It's easy and ever so tempting to set Brainworms up as a study in duality - intricate yet propulsive, raw yet melodically sophisticated, atmospheric yet tense - but this breaking down of their approach into neatly counterbalanced halves sells short the singularity of what they've done. Words like "passion"Â and "creativity" have been flogged past mortality's bounds by every music writer in existence, but a real and tangible semblance of the feelings that they had initially signified can still be evoked by work like this.
Theirs is something not easily reduced to neat band comparisons - rather, it's the sound of summer humidity hanging like a dusty curtain, of the ghosts of hangovers past whispering advice from the shoulder like so many diminutive angels and devils, of long afternoons spent by poisoned rivers. Each song a nimble waltz of discordant polyphony, each album an extended shadow play signifying something difficult to attach a specific name to.
A world that tends to reward the stale and the uninspired might not deserve another round with a band like Brainworms, but here it is for the taking or the leaving. However briefly, they've made themselves available once more for observation and, though it might seem like a curt and premature eulogy to suggest picking up what they're putting down while the chance still exists, this is precisely what a discerning listener ought to do. Let it disorient, let it sink in, but don't let it slip by unnoticed.