Though singer Glenn Tilbrook had grown General Custer’s beard (which also dangled a bit like Col. Sander’s bowtie), and I wished they could have talked Paul Carrack into reprising his vocal on “Tempted,” these guys sounded exactly the same as I imagine they would have in 1982. The timeslot was perfectly 80s, too, as the sun had just set, and the polo field palm trees behind them were lit up in neon colors that matched their evening jackets, like in a Miami Vice nightclub scene. There was a little weirdness here and there from keyboards that didn’t quite fit, but if awkward keyboards aren’t the Squeeze sound, I don’t know what is.

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Then the crest of the wave broke. The last note of every instrument intoned, with just the violin player doing gypsy peals and low notes, grinding into the strings two and three at a time. Then a loud crackly voice from offstage started to shout inanities at us. And the chug came back. It was INSISTENT. It was closer. It was right at our door…. The latch is pulling… The door is opening…

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Evangelista’s latest recording, Prince of Truth, takes this evolution one psychic step further, like a lucid trip into the darkest recesses of the unconscious mind—a realm free from the formal constraints of traditional compositional structure, comprised of surreal theta ruminations and random outbursts of kinetic energy. This harrowing work of ethereal beauty would be at home in a playlist featuring Rachel’s, Amber Asylum, and late SWANS/World of Skin.

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