A slow-burn apocalypse of ennui and injustice crackles through the sensational fourth album from these Detroit post-punks. Singer Joe Casey’s captivating voice is variously reminiscent of Nick Cave at his most brow-furrowed, talky punks such as Parquet Courts, or a more animatedly pissed-off Matt Berninger of the National; on the anti-patriarchal Male Plague, he even adopts the doltish musicality of Donald Trump’s public speeches. Casey’s soapbox poetry alludes to the wretchedness of global capital but never becomes leaden or pedantic, and the backing, with gothic minor chords offset by pretty detailing, frequently becomes anthemic, as the band goes from coiled and feline on Corpses in Regalia and The Chuckler, to venting and canine on Don’t Go to Anacita. There is hope too, on the painfully beautiful Night-Blooming Cereus, which turns the nocturnal flowers of a cactus into a symbol for a human spirit that can’t be cowed – by war, commerce or a commander-in-chief.
