There are a couple of trajectories that the opening trio of albums by a new artist often take. The first is a debut album planned to perfection after years of playing and dreaming, then a second that is like the first but maybe not as strong, followed by a third that is less so. The second is an artist finding their studio feet in the simplest configuration of their music on their debut album, gently building on that with record number two and by the third, blossoming into an expressive, confident studio artist overflowing in decorative, colourful ideas and ready to push on with the creation of their most fully realised and sonically evolved work to date. Katherine Priddy belongs firmly in the second group of these examples; her 2021 debut, The Eternal Rocks Beneath, heralded a bright new, fresh talent in the folk, singer-songwriter arena, whilst the 2024 follow-up, The Pendulum Swing, advanced on the promise of the debut and was clearly the work of a performer heading in the right direction. With These Frightening Machines, however, there is a marked shift in energy and intent. Maybe not too far away from where she started, but neither is Priddy anchored by the standard tools of expression of her genre. Her music of today can play as happily on a pop radio show as it can on a folk programme; it can thrive as much at an alternative music festival as it can dazzle in a formal concert hall.
The signs that things had moved on quite intriguingly within the Priddy camp have been appearing for a few weeks now. As is standard nowadays, three songs appeared ahead of the album’s official release, and I began to sense that this third long-playing instalment would show a significant step up. The song Hurricane in particular, first came to my attention when I heard it on 6Music radio and rather than sounding like a folk-induced drop in pace, it sat comfortably between the likes of the Sleaford Mods and Katy J Pearson. The song is all about a romantic relationship with a dark side; it is cautionary, and the juxtaposition of Katherine’s calm, measured singing with a tune and lyrics laced with trauma works rather effectively. The chorus is not so much a rousing refrain as a central focal point, flaring with the flashing lights of danger. Hurricane is a dance of resilience, never sugarcoating the ever-present fear of turbulence. This is not to suggest that Katherine has abandoned her winning way around a beautiful melody and arrangement. There is lightness of touch aplenty peppered across These Frightening Machines, and the album does conclude with a pair of ballads as tender as anything she has recorded thus far. I’m Always Willing is sung as an affectionate duet with Richard Walters, whilst Could This Be Enough? is as calm as the ripple from a single raindrop before the mind logjams with the big questions in the lyric and a momentary wave of unsettling distortion envelopes us. Katherine plays these sonic interludes so well, never indulging in trickery for trickery’s sake, but when the song demands something extra, she goes all in.
“They weren’t burning witches it was women on those fires” are the final words sung on the powerful album opener Matches, and right from the get-go, Priddy sounds like she has an appetite for discord and is ready to be challenged. It is a deep song that stretches back historically to a time of “burning witches” as it details how women have been either idolised, vilified, accused, controlled, or punished depending on what society needed from them at the time. And it is also a song of survival, which might just be a silent thread running throughout the album. The album press suggests that the song Frightening Machines is one of Priddy’s most personal lyrics to date, and whether or not that is factual, there is little doubt she is pouring some real emotive feelings into her vocal and the main refrain about “falling apart at the seams” does not sound like role-playing to these ears.
“At its core, I think These Frightening Machines explores the ever shifting relationship I have with my sense of self as a woman, my body and my place in the world as a 30 year old artist,” Priddy has said, “but I’d like to think that whilst the songs are born from personal experience, the feelings expressed are widely relatable.” That sense of personal reckoning rings true across the album — the songs feel lived-in and immediate, yet they open outward, inviting connection rather than retreating into confession.
I think my main takeaway is that on album number three, Katherine Priddy is no longer an artist finding her voice; she has attained a rare level of articulation and has the musical range and tools to realise her vision. There is no suggestion that the studio mixing desk is one of the machines she finds frightening. And with that canvas, she has made a record in which her sense of both self and place in the world as a woman in 2026 can be explored, and, significantly, she has executed this inspiration in a way that yields an immensely enjoyable, repeat-playable album – it’s her most fully realised and sonically evolved work to date. As Priddy herself puts it: “I wanted to end this album on a question mark, as whilst I’d have hoped to have it all figured out by the third album and my third decade, I’ve come to accept that perhaps part of being human is being a perpetual work in progress.” It’s a fitting sentiment for an album that refuses easy resolution — and for an artist whose best work, one suspects, is still ahead of her.
These Frightening Machines (March 6th, 2026) Cooking Vinyl
Pre-Order: https://kpriddy.lnk.to/TFM