Instead we are treated to a solid, mostly engaging and typically unpredictable addition to Faith No More’s oddball legacy. First and foremost Faith No More sidestep a couple of obvious pitfalls of the comeback album, in that they don’t sound like an aging, tired version of their former selves nor do they lean too heavily on the past. Sol Invictus sounds unmistakably like a Faith No More album, but one that carves its own unique little space in the band’s storied history.  Straightaway the band throwdown a trick shot with the opening title track, a darkly seductive number which has an underlying menace but cruises along in a laidback and silky smooth fashion with Patton crooning over the top. “Superhero” lifts the tempo considerably and looks set be become a live favorite. It rocks hard in a straightforward and vintage Faith No More way, bringing truckloads of energy and classic Roddy Bottum keyboard melodies.

Sol Invictus begins solidly enough, but after the first two songs shit gets really interesting with an inspired mid-section of the album. The funky grooves, sly hook and dreary melancholic tone of “Sunny Side Up” finds Patton sounding particularly inspired, both vocally and through his weird and wonderful lyricism, while the band displays their trademark mastery of song-writing dynamics. “Separation Anxiety” recalls some of the simmering tension and claustrophobic rhythms of Angel Dust, eventually exploding with a heavy climax and typically schizoid Patton performance. The superb “Cone of Shame” and “Matador” are probably the album’s strongest two cuts. They both feature Faith No More’s quirky, experimental and inventive song-writing in all their modernized glory, sounding classic and fresh at the same time.

Compact and punchy, Sol Invictus is an intelligently concise listen that doesn’t overstay its welcome, leaving the listener wanting more and demanding repeat plays. The subtleties of the album and some of the more abstract and elusive hooks take a while to reveal themselves, but once they do they prove difficult to shake. Sol Invictus is very much a ‘grower’ album that becomes increasingly addictive through multiple spins. Musically the band members are in great form, losing none of their chemistry, although Jon Hudson remains an adequate but unremarkable guitarist, lacking the creative spark and chops of the dearly departed Jim Martin or Trey Spruance.

Despite its ample strong moments and sprinkles of brilliance, Sol Invictus is by no means a flawless album. While there are no outright clangers to be found, there are a few weaker spots, such as Patton’s goofy vocals and lyrics dampening some of the more interesting moments on “Black Friday”, or the overused “leader of men” refrain that bogs down “Superhero”. Acoustic based closer “From the Dead” has some pleasing melodies but it also comes across as a weaker cousin of the classic “King for a Day”. Meanwhile, there’s something amiss with the production that I can’t quite put my finger on but sonically the album isn’t quite as impactful as it could be.

Quibbles aside, Sol Invictus is a more than respectable addition to Faith No More’s legacy and while it can’t touch the dizzying greatness of Angel Dust or the underrated King For a Day Fool for a Lifetime, it’s a fine album in its own right.

It’s that subterranean motif that’s stuck with me the most throughout my many play-throughs of Wavering Radiant. Almost all of the album’s lengthy tracks seem to be occurring in some sacred, underwater space – one that’s alternately animated by shimmering currents and concussive pressure-blasts. That dichotomy – a delicate sound of thunder, if you will – has defined Isis for a long time, but so far, it’s largely been accomplished via acoustic interludes pitted against post-hardcore explosions.

In the Absence of Truth’s keys and effects showed a more unabashed step towards full-on post-rock spaciness, but the sonic palette on Wavering Radiant completes that transformation, and it is stunning. Each track employs stately pipe organs, shimmering tones, and a uniquely flooded bass sound (which I’ve only heard elsewhere on The Cure‘s seminal Disintegration) to cast you down into those depths. On “Hand of the Host,” “20 Minutes/40 Years” and “Ghost Key,” you’ll float for minutes in meditative intoxication, until you’re awakened by the dual leviathans of Turner’s cavernous roar and Mike Gallagher’s dissonant, distorted guitar-tectonics.

In fact, the post-rock stylings and mantra-like compositions are so accomplished and mesmerizing that they actually diminish the metal portions of Wavering Radiant. It’s not always the case – when a track starts out heavy, as with the stuttering gallop of “Hall of the Dead,” or the undulating, uroboric rhythms of “Stone to Wake a Serpent,” (as usual, the song titles are fantastic), it’s arresting and undiluted. And part of it may be that the mix treats both halves equally, so that the contrast isn’t as bruising as you’d expect. Mostly though, it’s just that the metal, when it does come in after an extended prog interlude, seems to be a counterpart first, rather than a compelling element on its own.

