Ethel Cain makes an early bid for feel-bad album of the year with Perverts

Despite the fact one of the tracks on her latest recording project, Perverts, is literally called “Onanist,” Ethel Cain is not in the business of pleasure. “If you love me, keep it to yourself,” she sings repeatedly on “Vacillator,” a nearly eight-minute song. It’s one of the only discernible lyrics in the entire project, a 90-minute onslaught of sound and fury that sounds vaguely like the sort of ambient noise one might hear in the lobby of hell. The EP (the marketing materials refer to Perverts as a “body of work,” “project,” or “EP” despite its nine tracks) is certainly not the follow-up one might expect from an artist whose star has been on the rise since the explosive release of her Southern Gothic-infused full-length debut Preacher’s Daughter in 2022—one that carried her all the way to Barack Obama’s favorite songs list that year. At least, you may not expect it if you haven’t been paying attention. 

Cain (a pseudonym for artist Hayden Anhedönia) wasn’t too pleased when that whole Obama thing happened. In 2022, she responded to the former president’s lauding of “American Teenager” (her poppiest track to date, and—if her progression in this record is anything to go by—likely ever) with some superlatives of her own: “Did not have a former president including my anti-war, anti-patriotism fake pop song on his end of year list on my 2022 bingo,” she wrote. In the proceeding years, the nebulous threat of being added to an FBI watchlist didn’t dissuade her from using her voice in a way few others in her position have been willing to do. She’s dubbed President Joe Biden a “bitch,” called for the return of political assassinations in response to weapons deals with Israel, posted in support of alleged United Healthcare CEO assassin Luigi Mangione, and encouraged her followers to “maybe buy a gun” in the wake of Donald Trump’s election in 2024. Then, In October, she turned a metaphorical firearm on that same fanbase in an incisive rant about the culture’s current “irony epidemic.” “i [sic] feel like no matter what i make or what i do, it will always get turned into a fucking joke. It’s genuinely so embarrassing,” she wrote in a since-deleted Tumblr post. “it literally makes me never want to share anything again, i miss when i had like 20 fans who actually had something interesting to say in response to what i was making.”

She might get her wish. Perverts is a dare. “Find something pithy to say about any of this,” Anhedönia seems to be challenging her fans. “In fact, find anything useful to say about anything at all.”

If the title didn’t tip you off already, Perverts is an almost unbearably challenging listen. Beginning on a slowly deteriorating rendition of “c” (anyone who’s seen Midnight Mass, or Titanic for that matter, will know exactly what sort of omen that is), the EP’s title track gradually gives way to the sort of droning, merciless sonic experience that one might find in a very modern art installation or a deeply (deeply) underground club. There’s nothing that could be remotely described as pop, fake or otherwise, anywhere near this release. The majority of the 15-plus minutes of “Pulldrone” seem to be recorded via chainsaw, and “Housofpsychoticwomn” (a 13-minute ordeal) seems cribbed directly from the Skinamarink trailer.

Occasionally, this journey across the River Styx does find a patch of calm water. (Well, relatively.) The creeping lead single, “Punish,” could have been a chapter of Cain’s journey from the previous album—albeit one occurring after her cannibalization. (For those not up to date on Cain’s lore, Preacher’s Daughter followed her pseudonymous character through a tale that, uh, did not end well for her.) The guitar strums in “Etienne,” a softer track near the end of the EP, feel a bit like a cool breeze after all that hot air, and by the end of “Amber Waves,” the album’s closer, you may remember that there are indeed plants and sunlight on the surface of this planet. It’s a worthy reward, but you’re going to have to claw your way across every layer of the inferno to get there.

“I can’t feel anything,” a voice chokes out in the EP’s final seconds. When all is said and done, you may wish you felt the same. As an album, Perverts is almost impossible to succinctly diagnose. Your mileage will vary depending on how you feel about experimentalism, discordancy, artistic expression, horror movies, Preacher’s Daughter and Cain’s earlier work, and perhaps the concept of SSRIs. It doesn’t totally work (or could have stood to be about a half-hour shorter). But as a primal scream against the daily horror of our current existence—one of “apathy” and “propaganda” that requires “crazy pills,” in Cain’s words, just to get through the day—it’s a fascinating artifact. In fact, it may be some of the most honest art we get out of the era and administration we’re about to face. There’s nothing ironic about that.