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The name Clinic has always suited the music of these wired-up, post-punk Brits. The surgical-mask costumes help in that regard: coupled with their herky-jerky brain-scan riffs and malevolent aura, Clinic look more likely to perform torture surgery on your ass in some water-logged basement than give a concert. And their previous efforts always worked a prescription-buzz assault on your dome, as if you'd just rifled the locked room in the back of the doctor's office where they keep all the good stuff. You end up pilled out, wiry as fuck, and on edge till you find the next dose that mellows it all out. Their sixth long-player might just be that pill. "Baby" maintains their stop-and-start throb, but instead of zipping along on a dopamine rush, it eases you into a gentle slumber — it could be the least effective lullaby ever. The title track too has a steady bedside manner, with the vintage organ gushing over a soothing guitar riff and a gently cooed (but still nasally and spooked-out) vocal. "Milk & Honey" and others are found-footage soundtrack reels for creepy home movies. It's not all breezy, however. "Lion Tamer" and "Evelyn" churn up the tension with a frantic sonic cocktail of paranoia that should make long-time fans feel better — by which I mean worse.
