Reetoxa’s Call – A Broken Ballad for the Ones Who Disappear

The Call You’ll Never Get – But Still Hope For

I’ve been up since 3AM, and I swear the kettle knows when I need it most – it’s working overtime. Somewhere between sips of stale coffee and scrolling through noise, I stumble upon Call, the closing track on Pines Salad, the debut album from Melbourne’s Reetoxa. A ballad? Yeah. But not the roses-and-candles kind. It lands soft, then starts echoing where you thought you were fine, mumbling something you can’t quite decipher but somehow fully understand.

Jason McKee – frontman, brainchild, Frankston survivor – wrote this song in the aftermath of a real, raw weekend. A chance run-in with an ex on the Gold Coast. Sunshine, second chances, maybe even a spark. Then – poof. Ghosted. At Brisbane Airport, the inspiration hit like a sucker punch, straight to the ribs. Say something I don’t know / So I don’t lose you again. He never heard from her again. The call never came. But the song did.

A Song Buried at the End of the Road

Call is the 14th and final track on Pines Salad, an album that took thirty bloody years to finish. You read that right. Three decades of life, detours, halfway-house promises, and buried dreams. By the time you get to track fourteen, you’d think there’s nothing left to say. But this one – this is where the emotional freight gets dumped. Whispered vocals ride over shimmering drums and a guitar line that feels like a smoke trail vanishing into a grey sky. And the bass wraps everything in a quiet kind of weight.

It played like it was written in the same hour I’ve found myself in too many times – somewhere between late and lonely. Picture this: sitting alone in a crowded airport lounge, wondering if your name will ever pop up on their screen again. Spoiler: it won’t. And that’s what makes Call special. The structure of the track is sparse – no fancy things, just voice and space. And man, that space matters. Between each line there’s a weight, like waiting for a text that never comes, or a knock on the door that remains just a hope. I can feel your strength. I can feel you. And yet, you’re not there.

A Life Etched in Lyrics, Not Likes

Let’s talk Jason for a minute. His songwriting was born in 90s Frankston – gritty, unsure, full of static. Then came life: addiction, prison, grief. After losing his mother during his sentence, he wrote Bobbie, a tribute that reopened the door to music, and maybe to himself.

The name Reetoxa showed up back in AA. One of those things that cling to you and start meaning more the longer you carry it. In the hands of Simon Moro and Joe Carra, the tracks kept their sharp corners. The rest of the band? Legends. Pete Marin (drums), James Ryan (guitar), Kit Riley (bass), and Phil Turcio (piano). But Call is Jason alone in a terminal, asking for something he knows won’t arrive.

Released on April 1st, 2025, the irony isn’t lost on anyone with a hint of dark humour. April Fools. No call came.

The Last Words That Never Arrived

The transcript of the song reads like fragments from a dream you’re trying to remember. Repetitions. Incomplete thoughts. Pleas disguised as statements.

Call. I can’t hear you.
Say something I don’t know.
As lastly, I’ll disappear.

That line as lastly, I’ll disappear – man! It’s poetic and prophetic. A fading voice in the modern streaming age where songs get skipped after 20 seconds. But this one needs to play to the end. And let the silence after it finishes be part of the message.

I’ve sat in that airport lounge too. Maybe not in Brisbane, but somewhere equally disillusioning. Maybe that’s why this track found me. Or why I found it. Either way, it spoke. Quietly. Clearly. And left something behind. The story doesn’t end here. Find Reetoxa on Spotify, YouTube, Instagram, Facebook – or walk the whole path through this humble Linktree.

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