The further this band goes down their own rabbit hole, the more people seem to like them, so let Bradford Cox indulge his every urge to breathe heavily through an overcooked microphone (or is it megaphone?), over grooving and grunging indie sleaze. This is easily Deerhunter's hardest-rocking and catchiest album, and yet it's the tender moments (isn't it always?) that catch you, like the Meat Puppets-fried gallop of "Pensacola" and the funereal bar mitzvah organ-plus-handclaps of "T.H.M." The one-two choogle of "Back to the Middle" and "Monomania" just grooves on out.