For much of my life as a fan of punk, hardcore, and emo music, I have come to trust Dischord Records almost implicitly. The Ian MacKaye-founded DC label has released many of my favorite bands of the 80s and 90s, including Rites of Spring, Jawbox, Minor Threat, and of course, Fugazi. Their roster is filled with bands that practically defined post-hardcore and emo without ever falling into cliche.

And so it’s strange to me that it took me until this year to hear of Lungfish. Even among the Dischord catalog, the Baltimore art rock band sounds alien and a little unsettling—yet strangely beautiful at the same time, like a moment of spiritual transcendence.

The way it was first described to me by my friend Adam (singer in my remote band Bares His Teeth), Love Is Love could have been either incredibly boring or transcendent. Cyclical riffs circled patiently around meditative lyrics, introducing minor variations through each repeat until the songs came to an end. I’m certainly not averse to stretched out song structures (see: the immense post rock section of my collection), and Adam seems to be a man of discerning taste, having previously introduced me to June of 44, so I took a chance and bought it blind, deciding to have my first listen when the vinyl copy arrived.

And certainly, nothing I was told about the music was false. Guitars weave through arpeggiated chords, the drums and bass (played by June of 44 bandleader Sean Meadows) softly holding down the rhythm. It certainly sounds like post-hardcore, but if you stripped out the fiery catharsis and just played the softer verses. The closest it comes to bombast is distorted, shouty closer “Child of Chaos,” which bursts with all the pent up tension of the entire album before it.

Over this meandering soundscape, Daniel Higgs making almost religious declarations in a voice that sounds like Jeremy Enigk doing an impression of Ian MacKaye (or vice versa). You can almost see him standing at a pulpit with outstretched arms as he spouts out lines like, “Love is love, in the shape things take” or “Christ Beast bear your message / About a God-form that’s formless / And forming in your baby, in your mind.”

The combination of the simple arrangements and esoteric lyrics creates a listening experience that is initially disorienting, but settles into an almost cultlike state of spiritual euphoria. The title track opens the album like a thesis statement, drums beating the toms alongside overdriven, eighth-note guitar. “This World” jangles with clean guitar and a slow drum rhythm underpinning a madman vocal performance. “Fearfully and Wonderfully” sounds practically jubilant and anthemic in comparison, though just as unsettling as anything else on the disc. “Nation Saving Song” plays like a frantic prayer for the soul of their people.

But as strange as the album sounds with each song pulled out of context, in the midst of it, it sounds practically sublime, as if singing in tongues in a fit of spiritual ecstasy. It makes no sense to anyone outside of it, but there in the moment, it is as if Heaven itself has opened up to you, transcending all perception. That might be giving Lungfish too much credit, but I’m not sure how else to explain how Love Is Love affects me.