;) makes a spellbinding case for finding the other freaks who tether us to the world.

Shouldies’ second record sheds the naivete of their first, :), in favor of something that antagonizes the contradictions we navigate. A synthesis of goth, industrial and punk, plus dreamy samples that feel distinctively Atlantan, Shouldies has evolved their characteristic dark playfulness into a rebuke of a world that treats us disposably. Where their first record reveled in the joy that is queerness, and fucking around and making things, their second rides on anger and a lot of questions about what’s to come. As expansive as it is intimate, ;) will have you envisioning a remote warehouse dance party full of silhouettes passing let’s-kiss-drugs. The smell of grass wafts inside and there’s a palpable sense of, “Well, if the world is going to be so bogus, at least we have each other. At least we are a vibe.”

Though they’ve gone weirder than ever, every track feels pristinely complete. Matrixy beats and synth from John (he/him) gird iconic, sensual chant-vocals from lead singer and guitarist Yancey (they/them). Lyrics, pulled from from their journal, like Waiting for you at the bottom of the pool / I am my own desire on “Baptize Me” herald a millennial response to the Southern gothic tradition.

For a record so disillusioned and digital, there’s a distinctive throughline of vulnerability, likely stemming from the tenderness and intentionality of Shouldies’ process. “We work in layers,” Yancey explains, “Starting with the beat and building up. There’s something very warm about being able to sit down at a table with another person and gently putting it together.” The intentionality is obvious, and you can hear producer Graham Tavel (Mirror Mirror Recordings) buying into their mischief-as-hope ethos. “We have been enjoying a more theatrical and exaggerated kind of emotion.” explains Yancey, “Really thinking dynamically about how we make the loud loud and the soft soft.” The result is hypnotic: each song is a tantalizing compression of longing, frustration and impishness.

As the record’s songs get progressively odder, pivoting into (even) less traditional song structure around the halfway point with “</3,” you can hear the party morphing. The amoeba of bodies spreads and splits into smaller groups, some disappearing into corn stalks for starlit writhing. “;),” possibly the most addictive track, has those of us still dancing finally turn around to look at the back of the warehouse, where, instead of a wall, we discover a seemingly infinite, Tron-like tube of neon lights. As the album closes with the sped up giggles and mumbling of the ending track we pile into cars. Some one else is driving, and we’re watching the purple landscape blur. It’s one of those nights where you can almost see the wind. Maybe you can even be it.