To give a good example, go back and listen to “Ghost Trail,” off Cult of Luna‘s 2008 release, Eternal Kingdom. Cult of Luna is frequently labeled as an Isis-clone (and a damn good one, if you buy that line), but they absolutely floored me with that song, which features a 5-minute juggernaut centerpiece of roiling riffs and gorgeous solos. Every time I hear it, I’m simultaenously enraptured and energized – volume cranked, fists pounding the steering wheel, probably going to cause an accident one of these days. Yet I can’t say that about most of these tracks – given how Isis has compartmentalized their identity, it’s one or the other, but rarely both at once.

One song does break that mold in a way, and that’s closer “Threshold of Transformation.” The buried screams below the crush and chug of that song’s centerpiece make them more haunting and cathartic than the bellowing in its normal state. It’s the album’s blackest moment, and then even as the song rises up towards the light with its mellotron-fueled finale, it feels like its duality has truly been earned.

If Isis can return to writing heavier moments that are as transportive and galvanizing as their post-rock side – to go for the heart and the balls as well as the head – then I think a genre-destroying masterpiece is in their future. As for now, we’ve been given what’s still an exquisite, skillful and soulful experience, certain to reward those of you that get properly submerged in it.

The album opens with the immediately antagonistic “Against the Grain,” rippling with impossibly heavy riffage—and a definitively drunken swagger—like Quintaine Americana before they faded into the wallpaper. “Last Man Standing” rides this iron horse to approach old, t-h-i-c-k Helmet, especially during the guitar bridges. Bassist Dave Curran has managed to tune his thunderstick down until the strings flop about, yet he attracts so much fuzz that Godflesh’s Benny Green is kicking himself for his fatal decision to leave said band. Speaking of the ’Flesh, “Only Pain” and its countrified counterpart “Windshield” sound like outtakes from 1996’s magnum opus Songs of Love and Hate and size up as true album highlights. “No One,” “Disdain,” and “Shooting Clay” speed along like a grimier Helmet, and “Line on the Wall” and “Eat Crow” could be Quintaine covers. The industrial leanings (literally: sounds of jackhammers, band saws, subway trains, etc.) of the closing instrumental “East Broadway” remind the listener of the metronomic power of drummer Vinny Signorelli.

Most impressive is the thickness of the chords—seriously heavy—thanks in part to the production of Andrew Schneider (Pelican, Cave In, Scissorfight), but heavy in an accessible way. Guitarist/vocalist Chris Spencer still wields a Fender Telecaster, an axe used for country music to add that extra twangy echo to every note. Though some of the songs run together—and they end up sounding like their peers that they so heavily influenced—Visqueen is a metal triumph and Unsane’s best yet.

Hill must have forearms like Popeye to be able to keep a pace as frenetic as this: he perseveres unbelievably through multiple drum rolls throughout every song, making “World Series” sound like a chaotic Dysrhythmia in the latter half, while “Let Your Heavies Out” has traces of the ’60s garage rock of Wellwater Conspiracy. Hill’s eccentric cadences, mixed with noisy guitar chords, compels “Hand That Rocks the Cradle” to sound like Robert Fripp’s the League of Gentlemen on speed, yet the melodic “The Things That People Do When They Think No One’s Is Looking” slows down to imitate the flowing indie pop of 31 Knots. A deceiving ditty whose lyrics repeat the album title ad infinitum, “2012 and Countless” erupts in words and single-stroke snare rolls after a couple of minutes of phased pedal effects from bassist/keyboardist Carson McWhirter. “Anarchists Just Wanna Have Fun” spotlights Aaron Ross’ schizophrenic vocals that jump from Devo’s Mark Mothersbaugh to Frank Zappa, from King Missile’s John S. Hall to Rush’s Geddy Lee.

Mind you, the effect is very noisy, but behind the buzzy noodling are almost pop-based song structures that belie the group’s collective intelligence. Ultimately their music resides in the same neighborhood as 31 Knots cohabitating with Don Caballero—or Can welded to the Fucking Champs—but whereas 31 Knots take the best elements of Yes and transforms them into melodic progressive rock, Hella deliberately cut up prog suites into little pieces and crookedly sew them back together, calling these rickety structures ‘songs.’ For some, Hella will be hailed as the new prog; for others, however, they are and will always be a complete mess.