Scarecrow Hill Put Everything on the Line with Over Everything

Scarecrow Hill has never been a band interested in making themselves easier to swallow, and Over Everything makes that clear from the second it starts. Released July 25, 2026, the album is Scarecrow Hill at their loudest, angriest, most unapologetic and, underneath all of that, their most vulnerable. The current lineup of vocalist and lyricist Tylor Jebedia, drummer Brenden Kaeselau, bassist Joel Leblanc, lead guitarist Joe Brennan and rhythm guitarist Dominic Ferrante delivers ten tracks that move through rage, resentment, self-destruction, isolation and the relentless need to keep going anyway. Somehow, an album that opens with “ball a fist, bounce your tits, screaming 666” ends up being f*****g heartbreaking.

“A Formal Introduction” kicks the door open and tells you exactly what kind of room you’ve walked into. It’s crude, confrontational and completely self-aware. Scarecrow Hill calls it “fight and f**k music,” and honestly, there isn’t a better description. But beneath the sex, violence and middle fingers is something that becomes increasingly important as the record unfolds: family. “I built a family for people who need a place to exist” is more than a throwaway line. That sentiment becomes the foundation underneath Over Everything. This is music made by and for people who have spent their lives feeling like they don’t quite belong anywhere else. The pit becomes the escape, the band becomes the family and the music becomes the thing keeping everything else together.

From there, the album gets considerably darker. “Small Problemz” is pure venom. There’s no forgiveness, no resolution and absolutely no attempt to take the high road. It’s the sound of resentment that has been allowed to sit long enough that there’s nothing left to salvage. It’s ugly because it’s supposed to be.

Then there’s “The Need,” one of the most revealing songs on the record. What initially sounds like another declaration of living for music quickly becomes something much heavier. Tylor writes about growing up breaking down in front of an audience and eventually growing older under those same lights, turning the relationship between artist and audience into something almost parasitic. The crowd wants more, the artist keeps bleeding and neither side seems capable of stopping. “I live for what is killing me” might be the defining lyric of the entire album. It also feels like the point where Over Everything begins exposing what exists underneath Scarecrow Hill’s aggression. The music is the escape, but it’s also an obsession. It saves you while consuming you.

“Relentless” pushes back against that darkness with one of the album’s clearest declarations of purpose. There’s frustration with a world increasingly lived through screens, with complacency and with the expectation that eventually you’re supposed to settle down and become some more acceptable version of yourself. Scarecrow Hill has no interest in doing that. “If there’s no passion in it, I don’t wanna waste a minute” could practically serve as the band’s philosophy.

But Over Everything refuses to stay comfortably defiant. “Halfway Dead” drags the listener back inside a mind that won’t shut up. Confidence disappears, thoughts repeat and old demons follow every attempt to move forward. Its chorus is simple, but that simplicity makes it hit harder: “All of these demons follow me / This pain is in everything I do.”

“End of the Middle,” featuring Dennis Leighton, turns that internal fight outward. It sounds like reaching the exact moment where exhaustion becomes destruction. Bridges aren’t simply burned, they’re covered in gasoline first. Leighton’s chorus gives the track another voice without disrupting the album’s identity, reinforcing that feeling of being pushed, picked apart and eventually reaching the point where there’s nothing left to negotiate.

Then comes “Liminal Space.” If much of Over Everything is about fighting your demons, “Liminal Space” is what happens when you realize you’re trapped in the room with them. The dense, almost breathless writing feels intentional, with thoughts piling on top of thoughts and barely enough space to process one before another arrives. By the time Tylor reaches “I’m not alone in my head,” it doesn’t feel metaphorical. It feels claustrophobic.

“Real Lies” continues that descent, turning the anger almost completely inward. Trauma, paranoia and self-loathing collide as Tylor becomes unable to trust the world around him or even the person staring back from the mirror. The song is painfully self-aware, recognizing where those thoughts come from without pretending that recognizing them makes them any easier to escape. The wordplay of “I realize the real lies” could easily feel gimmicky somewhere else, but here, after an entire song built around questioning your own perception, it lands.

“Like An Enemy” might be one of the most important tracks on Over Everything because it finally identifies the opponent that has been lurking throughout so much of the album: yourself. Tylor’s writing is brutal in the way it describes self-destruction, from fighting himself and burying pieces of himself to writing his own eulogy and continuing to exist largely because the music gives him somewhere to put all of it. Buried among some of the darkest lyrics on the record comes four words that explain nearly everything: “Scarecrow over everything.”

By the time “The Fall of the Failure King” arrives, there isn’t much armor left. The rage is still there, but now it’s tangled with age, regret and the terrifying realization that time moved faster than you thought it would. Tylor writes about looking into a mirror and no longer recognizing the person staring back, watching decades disappear and wondering how something that gave his life meaning may have taken pieces of that life with it.

For anyone who has followed Scarecrow Hill beyond Over Everything, there’s another layer here too. “The Fall of the Failure King” feels almost like Tylor walking through Scarecrow Hill’s history, looking back at different versions of himself and the band along the way. Pieces of the lyrics quietly reach backward toward earlier Hill albums, songs and imagery: “I’ve got a thing for picking battles I can’t win,” “ghosts that I can’t live with or without,” “the clock and dice was a game I couldn’t win,” and “what happened to the boy who would escape?” Even the final line, “the rise, the fall, I bled through it all,” feels like a summation of everything that came before.

Then there’s “twenty years went by so fast.” Scarecrow Hill has existed in one form or another for roughly two decades, and as two of the band’s original members, Tylor and Joel have lived through that history firsthand. That makes the line hit differently. Suddenly, the song isn’t just about getting older. It feels like standing at the other end of nearly twenty years of music, mistakes, different versions of yourself and everything sacrificed along the way, trying to make sense of what survived. It makes “I sacrificed everything I could have been” even more devastating.

There’s something fitting about ending Over Everything this way. An album so concerned with identity, memory and the question of what music has both given and taken ends by reaching all the way back through Scarecrow Hill’s own history. The past isn’t treated like nostalgia. It’s still alive in the language of the band. “A Formal Introduction” welcomes you into the family, while “The Fall of the Failure King” shows you what it took to keep that family, and Scarecrow Hill itself, alive.

That’s ultimately what makes Over Everything work. The album spends so much time telling you that Scarecrow Hill doesn’t give a f**k that you eventually realize just how much they actually do. They care about the music, the people who found a home inside it, every mistake, every lost year, every person who left a scar and every demon that followed them into the next room.

There’s no neat recovery arc waiting at the end and no sudden realization that everything is going to be okay. Over Everything isn’t interested in pretending those wounds disappear. Instead, Scarecrow Hill takes all of it and makes something out of it: the sex, the rage, the trauma, the regret, the self-hatred, the need to belong, the need to create and the need to keep screaming even when screaming is part of what’s killing you.

Nearly twenty years later, the names may change, the songs may change and the person in the mirror may be harder to recognize, but the Hill is still here. The rise, the fall, they bled through it all.

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