Shame - Cutthroat

Shame have always felt most alive with their backs against a venue wall, testing new songs against the sweat and noise of a crowd. ‘Cutthroat’, their fourth album, sounds like it was built with that same pressure in mind. Produced by John Congleton, it strips away indulgence in favour of propulsion. Twelve tracks, no long-burn closer, no detours for scenery. It’s wired to move.

The title track sets the standard. It’s over in a touch over three minutes, but leaves dents: a volley of clipped refrains delivered like slogans, fatalist and combative at once. Congleton’s mix gives it definition, drums punching clean, distortion sharpened instead of smeared. It’s a sprint, a wailing swagger, a melodic yet propulsive force, and it dictates the pace of what follows. ‘Nothing Better’ rattles through at full pelt, a growling undertone tethering a tightly-wound top line, while ‘To and Fro’ is all sticky floors and toilet circuit dreams; an indie rattler served up by a band who have it down to an art form.

‘Quiet Life’ offers the counterweight. It sketches claustrophobic domestic scenes - rain, a need for escape, the sense of a relationship narrowing the air - before looping back to the idea of cowardice. The playing is taut, the arrangement unshowy yet decidedly different, leaving the words to sting. Where early Shame might have turned bluster into camouflage, here they keep it lean.

‘Spartak’ pulls in the band’s most disarming streak: equal parts self-mockery and defiance. It waves off fashionable posturing and intellectual gatekeeping, then doubles down on outsider pride with a chorus hammered into shape by repetition. Musically, it has a looser roll, a hint of Americana swing under the bite, a reminder that Shame can smirk while they snarl.

The midsection widens again with ‘Lampião’. It opens with a Portuguese folk song and spins the tale of a Brazilian outlaw whose legend blurs fact and myth. On paper, it’s a curveball; in practice, it underscores what this record is about: contradiction, posture, the strange pull between hiding and showing off. Elsewhere, the band tip towards darker electronics. ‘After Party’ and finale ‘Axis of Evil’ carry a Depeche Mode chill, built on bass and drum patterns that feel slicker, more synthetic. Live, they’ll likely roar; on record, the menace is cooler. ‘Axis of Evil’ doesn’t expand outward like so many album closers; it shuts the door sharp. Ending here feels deliberate: a clipped full stop instead of a grand statement.

What makes ‘Cutthroat’ stand up is all about the evolution of the band that made it. Shame know their own tools well enough now to push further without losing shape. The faster tracks work because they’re disciplined yet playful; the experiments convince because they’re carried with attitude and confidence. If the through-line is contradiction - swagger and insecurity, folklore and synth menace - then the execution is clarity. This is a band comfortable enough to cut the excess and trust the songs to hit.