Over the past two decades, Cursive has become known for writing smart, tightly woven concept albums where frontman Tim Kasher turns his unflinching gaze on specific, oftentimes challenging themes, and examines them with an incisively brutal honesty. 2000’s Domestica dealt with divorce; 2003’s The Ugly Organ tackled art, sex, and relationships; 2006’s Happy Hollow skewered organized religion; 2009’s Mama, I’m Swollen grappled with the human condition and social morality; and 2012’s I Am Gemini explored the battle between good and evil. But the band’s remarkable eighth full-length, Vitriola, required a different approach — one less rigidly themed and more responsive as the band struggles with existentialism veering towards nihilism and despair; the ways in which society, much like a writer, creates and destroys; and an oncoming dystopia that feels eerily near at hand. Cursive has naturally developed a pattern of releasing new music every three years, creating records not out of obligation, but need, with the mindset that each record could potentially be their last. 2015 came and went, however, and the band remained silent for their longest period to date. But the members of Cursive have remained busy with solo records, a movie (the Kasher-penned and directed No Resolution), and running businesses (the band collectively owns and operates hometown Omaha’s mainstay bar/venue, O’Leaver’s). The band even launched their own label, 15 Passenger, through which they’re steadily reissuing their remastered back catalogue, as well as new albums by Kasher, Campdogzz, and David Bazan and Sean Lane. And like many others, the band members have been caught up in the inescapable state of confusion and instability that plagues their home country, and seems to grow more chaotic with each passing day. Which brings us to 2018 and Vitriola. For the first time since Happy Hollow, the album reunites Kasher, guitarist/singer Ted Stevens and bassist Matt Maginn with founding drummer Clint Schnase, as well as co-producer Mike Mogis (Bright Eyes, M. Ward, Jenny Lewis) at ARC Studios in Omaha. They’re joined by Patrick Newbery on keys (who’s been a full-time member for years) and touring mainstay Megan Siebe on cello. Schnase and Maginn are in rare form, picking up right where they left off with a rhythmic lockstep of viscera-vibrating bass and toms, providing a foundation for Kasher and Stevens’ intertwining guitars and Newbery and Siebe’s cinematic flourishes. The album runs the sonic gamut between rich, resonant melodicism, Hitchcockian anxiety, and explosive catharsis — and no Cursive album would be complete without scream-along melodies and lyrics that, upon reflection, make for unlikely anthems. There’s a palpable unease that wells beneath Vitriola’s simmering requiems and fist-shakers. Fiery opener “Free To Be or Not To Be You and Me” reflects the album’s core: a search for meaning that keeps coming up empty, and finding the will to keep going despite the fear of a dark future. The album directs frustration and anger at not only modern society and the universe at large, but also inward towards ourselves. On “Under the Rainbow,” disquiet boils into rage that indicts the complacency of the privileged classes; “Ghost Writer” has a catchy pulse that belies Kasher chastising himself for writing about writing; and “Noble Soldier/Dystopian Lament” is a haunting look at potential societal collapse that provides little in the way of hope but balances beauty and horror on the head of a pin. Vitriola raises a stark question: is this it? Is everything simply broken, leaving us hopeless and nihilistic? Maybe not. There can be reassurance in commiseration, and the album is deeply relatable: Cursive may not be offering the answers, but there is hope in knowing you’re not alone in the chaos. In late spring early summer the idea for this song popped into my head. There was a very particular picture I wanted to paint about how fear and grief can make your world splinter and crumble out of nowhere and there's really nothing we can do to stop it. I had a few lines but felt stuck and a bit haunted by this idea. It felt important but at the same time incredibly delicate. Normally, lyrics are the space in songwriting that I feel the most at ease with, but not this time. We began our tour with AJJ shortly after, a band we all feel deeply comfortable around. Miles, the drummer of Gladie, suggested I ask for help with the song. Asking for help is a really normally novel concept but honestly never comes natural to me. After a deep and honest conversation with Sean Bonnette from AJJ outside our greenroom in Boston, I thought “fuck it” Im gonna channel my inner Miles and ask Sean for help on the song. He responded enthusiastically and asked me to send him what I had, which at the time was just a simple chord progression, a few lines, but a concept that felt really important to me. Sean sent me some voice memo vocal ideas the next day on tour and we continued to talk about the song. When we all got home from the tour, Sean texted me within a few days and was like, “lets facetime this week and work on the song.” I was so relieved, I know myself well enough to know that if he hadn’t reached out I would probably would have just let it go because I hate feeling like I'm putting anyone out or taking up their time. I was nervous as hell before our first phone call because although I can confidently call Sean a friend, he is a songwriter I’ve been listening to since I was young and I deeply admire. Needless to say, the first facetime went incredibly well. We talked and mulled over lyrics, we really hashed out all the ideas and got to the root of what I really wanted to say. After a few hours we had the whole structure of the song written out on little post it notes. We continued to facetime and share ideas back and forth. Then brought Matt into the mix when we wanted to start making proper demos of the songs. We recorded the full song with the band in early August and it was incredibly cathartic to hear what everyone brought to the table. The process of working with Sean really refreshed my approach to songwriting and taught me a valuable lesson in putting myself out there. My biggest take away was that life can come at you fast in both horrible and beautiful ways and ultimately chaos does reign but you can always ask for help.