Cassius

Foals built their early reputation on a kind of controlled agitation, and this track exemplifies the quality that made "Antidotes" such a startling debut. The guitars interlock in a pattern that feels almost architectural — not playing together so much as constructing something together, each line necessary to the overall structure in the way load-bearing walls are necessary. There is a skittering, restless energy to the rhythm section, the drums hitting with a tightly wound insistence that refuses to settle into comfort. Yannis Philippakis sings with an urgency that borders on alarm, his voice lean and slightly strained at the edges, which suits the music's anxiety perfectly. The song pulls toward release without ever quite granting it, maintaining a tension that is somehow pleasurable rather than exhausting — the musical equivalent of a jaw held just slightly too tight. It exists at the intersection of post-punk revival and math rock, indebted to both but beholden to neither, with a Saharan guitar influence flickering through the more angular passages. The emotional register is not quite panic and not quite exhilaration — something between, a state of heightened alertness where the world feels oversaturated with detail. Best heard on a run, or at the precise moment when a long journey finally ends and you step into cold air.