There’s something beautifully poetic about a band of gravediggers making music from the soil they work in, literally. Boneyard Rebels, the Montreal-based crew who spend their weekdays digging graves and their Thursdays crafting soundscapes in the cemetery, return with their newest single “Shoot The Bells.” It’s gritty, ghostly, and raw in a way that feels more alive than most polished studio records you’ll hear this year.
Following their debut single “Digging A Hole,” this track feels like a natural evolution darker, louder, and heavier in meaning. Recorded amidst the quiet hum of headstones and rustling trees, “Shoot The Bells” sounds like the echo of the working class: a rebellion rising from the underground, quite literally.
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“Shoot The Bells” begins in eerie stillness, the kind of quiet that could only come from a foggy Montreal cemetery at dusk. Then, the blooms explode loud: distorted guitars rumble like thunder, drums pound like steel on stone, and the bassline lurches forward with the weight of a backhoe hitting frozen ground.
It’s grunge meeting industrial, but with a blue-collar edge. The production is intentionally unpolished every creak, echo, and hiss feels deliberate, like you’re listening to ghosts jam through amplifiers buried six feet deep. The vocals cut through like a weary sermon: strained, urgent, and full of resolve.
There’s something hauntingly hypnotic about how the chorus swells “Do your bones have the freedom? Freedom now, before the storm.” It’s a line that sticks, looping in your head long after the final crash fades.
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“Shoot The Bells” reads like a working man’s hymn a song about exhaustion, solidarity, and the stubborn will to rise again. “So, so worn down, we will rise again / On their side, with all our friends.” That lyric hits hard when you know who’s singing it people who literally dig through dirt for a living, finding rhythm and purpose in the act of creation.
With “Shoot The Bells,” Boneyard Rebels carve out a sound that’s part rebellion, part resurrection. It’s a working-class roar from beneath the marble and moss, proof that art doesn’t have to come from fancy studios or city skylines. Sometimes it’s born from the dirt, sweat, and silence of everyday labor.
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