In Wesley Eisold's universe, anything worth saying is worth saying loud. The New York musician's second proper record as Cold Cave is as bright and emphatic as a field of neon exclamation points, full of frantically palpitating drum machines and 900-mile-an-hour synths. His strategy is simple: Spike the bitter fizz of early electro-industrial bands like Nitzer Ebb with a double dose of the Cure and wait for the rush to kick in.
What could have amounted to insignificant sound and fury is rescued by Eisold's unerring gift for melody: The chorus of "Villains of the Moon" is full of desperate lovelorn throb, and "Racing Around the Church" thrashes and pleads like New Order having a panic attack. Eisold's also got a healthy sense of humor. "They say the meek shall inherit the earth," he pouts in "Underworld USA" before concluding, "God, that seems like so much work." Turns out all that volume was just a distraction; like any self-respecting goth, all Eisold really wants to do is mope.
Listen to "The Great Pan is Dead":