The paces are less suicidal, Dani’s screech is a little labored, and foot-stomp and spooky stalkings don’t make women clutch small children to their breast.
With catchy hooks and displays of actual talent, this self-titled album reminds us all of what’s its like to be 16, with only lust and liquor on your mind.
Nine. That’s the number of producers on Decomposer. It helps emphasize their ability to seamlessly transfer from goofy and gross to soulful and serious.
Like the first time you were blown away by Wire, or confounded by Mark E. Smith’s lost-with-a-purpose ranting. The Lights are onto something substantial.
These modern metal veterans haven’t gotten the exposure they deserve, writing an exotic blend of Latin rhythms, guitar textures, and post-Seps metal riffery.