There’s something quietly magnetic about artists who don’t just make music, but build worlds. Witch Post belong to that rare category—where sound becomes atmosphere, and atmosphere becomes a place you can step into. With Butterfly, their new EP and first release on Partisan Records, Alaska Reid and Dylan Fraser don’t just continue their story—they deepen the spell.
If Beast was the ignition, raw and wintry, Butterfly is the thaw. A transformation not defined by contrast alone, but by coexistence. Duality runs through the entire project: Beast and Butterfly, dusk and dawn, fragility and force. It’s not about choosing one side, but learning to live in the tension between them.
Musically, Witch Post continue to blur scale and intimacy in a way that feels almost disorienting. Their grunge-rooted sound carries the weight of something arena-sized, yet it lands with the closeness of a whisper. There’s a deliberate contradiction here—songs that feel vast but deeply personal, as if they exist both inside your head and far beyond it.
But what truly defines Butterfly is its sense of place—or rather, its refusal to belong to one. The EP drifts through imagined landscapes and symbolic spaces: a county fair spinning endlessly in “Tilt-A-Whirl,” small-town echoes in “Country Sour,” and the dreamlike, Pre-Raphaelite haze of “Changeling.” These are not locations you can map, but environments you feel. Time stretches, moments linger, and reality softens at the edges.
That feeling is rooted in something older. Witch Post draw from a kind of archaic wisdom—stories and symbols that feel both forgotten and strangely urgent. Even their name carries this weight, reclaimed from 17th-century English carvings once used to ward off witches. There’s a sense that their music exists in that same threshold: between protection and danger, myth and memory.
“Butterfly is the spring thaw after Beast,” the duo explain. And you hear it. Not just in the lighter textures or the open-road energy, but in the shifting perspectives. Angels, pixies, talismans, fleeting romances, animals moving through quiet landscapes—it’s a collage of images that feels instinctive rather than constructed, like fragments of a shared dream.
That dream takes a darker, more introspective turn with “Witching Hour,” the EP’s emotional core. The song lingers in a suspended moment—a winter afternoon slipping into evening, where everything feels muted but heavy. There’s a stillness to it that’s almost uncomfortable. A parking lot, drifting trash, an inner voice you can’t quite silence. And then the refrain lands: “It’s the witching hour.” Not as drama, but as recognition. A daily confrontation with yourself.
Witch Post understand something many artists miss: that transformation isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s subtle, almost invisible. A shift in light. A change in tone. A feeling you can’t quite explain but know is there.
Their origin story mirrors that same sense of coincidence and duality. A chance meeting—two artists from towns sharing the same name, one in Scotland, the other in Montana. Two different sonic lineages: Alaska’s shadowy American indie and Dylan’s instinctive, wolf-like Scottish rock. Together, they don’t blend—they evolve into something else entirely.
Since their early singles, there’s been a quiet buzz building around them. Not the loud, fleeting kind, but something more sustained. A recognition that this is a project still unfolding, still shifting. And Butterfly only reinforces that.
As they prepare to take this world onto stages across the US and return to a sold-out London crowd, one thing becomes clear: Witch Post are not chasing a fixed identity. They’re embracing movement, contradiction, and change as core elements of who they are.
And that’s exactly what makes Butterfly linger. It doesn’t resolve. It hovers. It invites you in—and once you’re there, it doesn’t quite let you leave.
