Old Mervs and the Beautiful Ruin of Growing Up With Their Latest Album 'Carparks'

In the California dusk, while you’re standing in memories and contemplating that lavender and blue hour, you can taste the air with hints of warm asphalt. It’s in that moment, every carpark becomes a cathedral for the small rebellions of youth. Carparks, the new album from Old Mervs, lives entirely inside that hour. It’s a record stitched from radio static, the ache of half‑forgotten friendships, and the stubborn heartbeat of people who refuse to let their past be anything less than myth.

Old Mervs have always been a band out of time. They aren’t retro, not nostalgic, but suspended somewhere between garage‑band and widescreen indie profits. Formed in Western Australia by childhood friends David House and Henry Carrington‑Jones, the band grew from the quiet corners of their hometown. They never chased fame; they always seemed to be chasing feeling. Always in search of that moment when a melody turns the mundane to momentous.

Their early songs were raw and full of charming imperfections that always felt radiant. Their latest album, Carparks, is different. It’s the moment a band realizes the stories they’ve been telling are bigger than they thought. It’s their most cohesive, most

emotionally articulate album to date. The work on this album is beautifully haunting, filled with songs that read like postcards from a past, written with the ink of experience.

Old Mervs’ rise wasn’t engineered; it was earned. Word of mouth. Pub shows. Songs passed from friend to friend until suddenly they were selling out venues across Australia. Then came the leap to touring the US, playing rooms where the crowds were smaller but the listening was sharper. The stages may have gotten bigger, but Old Mervs stayed true to the same old souls.

What makes Carparks remarkable is that much of it was written before their debut album even dropped. While the world was discovering them, they were already sprinting into the next chapter. Momentum found them, and instead of pausing, they pressed forward, writing in the shed that became their sanctuary. They were recording between flights, shaping songs born from the dust of travel and the glow of home.

They felt the temptation to recreate the lightning of their first album, but they resisted. Instead, they leaned into honesty and embraced the slow burn of growth. They showed the emotional grit to stay grounded even when the world was trying to lift them off their feet.

Carparks opens with “Adeline,” a track that feels like the ignition of a late‑night reconciliation of expectation versus reality. Eli’s voice arrives soft and frayed, carrying the weight of someone who’s been rehearsing heartbreak in the rearview mirror. It’s the beginning of an album that has the makings of a cinematic Alt-Rock confession. The guitars sound like wounded optimism, and the choruses bloom like neon in the rain. Reminding us that we’re all bruised and beautiful.

One of the most beautiful things about this record is its analog warmth, which reminds listeners it’s okay to be intentionally imperfect. Every breath between lines is intimate without trying to be precious. Just you sitting on the curb beside every word and listening.

“Abbey’s Wine” is built on a bassline that feels like a heartbeat under pressure. It’s a hymn for the tired, capturing what it feels like when life’s challenges pile up and make it hard to get back on your feet. Amid the heavy feelings, the band holds onto a fundamental desire to keep going, change old ways, and eventually move forward. The song is a love letter to the forgotten corners of suburbia, the places where friendships were forged, and identities quietly unraveled.

But the king of the record is “Stacked Up”. It talks about the pressure of everyday life making it hard to find clarity and a deep breath. The lyrics express a desperation and desire for someone’s presence to help get through the struggle. The loneliness and powerless feeling you have when you just need that one person to listen.

It’s a slow, sprawling sunrise of a song, building a crescendo that invokes what feels like morning breaking over a city that hasn’t slept. In their simplicity, Old Mervs have this ability to craft lyrics made of suburban meditations. They know the exact moment when we realize that growing so often requires us to let go of the versions of ourselves that never made it out of those empty lots.

The lyricism feels sharper than ever, soaked in the poetry of everyday. Cracked windshields, half-empty soda cans give way to words that become emotional landmarks.

If you’re looking for a verdict, Carparks is the kind of album that’s made for the restless and the remembering. It sits with you in quiet rooms and reminds you of the places you once stood wondering who you’d become. Old Mervs have crafted a work that feels both deeply personal and universally resonant. It’s a soundtrack for anyone caught between nostalgia and the need to move forward.

It’s a love letter to the overlooked corners of youth. While we take carparks for granted, for some, we learned to dream, break, and begin again. It’s a reminder for some in denial that the places we try to forget most often become the ones that define us.

If this is their coming‑of‑age record, they’ve arrived with poetic honesty and grit. Carparks deserves a spot on your playlist.

I’m Music Magazine Music Journalist Jon Faia