In the FBI file on the American rock ‘n’ roll band Algiers—which given their prior penchant
for repping the Black Panthers, Malcolm X, Angela Davis, and Afeni Shakur, among others,
surely exists—under the subheading for their third album, There is No Year, the intelligence
should soon read: all prior analytics appear outdated… this undoes everything we thought we
knew about their intentions…what hides inside them… as if they are mutating live on camera,
between frames…

Indeed, even those aware of the ideals of this outspoken four-piece will find their latest
direction traversing unprecedented ground. Coming off two years of nonstop world-
touring for their critically acclaimed second album, The Underside of Power—including
Central and Eastern Europe, the Baltic States and the Balkans, where they have established
a rabid following; an extended stint opening for Depeche Mode in huge stadiums such as
the 75,000-capacity Olympiastadion in Berlin; as well as Glastonbury 2019—There is No
Year solidifies and expands upon the doom-laden soul of their foundation, toward an even
more epic, genre-reformatting sound, one somehow suspended in the amber of “a different
era,” as described by guitarist Lee Tesche.

From the instant synth-pulse of the opening seconds of There is No Year, it’s clear that
Algiers have set out to stake new ground, internally as much as sonically. At the forefront of
this evolution is the centrality of power housed in Algiers’ multi-instrumentalist lead
vocalist, Franklin James Fisher, whose voice and words provide the backbone of the album,
his lyrics sourced entirely from an epic poem, “Misophonia,” composed during his search
for meaning amidst a protracted personal period of anxiety and lack.

“What I wanted to do is create a negative space wherein I can exist and engage but at the
same time not be so exposed,” Fisher explains. He speaks of the record’s perspective as not
only a political apparatus, but an intimate, responsive evocation of his understanding that
“nothing is ever what you expect”, that what might seem for now to be well known or
assured is not always so, that there is no safety net. The effect, as felt on the record, is
undeniable: Fisher sounds like he is singing for his life—for all our lives, really—baring his
soul while the walls disintegrate around us.

The pool that he draws on is at once penetrating and exhilarating, wielding its anguish like
a mirror at Medusa, full of hell. Whether he is lilting over post-Lynchian synth-whorl like a
spot-lit bandleader, as on “Unoccupied,” or reincarnating the spirit of thrumming 80s R&B
into a proto-no wave dancefloor classic straight from 2046, as on “Chaka,” there is a
tangible emotional electricity to Fisher’s delivery, a personal valence that makes you want,
more than anything, to believe, even while not quite knowing where we’re headed.
No less next-level in Algiers’ conception is the ambition of the aural architecture they
manage to summon. Under the direction of producers Randall Dunn [Sunn O))), Earth] and
Ben Greenberg [Zs, Uniform (as featured on Twin Peaks season 3)], the same exciting duo
who first teamed up on Jóhann Jóhannsson’s Mandy soundtrack in 2018, the clearly studied
composition of this new horizon finds an outlet for turmoil via a fascinating synthesis of
styles—from future doo-wop from the trapped heart of ATL, where they began; to
industrial soundscapes a la Scott Walker or Iggy Pop; to something like the synthetic son of

Marvin Gaye and Blonde Redhead. The whip-tight rhythm section of Ryan Mahan and Matt
Tong (ex-Bloc Party) moves back and forth from infectious menace to sci-fi soundtrack to
big band fever dream, seamlessly syncing fresh continuity. Mahan’s beat programming and
synth constructions fill out the fibrous threshold, while Tesche’s sound-sleeves and aural-
layering shapeshift into a richly polished means of exploration, revealing more and more
the deeper you delve.

“This is the sowing / Of the whirlwind,” Fisher sings on “Repeating Night.” “Don’t forget it’s
us against them.” There’s something more behind the curtain of our daily-headlined pain,
the album’s title seems to suggest—something even larger at stake than rage, or even
revolution; which is exactly what Algiers’ music appears to have resolved itself to channel,
and to wield. Their essence on There is No Year is a statement of their defiance, their desire
to feel and be human even beyond the necessary fight back, sprawling head-on into the
burning wind of doubt and fear and all it’s claimed, arriving on the far side of calamity
more alive than ever.

Militant Ambient Industrial

The healing hand and surgeon’s scalpel are intertwined on Shepherds’ new album Insignificant Whip. The art-rock masterpiece encases the band’s vulnerable wisdom in flighty melodies that burn with intimacy and fragility as singer/lyricists Jonathan Merenivitch and Adrian Benedykt Świtoń address everything from toxic masculinity and Catholic guilt to Youtube comments and Tupac Shakur.

Since their 2011 EP Holy Stain, the band have received accolades for their taut analyses of social ills and the resulting strain on body and mind, but even the skeletal no-wave that defined their early sound was bound with, in the broadest sense of the word, soul. The band’s ability to confront their deepest insecurities and doubts is more than simple catharsis, it serves to illuminate deeper questions of existence and identity, and frame them in context of systemic oppression, discrimination, and isolation.

The minimalism which guided Shepherds’ earlier work has evolved into lush, expansive

compositions thanks to founding bassist Peter Cauthorn, who helped flesh out the LP’s identity as a core contributor to the album’s instrumental textures. Vocalist and drummer Świtoń also took on a central role in the recording process, contributing his voice and songwriting talents to the the album’s pensive hue, while new additions Ryan York (drums), May Tabol (guitar,keyboards), and Vinny Restivo (bass) round out the live band.

Moments on Insignificant Whip recall everything from Felt to Josef K, but Shepherds have a keen ability to write post-punk which is modern and prescient rather than a simple homage to a particular era of underground music. The martial rhythms still echo with the proletariat fever of their 2015 LP Exit Youth, but now the lyrics are delivered over thrilling saxophone melodies and deliberative chords, making them all the more haunting, thanks to production from Drew Vandenburg (Toro Y Moi, Mothers, Of Montreal).

Throughout Insignificant Whip, the introspective nature of Shepherds is amplified by a holistic understanding of what it means to be human. The anxieties of adulthood, the teenage desires deferred, and the crushing weight of evil in the world are forged into vulnerable psalms. It’s precisely in these tear-stained moments that the album surpasses the encroaching anxiety as Shepherds invite the listener into a community which tempers the surrounding darkness and pushes back against oppression with resolute empathy.