After more than a decade staying in the shadows, Lux Interna emerge from their hibernation with New Wilderness Gospel, an eerie and melancholy new album that’s part séance and part song cycle. It doesn’t just play - it beckons, it haunts, and it lingers inside you. In their first full-length release since 2013’s there is light in the body, there is blood in the sun, the elusive collective conjures a disjointed Americana dreamscape, where highways crackle with phantom transmissions and forgotten mountain trails lead to something older, and darker, than history.

New Wilderness Gospel is less an album and more a fevered myth. It’s the cracked voice of a mysterious singer humming from dusty speakers in a midnight diner, or echoing across a valley long emptied of names. Drawing from desert blues, Appalachian folk, gospel, psychedelic sparkle, and the ghost of post-punk, Lux Interna follow the sound like it’s a weathered map. Traces of '60s girl pop and '80s new wave drift in like radio static - fleeting, fractured, and achingly beautiful.

The band isn’t simply interested in aesthetic pastiche. Instead, they build a world fusing sound, text, and image into a full immersive vision. Every note seems to carry the weight of vanished histories. Every lyric opens like a doorway to a mythic America crawling with spirits and shadows. There are prophetic murmurs in the power lines, whispers in the night wind, and desert roads that don’t just stretch on… they watch you back. It all ends with a question, really. When the song of the world slips into static, what do you hear? When the old roads vanish and the map turns to dust, what sings out from the new wilderness? Lux Interna don’t offer easy answers. They hand you a lantern, wish you luck, and disappear into the trees.