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The Daughters unexpectedly reappear after eight years of absence from the scene, probably driven by an expressive urgency dictated by the dark times we are living in.
Times outlined through obsessive tribal pulses, sounds that mark promises of a hostile future.
Industrial electronic clangs, coming from an alien and alienating world, ours... now.
The one we see disintegrating daily, mercilessly mumbled in the verses of Alexis Marshall, a bastard hybrid between Michael Gira and Sleaford Mods.
"You Won't Get What You Want" is a barefoot walk on a carpet of shattered mirrors, and the reflected spectacle is not uplifting.
It is the inexorable moral devastation of which we are the bradyseismic architects, fragments of daily nightmares, shards of the American dream, cities emptied of all humanity whose relational matrix is now marked by mutual aversion.
From an ocean of cold, amelodic, and mechanical rhythms ("Flammable Man", "The Reason They Hate Me"), faint lyrical whirlpools ("Satan In The Wait", "Daughter") occasionally emerge, capable of making the descent into the abyss even more vertiginous.
It won't make you feel good, and that (yes) is a good thing.
What does despair sound like?
This.
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