Squid - Cowards

Flag bearers of the late 2010s post-punk boom, a band who have thus far managed to transcend the transience of trend and become an increasingly timeless and global-facing artistic voice, Squid’s third album sees the outfit doubling down on what are now such recognisably “Squid-like” sensibilities that it no longer resembles anything else but them. That is: irremediably deep-set anxieties about modern dystopia and a sense of incipient apocalypse; Ollie Judge’s prophetic, baleful moans; an angular, fingers-against-the-chalkboard production, so close, edgy and organic it scratches against your vertebrae like barbed wire.

For a band who have rarely sounded far from the tipping point of crippling dread, it now seems a natural move for them to produce a record literally inspired by evil itself. Via tales of murder and the occult - influenced by Manson, Murakami and the like - much of ‘Cowards’ rumbles with the trauma and suspense of a horror movie. (Take the insanely lusty intensity at the climax of ‘Blood on the Boulders’, or the bone-chilling strings of ‘Fieldworks 1’ to sample the prevailing mood). While in one sense, it’s the sound of a band looking inwards, distilling their founding principles and offering their most complete manifestation yet, it paradoxically evidences how they are also growing beyond their own skin. Swashbuckling violins, harpsichords and timpanis, and narratives of Tokyo, New York, or Eastern Europe show us that, yes, Squid have travelled the world, but they have also returned home with a sense of self that’s stronger than ever, as sharp as a razor dripping with freshly drawn blood.