The best thing O’Death could possibly have done for their third LP was to commit their shirtless, sweaty and boozy live show to record.

Not that that isn’t what they’ve done before, but here is the sound of zealous and crazed musicians exploring the very specific fusion of southern gothic with gypsy-punk like never before. Throw in Greg Jamie’s gloriously white-trash howl and you have a band second only to Gogol Bordello for this sort of thing.

Of course, the prospect of oblivion reigns over a band using such a moniker, to the point that in their frenzied hoedown-tantrums they perhaps believe that if they thrash about enough they will dodge the reaper himself. Indeed it is the energy of this album that is most palpable; as far as songwriting is concerned they are sturdy and traditional if not extraordinary, and lyrically they explore sin, damnation and grief. Here is an exhausting album that refuses to be ignored. To be played loud, or even better, see O’Death perform.