Manila indie rock lifers We Are Imaginary are back with something that’s both extremely on-brand and notably brave: a self-titled album released on Jan. 9, 2026, via Floppydisks.

And yeah, calling your fifth full-length record by your own band name is a bold move. It’s basically the musical version of standing in front of a mirror and going, “Okay… this is who I actually am now.” No hiding, no clever concept, no ironic distance. Just you. And honestly, that’s exactly what this album feels like.

Produced by Joey Santos of Love One Another and Ahmad Tanji, We Are Imaginary is soaked in hazy guitars, emotional static, and that very specific shoegaze-meets-indie-rock feeling where everything sounds warm and dreamy right up until it suddenly hurts.

These songs float, blur, and glow, then snap back into anxiety, doubt, and longing. It’s not a chill album. It’s a soft album that secretly wants to scream. Big themes of identity, emotional reckoning, and learning how to accept yourself aren’t delivered like a TED Talk. They come out the way real feelings do: awkward, messy, and sometimes a little uncomfortable.

We Are Imaginary, composed of Khalid Tanji, Ahmad Tanji, and JJ Rodriguez have spent almost two decades quietly becoming one of the most important indie bands in the Philippines.

They’ve played festivals all over Southeast Asia, shared stages with bands like Beach Fossils, Club 8, and Moonpools & Caterpillars, and somehow stayed relevant without ever feeling like they were chasing trends.

If you’ve been around since the Your Imaginary Friends days, this album feels like a weirdly emotional reunion. After two much-loved EPs, a forced name change, and their breakthrough album Death to Romanticism in 2016, the band spent the last decade proving they weren’t just a cool scene band; they were actually built to last.

They dropped “Dekada” in Filipino in 2018, went quiet during the pandemic, then came back swinging in 2023 with Swan Songs for Drifters, which somehow felt nostalgic and fresh at the same time. And now, instead of trying to top themselves again, they’ve gone inward.

This album feels like We Are Imaginary finally stopped asking what they should sound like and just decided to sound like themselves.

You can hear that right away on “Pinkish Hue,” which opens the album like a half-remembered dream. Everything is soft, blurry, and glowing, like you’re looking at your past through foggy glass. It’s not trying to grab you by the collar. Rather, it’s pulling you in slowly, letting you get comfortable with being a little sad. It sets the emotional tone perfectly: tender, nostalgic, and slightly uneasy.

Then “Are We There Yet” shows up with the most painfully relatable question ever. The song feels like someone stuck in emotional traffic, tapping the steering wheel, asking the same thing over and over. The guitars have this restless, looping quality that mirrors that feeling of being almost okay but not quite.

“Lost in Your Afterglow” is where the album really opens up emotionally. This one is huge. Big walls of sound, big feelings, big romantic devastation. It’s shoegaze at its best: drowning in reverb and longing at the same time. The song feels like being in love with a memory more than a person; holding onto something that already slipped away but still feels painfully bright.

“Talk, Talk, Talk!” cuts through that haze like a sudden argument. It’s tighter, more urgent, and kind of angry in a way that feels earned. After all that dreamy emotional fog, this track sounds like finally snapping and saying what you’ve been bottling up.

The guitars bite a little harder here, and the whole thing feels more confrontational. Then “Like a Ghost” pulls everything back into that lonely, floaty space. It really does sound like someone fading in and out of their own life, unsure if anyone notices them anymore. It’s quiet, but in a haunting way; the kind of quiet that sticks with you.

“Greatest Kill” and “Object of My Affliction” are where the album gets a little ugly in a good way. These songs dive straight into obsession, self-loathing, and emotional chaos. The guitars are louder, messier, and way more aggressive, like the band just decided to let everything spill out instead of trying to keep it pretty. These tracks don’t sound nice. They sound honest.

“Year of Diminishing Returns” might be the most relatable song here. It feels like a burnout anthem for literally anyone who’s been exhausted by the last few years of existing. There’s this quiet bitterness to it; the feeling that no matter how much effort you put in, you’re getting less and less back. It’s not dramatic. It’s tiring. And that somehow hits harder.

Finally, “Stockholm” closes the album in the most emotionally wrecked way possible. It’s not a triumphant ending. It’s a soft collapse. The song feels like someone finally admitting they’re attached to the things that hurt them. There’s no big resolution; just a kind of sad acceptance that sometimes love, pain, and habit all get tangled together.

This self-titled album doesn’t feel like a victory lap. It feels like a pause. A deep breath. A moment of finally saying, “Yeah… this is us, and it’s not just imaginary.”