DEADLETTER’s Hysterical Strength captures the dissonance of cherry trees in full bloom against a grey, brutalist skyline. It is an album that bruises and blossoms in equal measure. The Yorkshire sextet, led by Zac Lawrence, wields music that tears through the contradictions of modern life with pointed guitars, motorik rhythms, and dusky saxophone. On December 6, the post-punk stalwarts storm into Bucharest and take the Control Club stage.
From the opening seconds of Credit to Treason, DEADLETTER pulls no punches. A serpentine bassline slinks under tense riffs and motorik drumming while Lawrence’s half-preacher, half-provocateur baritone articulates with mounting urgency. The track’s crescendo is a controlled demolition, its jagged layers falling perfectly into place.
The heart of Hysterical Strength lies in its ability to find beauty within brutality. Nowhere is this clearer than in More Heat!—a funk-laden fever dream where Poppy Richler’s saxophone oscillates between plaintive wails and fiery snarls. Lawrence’s Northern wit-styled lyrics accentuate the human impulse for transformation, shouting: “More heat! More heat!”
Juxtaposition is the essence of this record. Tracks like Mother unravel with restraint only to erupt in waves of cathartic dissonance. It’s an ode to volatility with mystery and menace reminiscent of David Bowie's Blackstar era. There’s a palpable sense of place here. One of crumbling towns and flickering television sets that frames their sound as distinctly Northern, even as the band thrives in South London’s post-punk revival.
And yet, for all its gloom, Hysterical Strength isn’t without humor. Relieved is a burst of caustic energy, its sprightly rhythm undercutting Lawrence’s lament about enduring unwanted company. “I’m far too vertebrate to face you with my spine,” he sneers. It’s a moment of levity, but DEADLETTERr’s wit cuts deep even here, evoking the early work of Franz Ferdinand.
Then there’s Deus Ex Machina, a track born in the absurdity of existence under the brief Liz Truss administration. Lawrence’s lyrics mercilessly swipe at political theater: “Hilarious as stand-up, more like a sit-down or a law-low.” The band matches his derision with frenetic instrumentation—guitars and saxophones locked in a sonic tug of war.
By the time the album closes with Auntie Christ, the contradictions that underpin Hysterical Strength come into full view. Lawrence’s voice questions the nature of belief in a commanding but vulnerable way, ultimately leaving listeners battered and exhilarated.
What ties it all together is Jim Abbiss’s production. Known for albums by Arctic Monkeys and Adele, Abbiss ensures every musical edge shines without losing any of the rawness that defines the band. The result is a meticulously constructed and thrillingly unhinged album.
Listening to Hysterical Strength is like walking through a crumbling city at dawn: the destruction is palpable, but the rising sun makes it beautiful. DEADLETTER has given post-punk a jagged new edge that’s punishing, poignant, and alive.
