It’s been five years since heralded progressive outfit Rishloo last graced us with an off-kilter time-shift or a soaring conclusion to an eight minute stargaze, and despite having an impervious explanation for this passage of time — they broke up; vocalist Andrew Mailloux decided to pursue other avenues whilst the remaining members carried on as the instrumental The Ghost Apparatus — there has always been a feeling that they’d cut the chord too early, that they’d not yet made the record they’d been reaching for with Eidolon and Feathergun.

The truth is, even in Upstate New York you’re rarely too far from somewhere, and I would sometimes go to concerts in New York City, though this proved a tricky proposition always, as I had to find under-21 shows, and they couldn’t be on weeknights, and had overall to be agreeable for my parents, who accompanied me in my early teens. Culture always felt like an exertion, and because of this a triumph.

I’ve known myself to waste considerable amounts of time getting irrationally angry at the inconsequential. I wouldn’t say I’m a pessimist, but despite best intentions my internal monologue seems stricken by the Napoleon complex, and on a near-constant basis it seethes about stuff it needn’t. Dawdling walkers, uncooperative bowling balls, impenetrable packaging – all have fallen victim to the searing heat of my unexpressed vitriol.

Earlier this year, we were won over by the spirited charge of Sinai Vessel, an emo band with songs that were bold and ambitions bolder still. Differing lineups have revolved around its creator, Caleb Cordes, and given all of the changes and the charmingly humble humanity of the Profanity EP, we wanted to rummage further into the depths of his quite lovely brain.

For thousands of DIY musicians the world over, manning the mucky front-line of the musical ecosystem is as much a part of the job as picking up a knackered, sweat-covered Fender for a dimly-lit basement show in an unknown town. It’s a world where being able to use TweetDeck is as important as remembering your songs, and where anonymous Facebook fans can turn from unfamiliar avatars to willing hosts in the blink of a broken-down van. These bands and artists are the collective flag printers, the scrambling booking agents, the MailChimp press officers, the heavy lifters, the tape recorders and — buried beneath a buckling outbox — the creative forces.