The Walkmen are kings of dejection. For about decade now, they've turned their albums into symphonies of disappointment and resentment and regret. Their specific style of indie rock is very rooted in a scrappy, scratchy New York tradition that dates back to the Velvet Underground or Bob Dylan, but their take on it is theirs and theirs alone. On their sixth full-length, they've expanded their sound to incorporate mariachi horns and echoes of 1950s production styles, but their central concerns have changed little: they still make wounded, anxious, and deeply affecting music, and this LP can stand alongside their best.
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