like finding yourself standing naked in a dream, it’s painful to be so exposed but with nothing to hide comes catharsis. The golden crown comes off, there’s no more unfaltered smooth dolly face nor perfect AI, and the natural elements do what they do: the sun burns, the earth buries, the water waters, and life goes on. The atmospheric drama is intense with plucked descending bass lines and shimmering percussion filtering in the realisation of isolation. “The ocean looks at me/ I can feel the water over my head.” It feels like the story is trapped in a cyclical state of highs and lows: on one hand, drowning in self pity; on the other, inviting perceptible doom’s liberation. Fighting for the spotlight is the guitar, belting out a violent psychedelia like a bad trip, and Grace’s swelteringly gargantuan roars. The ashes of this fierce competition, fertiliser for the imagination. Facing yourself in the mirror, you meet a crossroads: stay as you are – comfortably numb – or take the leap without the safety net to find greener grass. Sometimes we can’t see the stars for the constellations and the antidote for such blindness is shattering. The song reaches a peak where it sounds – and feels – like freefalling. It’s unclear whether Grace conquered her demons or succumbed to them… but, a new beginning can look like square one again.
The ambiguity follows on with The Magnum Opus of The North is a Cowboy Boot, a two minute number which points to a longing for growth, creative expression and the understanding that all roads lead to Bob Dylan. The slow and steady waltz-like movement gives the impression that this is a fresh start, found only through exhaustive seeking and ultimately contented acceptance. She looks to one of her most faithful north stars – Dylan – to navigate her feet and peregrinate. Some of us can be rolling stones, some cannot. Grace is acknowledging that she isn’t one to let the moss overtake and grow that mask which many wear – in fact, the mask isn’t even their own: Some people base their all on the work of another, disguised as originality. “The very confidently hopeless man / whose magnum opus gets recycled once again / for some girls too young to notice it already belonged to Robert Zimmerman.” Check out the credits on a collection of music spanning the past six decades and you’ll understand. After claiming her desire to ramble on, there’s a burst of raw angelic vocals that sound like the light being turned on again.
The final track, See You in Fifty Years, seems a whimsical footnote to what could have been a complete album. However, it possesses a cryptic importance with the valuable notion of uncertainty. Time is promised to no one, and who we are today may not be who we are tomorrow. It’s wishful thinking to assume anything, let alone your own being, will exist in fifty years. “Would I be living or comfortably numb?” As the late great David Crosby proclaimed, “Time is the final currency.” It’s the great deception of not knowing what we have until it’s gone, the impermanence of time being the ultimate example. This all ties in with the first line from the album: “I’m alive wondering if I’m dying.” It’s a subject philosophers have tried and failed to perfectly explain for centuries. Here, Grace doesn’t attempt to claim a skerrick of truth or wisdom of anything; this is all a mere observation put on paper for posterity, which will transform unimaginably after fifty years.
Listening to Bloodhorse! has been most excellent, and beyond the music tickling my brain in just the right way, the themes are frequently thought-provoking. Her voice continues to develop, her manner of turning diary-entries into majestic lyrics strengthens, and the ability of Johnathon Wilson and the musicians to transpose the ideas in her head into real world sounds remains impressive as ever. Her first true concept album, this is Grace building her legacy: Refuge Cove was the location, earthworks, and flooring; Storm Queen was the walls, roof, and a ouija board; Ramona was the decor, rose garden and cairn shrines; Bloodhorse! is the writing on the wall loudly proclaiming, “Grace was here!”
