As the sex-starved howl fronting seminal '90s powerhouse Afghan Whigs, Greg Dulli reached near-cult status, soundtracking the bachelor-fluffed musings of some post-grunge apocalypse. When the wet dream died, he turned to the inspiration of ambient noodlers Fila Brazilia to push further into the smut with The Twilight Singers' unforgettable debut two years ago. On the Singers' latest release, Dulli goes a step further into the ether, concocting a bitch's brew of misbegotten sentiment and star-fading beauty. "No one complete this mess, replete/ perfumed in mud/christened by a wave -- this is neverlasting love," he croons on "Esta Noche," revealing that, perhaps, Greg is not a happy boy. The glory of this twilit muse is Dulli's strain against the wash of gorgeous chord progressions; his instability once again towers above the cinematic skyscraping of its tasteful backdrop. Noteless emotion pressed against the drive of a piano's inevitable twinkling is the glorious sound of a hotel suicide. Not for the light of heart.
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