Here we go, into the maelstrom. Two drummers and one singer as good as ten. Things are tighter than ever and the songs are getting into that prime Smith era stuff, where everything feels coherent and unforgettable. “The Classical”? “Jawbone and the Air-Rifle”? “Hip Priest”? The chug of the rhythm section now feels like it has its own imprint, that modified rockabilly stomp, and Smith is sort of writing little melodies that shoot through his recitations. Steven Hanley, Craig Scanlon, and Karl Burns? Pure Fall excellence. Smith’s characters roam the hills and the churches, exhausted, drunk and out of ammo, all stand-ins for the author’s epic journey from pub to pub. The sound of cheap speed and free beer—the sound of 1982, from The Fall.