REVIEW: Ethel Cain's ‘Perverts’ Thrives in Discomfort, Unearthing Humanity's Darkest Corners
REVIEW
REVIEW
☆ BY KIMBERLY KAPELA ☆
FINDING BEAUTY IN THE DISCOMFORT – Ethel Cain, born Hayden Anhedönia, has once again plunged into the shadows of Southern Gothic storytelling with her newest album, Perverts. Following the critical acclaim of her 2022 release, Preacher’s Daughter, Cain has solidified herself as an enigmatic figure in alternative pop, thriving in the spaces that unsettle and intrigue.
Raised in a strict Southern Baptist household in Florida, Cain’s personal history—coming out as gay at 12, leaving the church at 16—has deeply informed her music’s unflinching exploration of generational trauma, faith, and the haunting disillusionment of the American Dream.
Where Preacher’s Daughter seduces with its slow-burning melodies and immersive storytelling of cannibalism and religious trauma, Perverts delves into the psyche that grapples with shame, desire and violence.
Musically, Cain continues to experiment with genre, blending the seductively melodic tones of her debut with harsher, more dissonant elements. From moments of ethereal beauty to raw, noise-laden crescendos, Perverts pushes boundaries without losing the haunting intimacy that defines Cain’s work.
Perverts begins its journey with its title track, “Perverts,” a mesmerizing opener that immediately immerses the listener into the eerie, unsettling world she has carefully curated. True to her roots, the track begins with a vintage recording of a woman’s haunting melody. The melody acts as a portal, pulling listeners into her world where beauty and horror intertwine. Layers of distorted noise, reverb-drenched echoes, and faint whispers build tension, creating a sense of anticipation and dread.
“Punish” opens with an ethereal, stripped-back tone, where Cain’s haunting voice is the focal point. Her delivery is soft yet cutting, exposing the pain and turmoil buried beneath the surface.
The lyricism here is particularly striking, as Cain sings, “Nature chews on me / Little death like lead / Poisonous and heavy / It has always been this way.” The imagery is vivid and visceral, evoking a sense of inevitability and the weight of love as a destructive force.
The refrain, “Only God knows / Only God would believe that I was an angel but they made me leave,” captures her ongoing themes of spiritual exile and self-perception. It’s a mournful declaration, delivered with a quiet intensity that feels like a confession. What begins as minimalistic and delicate transforms into a heavier, droning soundscape, with guitars building in layers of distortion and noise.
Named after Kier-La Janisse’s seminal book exploring the portrayal of mentally ill women in horror films, “Housofpsychoticwomn” opens with a continuation of the haunting ambiance from the album's start. Layered within this eerie soundscape is a familiar voice—a ghostly refrain of “I love you,” the same voice that haunted Preacher’s Daughter. Here, it takes on a more sinister tone, transforming what could be a comforting phrase into something profoundly unnerving.
As the song progresses, the repetition of “I love you” grows increasingly distorted and warped, descending into horror. Each utterance becomes more guttural and unholy, blurring the lines between love and possession.
In “Vacillator,” Cain adopts a dreamy, almost otherworldly voice, soft and delicate, as though she’s whispering directly into the listener’s ear. Her breaths and faint moans weave into the song, adding an intimate, vulnerable texture that feels raw and unfiltered. It’s a performance that teeters between alluring and haunting, creating a delicate balance of beauty and unease.
The melody is hypnotic, with Cain intoning the devastating refrain: “If you love me, keep it to yourself.” The stripped-back arrangement allows her vocal nuances to shine, while the ambient undertones provide a subtle yet persistent sense of dread.
“Onanist” takes a darker, more melancholic turn, with Cain’s layered vocals creating the effect of a choir—though not one of divine light. Instead, it feels like a congregation of unholy angels, their harmonies drenched in sorrow and reverence. The song is underpinned by the same haunting drone that threads through much of Perverts, grounding the ethereal vocals in an atmosphere of unease.
At the heart of Perverts, Cain delivers the sprawling and harrowing “Pulldrone,” a 15-minute epic that encapsulates the album's ghastly, unsettling energy. The track begins ominously, a sparse and creeping soundscape punctuated by Cain’s voice, almost unnervingly calm, as she begins a countdown: “One apathy, two disruption, three curiosity…” Each number and corresponding word marks a step deeper into what seems like her personal descent into hell. The countdown, reciting her self-coined “12 pillars of simulacrum,” becomes the framework for the track.
Cain’s philosophy explores humanity’s futile yearning to touch divinity, to transcend the physical, and how that yearning often leads not to enlightenment but to ruin. Each pillar—“assimilation,” “aggrandization,” “perversion,” “desolation”—feels like a rung on a ladder spiraling downward, mirroring both a personal and universal fall from grace. By the time she reaches the final stages—“eleven annihilation, twelve desolation”—it’s clear this is a total and devastating severance from all that is holy, godly or hopeful.
Her spoken word cuts through an evolving soundscape. Industrial whirring grows louder and more chaotic as the track progresses, a sonic representation of the deterioration she describes. The sound invades the listener’s mind, becoming almost oppressive in its intensity, yet it’s impossible to turn away.
“Thatorchia” and “Etienne” each span around eight minutes and unfold as their own entities, drawing listeners into murky, experimental landscapes of distortion, industrial noise and pulsating synthesizers. What’s most impressive about both songs is Cain’s command over chaos. She doesn’t simply layer distortion and noise for shock value; she uses them as a tool to create an atmosphere that builds and mutates, becoming something even darker and more sinister as the tracks progress.
“Thatorchia” is defined by layers of distortion and industrial noise, the kind of audio assault that feels like it’s crawling under the skin. There’s an insistent hum from the synthesizers, buzzing like flies hovering above decay. “Etienne” operates in a similar sonic vein, starting with brooding layers of dark soundscapes that gradually emerge from silence. As the track progresses, it’s consumed by distortion and industrial rumblings.
As the final track of Perverts, “Amber Waves” serves as a striking contrast to the chaos and distortion that precedes it. At a dramatic 11 minutes, it unfolds with an overwhelming sense of vulnerability and longing, marking a poignant end to an album that thrives in discomfort and intensity. Here, the simplicity of the acoustic arrangement allows her voice to stand front and center, its fragility fully exposed.
What sets Cain apart is her willingness to occupy uncomfortable spaces, a fearless exploration of emotional and sonic extremes. On Perverts, she doesn't just flirt with darkness—she immerses herself in it, pulling listeners into a world where pain and beauty coexist in a way that is uniquely her own. The album is a daring exploration of the grotesque, the spiritual and the deeply personal. Where Preacher’s Daughter introduced listeners to Cain’s world, Perverts pushes deeper into that universe, taking listeners on a descent that feels darker, more visceral and undeniably perverse.
