There’s precedent for more cosmic and conceptual accounts of struggle. Unfortunately, even when invoking personal anguish they make conflict feel atmospheric instead of something rooted in bodies and experiences. Given the chaotic sprawl of their past work, it’s refreshing for Algiers to turn inward and attempt to ground their righteous fury in soul-searching rather than the entire history of global oppression.
While the rhythm section molds these lapses into more imagistic, evocative shapes (the synth fills on “Unoccupied” are killer), the tracks are still structured around Fisher’s impassioned vocals, so when he falters, the whole enterprise feels aimless. “Misophonia,” the poem from which the lyrics are sourced, was reportedly composed during a “protracted personal period of anxiety and lack” the title means “hatred of sound.” A musician detesting sound could be a fascinating subject if it were developed more, but the writing is too closed off to make searching for an entry point feel worthwhile. There are times when he seems to be addressing personal demons. On single “Dispossession,” he sits atop a mountain, looking down on a flaming America and promising that “freedom is coming soon.” For whom? When? What does it look like? Fisher speaks like a prophet, but his visions remain frustratingly opaque. There’s no texture to his writing, no scene-setting-just intensity. “We all dancing to the fire,” he warns on “Hour of the Furnaces.” “Streets are raining fire/We’ll be gone now any day,” he prophesies on “Wait for the Sound.” These moments are supposed to feel urgent, but he could be talking about climate change or Burning Man. Fisher remains addicted to vague allegory and generic revelation his writing conjures fire and brimstone but lacks the heat of the flame, the stink of the sulfur. The problem with the record is that this expressive turn is half-hearted. Algiers songs have always been busy, but for once they sound loose, open-ended. The result is songs that feel less leaden and overthought, like album highlight “Chaka,” which sways from a soulful disco bop to a flurry of atonal noise without the slightest bit of friction. It also has only two producers, Ben Greenberg and Randall Dunn, who bring an arsenal of synths and a knack for layering sound. Whereas their debut was built from years of file-sharing among band members and The Underside of Power was recorded between touring and sessions across the UK and the US, There Is No Year was made in two weeks in one place. The horrors Algiers conjure-colonization, oppression, dispossession-remain diffuse, but as a unit they sound more in sync. Unlike their past records, which were awash in musical allusions and references to global struggles, There Is No Year is narrower and more internal, a shift that results in leaner, more intuitive songs. Built around extracts from an epic poem written by frontman James Franklin Fisher, the record is saturated with dread that smolders under his scorched-earth polemics. For their third album, gospel-punk outfit Algiers, who describe Butler as a friend, have adopted the title and the mood of the book.
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