’Perverts’ album review: Ethel Cain shuns all the non-believers

There’s a certain, deep-rooted irony that the second song off of Ethel Cain’s latest project, Perverts, is named “Punish.” Because, to a seemingly purposeful degree, this 90-minute experiment seeks to weed out the non-believers, punishing those who’ve interacted with the singer’s music in a less than gracious manner. The fans who call out at her during her shows, the type of fans who hunker down to sit in the middle of a pit between sets (it happens), or the type who simply sees every piece of media as a chance for irony and quick jokes. The younger Gen Z way, so to speak. But beneath that chaff and noise, there’s something perplexing, tightly wound in this album / not album that speaks to an artist facing a seismic split in the road. Embrace all that’s been thrown at her, or burn it to the ground. 

Her debut, Preachers Daughter, is one of the best albums of the decade. Only “Amber Waves” feels like a true extension. The latest project from Hayden Anhedönia, under the pseudonym Ethel Cain, is an act of defiance. Defiant in the face of expected clout chasing or the belief that anyone who undergoes rapid popularity owes anything to anyone other than their sense of artistic integrity. Anyone expecting a new “American Teenager” or “Crush,” ready to bow down to their new mother of pop, will be disappointed. Anyone excited for a young artist taking the reins and experimenting with their sound and identity? We’re thrilled. 

Thank god Ethel Cain chooses fire. That said, there’s little blister or burn out of the gate, as her first song, “Perverts,” reverberates with ambient, sonic cues, spoken word, a low, late-in-the-song thrum that echoes the work of Angelo Badalamenti or, more recently, the scores from Alex G for films such as We’re All Going to the World’s Fair and I Saw the TV Glow. Distorted gray embodies the music, utilizing lo-fi effects and field recordings. To succumb to the longest songs on the album is to brace yourself for a jump scare, for something or someone to come wandering out of the dark.

“Perverts” is the album’s cornerstone. It cuts to the chase by being one of the longest songs on the album at just over twelve minutes. This is the vibe the album is going for, and if you don’t like it, well, one doesn’t get the sense she cares very much. And while the tone determines itself early there’s still versatility throughout. Her haunting, ethereal vocals soothing even through the more tumultuous, reverberating pieces.

Ethel Cain refuses conformity.

So much of Perverts acts as voyeuristic self-reflection and an ode to the sinners in a God-forsaken world of religious trauma. “Vacillator” stands out as the sole track that includes percussion. With Matthew Tomasi on drums, steady and relentless, it sees the singer repeating the line, “If you love me, keep it to yourself.” It’s, perhaps, the albums highlight, a true mastery of buildup and execution.

The aforementioned “Punish,” with its sweet, unassuming vocals, calls to mind her song “Famous Last Words (An Ode to Eaters),” produced in reaction to the film Bones and All. An ugliness weaves into the lyricism, inspired by dark stories conjured by the singer. Stories shared on her Tumblr and elsewhere that help define her ever expanding world-building.

“Vacillator” seeks to chase away isolation while keeping potential lovers within arm’s reach. There’s a carnal persuasion to the lyrics but a refusal of attachment. This isn’t a love song. Or is it? Ethel Cain so often plays with double entendres and meaning, superfusing the sublime with the ordinary, divinity with perversion. The opening “Perverts” opens with a sample of the 19th-century hymn, “Nearer, My God, To Thee,” with the lyric “Heaven has forsaken the masturbator.” Religious beliefs and philosophical debate are at the forefront of her large-scale storytelling.

There’s much to say about the sonic choices in this project. There are three long (long-winded, even) drone pieces. Ambient instrumentation plays a major focal point. In Preacher’s Daughter, songs like “Ptolemaea” act as gothic interludes that help heighten the hell the character is going through before weaving back to more palatable numbers to transcend beyond human horrors. Here, the nightmare wins. It’s a natural evolution of scope of sound as she digs into this earthy yet eerie aesthetic.  

As dreary and dark as these songs grow, there’s no apathy, simply a reckoning of swirling, messy emotions. The production is gorgeous with definite highlights that allow for more digestible songs. The last three, in particular, help bring us down and off the barrage of noise into something somber and melancholy. The eight-minute instrumental “Etienne” softens the blow of the otherwise brutally oppressive atmosphere. Pure instrumentation wraps itself around us, aside from a spoken word outro, in which the speaker recounts the story of a suicidal man who, while trying to induce a heart attack, goes on long runs and fast speeds at night. When it fails, he tries again and again until he gradually realizes he doesn’t want to die anymore. 

Sorrow and self-destruction reign.

“Thatorchia” stuns with its build and ebb of the crescending notes. The last haunting note sticks to us as the instruments strip away, leaving only vocals. However, her closing number, “Amber Waves,” is the most straightforward. And even still, the lyrics describe someone who is “the personification of love cast aside to get high.” In Ethel Cain’s latest project, humanity dooms itself to self-destruct. She sings of the “devil and I.” She takes “the long way home” before ending with the crushing weight of “I can’t feel anything.” 

It’s a sorrowful note to end the album, but perhaps it’s the right one for this project. In “Strangers,” the last song off of Preacher’s Daughter, the character the album has been following sings from beyond the grave, watching as her body is cannibalized by the man who betrayed her. Her message is to her mother, singing, “Mama, just know that I love you (I love you)/And I’ll see you when you get here.”

Ethel Cain projects don’t end with easy resolution. Instead, her albums provoke endless questions to dig into, finding the meaning beneath the dirt.

The bottom line.

Despite my unquestioned admiration of the album and the championing of her ability to choose and execute the exact visions she pleases, it won’t be an easy repeat listen. There’s a definite density to the layers of lyricism that play with biblical references, short stories, and her side projects. It’s, in part, inaccessible, challenging — antagonizing — its audience. The heavy reliance on the drone, ambient, slowcore, and minimalism will determine whether or not you continue to hit play. Songs such as “Pulldrone,” albeit impressive in their ambition, overstay their welcome. It’s OK to be a 15-minute song but make every minute count. 

Perverts is an astonishing, frustrating work that reaches beyond our expectations. It’s Ethel Cain at her most honest. For as much as it needles, the album refuses to conform to expectations. There’s exceptional beauty present, even amongst the rot and ruin she sings of. But that beauty is harder to touch as she builds a chasm between herself and her audience. Bruising in its deliverance, no matter the questions of her path forward, there’s no doubt that Ethel Cain will carve her way. 

Perverts is out now. 

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Featured image courtesy of Daughters of Cain Records.