The streets of Melbourne have a particular way of holding onto the heat long after the sun has vanished, a lingering warmth that mirrors the persistent and often frantic creativity of the local underground. From this landscape of coffee, cigarettes, and deep isolation comes Reetoxa, a project that functions less like a standard musical release and more like a massive, two volume psychological reckoning. On the heels of a global era that forced the world into a state of permanent suspension, the double album Soliloquy has arrived as a visceral accounting of what it costs to look into the mirror for too long. Produced and mastered by the meticulous Simon Moro, this record is a celebratory acknowledgement of a decades long struggle, proving that some visions are so immense they require a total internal collapse before they can finally be born into the light. Jason McKee has managed to turn the cold logic of the recording studio into a warm and biological reality that sticks to the ribs of the listener, offering a journey that challenges the very boundaries of memory and emotion.
The architecture of this project began its gestation in nineteen ninety seven, when a seventeen year old McKee decided he needed a new canvas to push his songwriting to the absolute limit. Inspired by his English Literature teacher, Mrs. Clarke, and her vivid explanations of the Shakespearean monologue, he adopted the name Soliloquy. It was a title that promised a direct transmission from the soul, a private conversation made public through the medium of melody. However, the path was not a straight line. Life, as it often does, intervened, and the project was placed on ice for years while the world moved on. It took a chance encounter with a girl named Lisa at a Spiderbait gig at the Forum Theatre to reignite the fire. When asked to hear his work, McKee realized he had nothing but rough voice notes to offer. That moment of embarrassment became the catalyst for a radical change; he walked away from his university music degree and committed himself entirely to the recording of his life’s work.
The resulting double album is a dense and cinematic landscape, featuring a tracklist of twenty six songs that move from the aggressive pulse of demand perfection to the orchestral sweep of timor leste. To bring this world to life, McKee assembled a crew of Melbourne’s finest musical architects. The record features the legendary Kit Riley on bass, whose history includes work with Savage Garden and Robbie Williams, alongside the percussive authority of Jet’s Peter Marin. With James Ryan on guitars and Terry Hart providing the piano foundations, the sound possesses a physical, room heavy punch that anchors the listener within the eye of the storm. Adding to the immense scale of the project is the inclusion of a European Budapest orchestra on six key tracks, providing a symphonic weight that is rare in the world of independent music. It is a masterclass in the art of the slow burn, moving with a predatory grace from quiet, intimate vulnerability to stadium sized anthemic release.
The story of the recording process itself is one of endurance and near total madness. When the global pandemic locked Melbourne down for years, McKee found himself trapped in a loop of creative obsession. Instead of simply polishing the existing material, he began to dismantle and rebuild the project from the ground up. Fueled by a relentless diet of coffee and cigarettes with minimal sleep, he dove into his history and his most painful life experiences to find the raw DNA of the songs. The intensity of the work was so profound that it eventually led to a six week hospital stay, a physical toll that is audible in every vocal inflection and every jagged rhythmic shift. You can hear the literal air moving in the room, a rhythmic commitment to the idea that some stories are too loud to be kept quiet. The production by Simon Moro preserves this grit, ensuring that the listener feels every heartbeat and every fracture in the narrative.
Tracing the lines of the tracklist reveals a creator who is increasingly comfortable with the idea of total and uncompromising honesty. From the haunting beauty of the lisa song to the visceral energy of alcohol two and purple vein, the album navigates the complexities of identity with a surgical hand. It is a record designed for the patient listener, the kind of person who still values the act of sitting down and experiencing a full body of work from start to finish. Reetoxa is not interested in providing a comfortable background for a curated lifestyle but rather a sharp reminder that our survival depends on our ability to confront our own ghosts. Whether exploring the political weight of war killer or the personal devastation of you deserve better than me, McKee maintains a steadfast commitment to the truth of the performance. He is no longer waiting for the world to discover his vision because he has already discovered exactly how to broadcast it at full power from the heart of the southern hemisphere.
Technicality and emotion function as twin engines throughout the album, pushing the sound toward a state of absolute and unvarnished clarity. Every backing vocal from Jessica McPherson-Riley and every orchestral swell feels like a deliberate choice in a larger game of emotional and intellectual chess. McKee has successfully bridged the gap between the legends of the past and the innovators of the present through a sheer act of will. The city continues to breathe and the movement continues to grow, fueled by the living fire of his own creative conviction. It is a beautiful and brutal testament to the fact that some stories are simply too loud to be kept quiet, even when they start as a whisper in a classroom in the nineties. The rhythm is established, the truth is spoken, and the room is finally quiet enough to hear the echoes of the soul.
As the final reverberant notes of love keeps burning still and alright dissolve into the ambient noise of the night, there is no sense of a neat conclusion. Instead, the listener is left with a feeling of lingering heat and a persistent, rhythmic hum that suggests the journey is still moving. Soliloquy stands as a potential candidate for the best independent album of the year, a monumental achievement that proves the value of the long game in an industry obsessed with the immediate. It is a sanctuary for the disillusioned and a manual for those seeking a deeper connection to the roots of their own history. McKee has managed to capture a frequency that resonates long after the headphones have been removed.
The light is hitting the dial now, exposing the dust and the stories of a thousand lonely nights spent searching for the right arrangement in the dark. We are left standing in that blurred space where the ritual of the song meets the reality of the self in a moment of absolute, unshielded clarity. It is a celebratory acknowledgement of the messiness of being human and the beauty of finding a shared rhythm within the chaos of the psyche. The signal is strong, the cadence is rising, and the truth of the heart is finally finding its voice through the wires of a Melbourne studio. Some memories are just too heavy to carry alone, and some songs are built to help you carry the weight of the world back to the shore.
A shadow moves across the concrete, long and deliberate, as the static of a thousand different channels begins to merge into a single, unignorable note of defiance. The signal is strong, the intention is absolute, and the mission is a simple refusal to quit the search for the truth of what remains. Reetoxa has finally spoken, and the silence is finally allowed to breathe. Pour the drink, settle in, and let the music take the lead. This is the sound of a survivor who found his way back home through the notes.
