Falling apart, a soul behind glass,
taken from life to feed my empty heart.
Who do you think you are?
Breeding freedom behind bars
The shadow self is the concealed, often unacknowledged aspect of the psyche: the repository of instincts, desires, and impulses that the conscious mind represses in its pursuit of order. Yet, what is denied does not vanish; it lingers, shaping behavior in unconscious ways. To ignore the shadow is to invite inner conflict, but to confront it is to reclaim wholeness. Integration requires recognition, not suppression – an acceptance of the totality of the self, light and dark entwined. Only by facing this hidden realm can one transcend fragmentation and move toward individuation, the path of becoming one’s fullest, most authentic self.
Cataphiles take their name from the subterranean trespassers of Paris, those who slip through forgotten tunnels and navigate the buried veins of a city long settled above. Their sound, too, digs deep: churning, restless, unrelenting. The specter of Killing Joke looms over their jagged riffs and relentless rhythms, while dual vocals, male and female, collide and coil, delivering urgency without apology.
Their second album, Shadow Self, barrels forward with the same force as their debut, a collision of punk’s serrated edge, gothic rock’s brooding intensity, and death-rock’s unfiltered menace. The title draws from the concept of the shadow self, the buried and often unwelcome aspects of human nature: the greed, the destruction, the casual indifference to suffering, the self-delusion of privilege . Elsewhere, the record scrapes at emptiness, longing, and the hunger for more. But beyond the wreckage, there is also a demand for transformation—an insistence that something else, something better, can and must be imagined.
Anja (synth, vocals, lyrics), Mommers (guitar, vocals), Heini (bass), and Jan (drums) bring both weight and movement to an album that doesn’t retreat from confrontation—it throws open the doors and steps straight through.
Human dissects the hollow rituals of control, where beauty is caged, life is hoarded, and ownership becomes a cheap illusion of power. Behind glass, freedom fades; behind steel, nature suffocates. What masquerades as care is little more than possession, a cycle of dominance feeding on itself while the world withers. The Industry drags capitalism to the spotlight, its faceless machinery grinding bodies into figures, lives into statistics. Progress is built on unseen wounds, freedom dangled like a prize but always out of reach. Climbing higher means stepping on those below, while the myth of merit keeps the system intact. Identity is commodified, traded, discarded—another product to be refined and resold.
Next, My Wasted Life spits in the face of expectation, tearing up the script that demands optimization and obedience. Perfection is a prison, and failure, redefined, is liberation. The world insists on playing by rules carved in stone, but the voice here dances on the rubble, rejecting validation, embracing its own chaos.
Pleasures lunges toward indulgence, chasing satisfaction through endless consumption, yet hunger never fades. Greed pretends to fill the void, but every taste turns bitter. Joy collapses, longing drags the self further into dust, and even sacrifice is swallowed whole by the relentless machinery of want.
I Dance Alone revels in self-sufficiency, movement stripped of meaning beyond rhythm and repetition. No gaze, no touch, no validation…just the body in motion, unbound and unbothered. The beat dictates, and nothing else matters. Underground hums with steel and silence, a city’s machinery grinding beneath its surface. Faces blur into monotony, bodies swallowed by transit. Yet something lingers in the dim corridors: a whisper of escape, a hint of something unseen beneath the weight of routine. The Privileged peels back the polished façade of power. Virtue bends when comfort is threatened, selflessness fades when sacrifice is required. Wars waged elsewhere, suffering outsourced, luxury sustained by unseen hands. Nähe drifts through memory’s tight grip. Distance fuels longing, yet proximity breeds pain. Silence speaks louder than words, absence solidifies into presence. Running forward only circles back. The past is a shadow that refuses to stay behind.
Reality Is… bursts with defiance, rejecting tradition, expectation, and the weight of imposed rules. Identity bends, borders blur, and the old world crumbles under fearless reinvention. Reality isn’t dictated…it’s built from rebellion, from choice, from unshackled expression. No silence, no shame, no submission. Courage disrupts, solidarity fractures the mold, and the future belongs to those who refuse to be defined.
My Mirror confronts the inescapable weight of the past, a reflection etched into the self, revealing a path paved with wounds. Pain lingers, history remains unaltered, and the world itself is fractured. Yet fear fades; scars are shared, hurt is universal, and the search for relief continues. The mirror does not deceive; it simply shows what was always there.
Shadow Self is available on LP by Sabotage Records and on CD by Bat-Cave Productions. A tape version is also planned in Europe (Sabotage Records) and in the US (Violet Hour Transmissions).
Listen to Shadow Self below and order the album here.
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The post Bremen Dark Post-Punk Outfit Cataphiles Excavate Their Darkness with New Album “Shadow Self” appeared first on Post-Punk.com.
