Emma Ruth Rundle is hard to describe in sufficiently laconic terms. By simply saying “singer-songwriter,” one does not seem to reach sufficient depth; by expanding outside the strict definition, one wanders into the endless forest of possible genres and occupations to append: a metal vocalist, a poet, a visual artist. But however cliche it may sound, her artistic presence is so all-encompassing — and yet so niche.
She emerged as a member of multiple bands in the mid-2000s, playing with Marriages, Red Sparowes and The Nocturnes. In 2011, she self-released her first solo album entitled, simply, Electric Guitar: One. It did not seem to arrive to a roaring choir of critical acclaim: Even nowadays, looking up reviews for this album from professional outlets is a futile task, as it appears even Pitchfork was paying little attention to primarily instrumental records at the time. Relative obscurity did not, however, discourage Emma Ruth Rundle from continuing to write music. An avalanche of side projects, from releasing an album as a faceless darkwave entity named The Headless Prince of Zolpidem to collaborations with other musicians, like Chelsea Wolfe and Thou, followed, weaving Rundle’s name into styles of music further and further away from her own home genre of folk.
On her own albums, she honored the creative expansion, yet remained ever-committed to saying nothing but the truth in whatever form it may take. This produced records charming and strange, energizing and gut-wrenching. Marked for Death, released in 2016, was brilliant to the last note, lush in a heavy, gothic way. Engine of Hell, a 2021 record, found itself on the opposite side of the sonic spectrum: acoustic and sparse, it functioned as a candid narrative of life’s grotesque shape arriving without any embellishments. Her trajectory is mesmerizing to watch and impossible to put into two exploratory tracks. Regardless, I will try to do so.
Handshake: “Powerless”
Emma Ruth Rundle’s latest record departs from personal material as much as it is possible for her songwriting style: While looking out into the world, she remains very clearly herself, leaving fingerprints and turns of phrase as far as the eye can see. With that in mind, These Killing Times just released in mid-September 2026, is one of her more socially-oriented records. It breathes with disappointment, fear, anger and despair at the political system, at the people — at the men — in power, and at the entire experience of being alive at this moment in time. Throughout the album, she does not shy away from a metaphor, likening existing in the U.S. in 2026 to being spun on a medieval torture device, or evoking dying with a hammer in one’s hand as an image of never ceasing to try, oscillating between the ideas of destruction and rebuilding within the same sentence. “Powerless” is the last song to have been written for this record, but the first single to have been released, and it opens with a piano tune that very clearly evokes the acoustic arrangements of Engine of Hell. It then unravels, quickly and mercilessly, and erupts with the power of a full doomgaze band by the first chorus. It is an exciting listen for how effortlessly the transitions between different sections are handled: as a listener journeys on through the track’s segments, the melody travels on its own logic with grace and ease. Making material seem effortless is, truly, one of Rundle’s strengths.
It also makes for a phenomenal introduction to the artist. “Powerless” feels like an amalgamation of experiences from previous albums — not in the way of repetition, but in the way of mastering the synthesis of ideas and sounds. The lyrics are hard to misunderstand or misinterpret: something along these same lines may be ringing in the hearts and minds of many listeners nowadays.
Deeper Cut: “Real Big Sky”
“Real Big Sky” is the closing track on the 2016 record Marked for Death, and it may be one of the heavier songs Emma Ruth Rundle has recorded. It delivers very raw, personal material and presents it through a wall of sparse sound that somehow still feels dense to a point of near-suffocation. The vocals trudge through the unwelcoming haze with evident labor, and even the melody seemingly forces itself forward, arriving in enormous rough waves instead of flowing or trickling in. It is, after all, a song about death, and it carries enormous stillness trapped inside. But in addition to death, it is a song about love and the reluctance of leaving a loved one behind, even with a death wish.
Taken together, the two songs showcase the spectrum of ability rather than a neat evolution. It is hard to trace Rundle’s development, as she does not appear to have a specific destination: the sound she revels in may not have been invented before her. Every new installment she delivers comes as a confident expansion instead of a clean step forward or backward, and that’s exactly what makes her so compelling to watch: an author whose trajectory is determined by the theme, and not the genre.
'One Song In, One Song Out' is a music discovery column built around intentional listening. Each installment spotlights an artist through two tracks: an entry point and a deeper cut.
Arina Zadvornaya is a graduate student in the Duffield College of Engineering. She is a columnist for the Arts & Culture department and can be reached at az499@cornell.edu.
