There's Always Room on the Broom

The second Liars album created its own mythology out of chaos — a concept record about witch trials and mob hysteria filtered through tribal percussion and avant-garde noise, and "There's Always Room on the Broom" sits deep inside that fever dream. The song builds from a core of primitive, insistent drumming that sounds less like a rock kit and more like a ritual summoning, rhythms hammered out on whatever surfaces were available, held together by raw repetition rather than polish. The guitar doesn't so much play riffs as hiss and scrape against the rhythm, adding texture and menace without offering the conventional handholds of melody. Angus Andrew's vocal delivery is the most unsettling element — not melodic, more like incantation, cycling phrases that accumulate power through repetition the way a crowd chant becomes something inhuman at sufficient volume. There's no verse-chorus architecture here; the song operates through trance logic, circling and intensifying until it reaches a kind of collective hysteria. The production deliberately sounds rough, as though the record was made in the same uncontrolled atmosphere it's describing — no clean separation between instruments, everything bleeding into everything else. This is music that foregrounds discomfort as an aesthetic value, that asks what it feels like to be caught in the middle of something you don't fully understand. You play it when you want music that sounds like danger at a remove, like watching a fire from across a field.