It was almost impossible to escape the hype bestowed upon You Won’t Get What You Want. The ominous album art appeared everywhere, accompanied by choruses of friends telling me that I just had to listen to it, man, it’s incredible.

So I did. And I admit: I didn’t get it.

But in the time since, I’ve continued to see it lauded. A few friends list it in their all-time favorite records. A few publications named it one of the best of the decade. One friend in particular harassed me over its absence in any of my aesthetic collections on my 3×3 record display. And so I was bid, by peer pressure, FOMO, and a newfound appreciation for Nine Inch Nails and industrial music in general, to give it more time.

And, as often happens with challenging statements like this, one day it just clicked.

You Won’t Get What You Want was their first album in eight years, and fans and critics have pointed out that it brought a radical shift in their sound. While their earlier work leaned toward grindcore, noise rock, and mathcore, this record digs its heels deep into the muck of industrial, taking some cues from post punk and no wave. The vocals are often half-sung in a desperate yelp or maniacal bark.

Musically, it shifts between patient and pummeling. The shift between the first two tracks set the stage “City Song” serves as a fitting overture, its unapologetically droning synths and angular drum beats eventually erupting into a wall of molten noise. “Long Road, No Turns” is then blistering and chaotic, the kick drum riding eighth notes and atonal guitars that seem to be played more with effects pedals than with notes.

Even the quieter tracks are underpinned with an uneasy energy that threatens to catch fire at any second. Take for instance “Less Sex,” an ominous ballad that sounds like Nick Cave collaborating with Godflesh. “Daughter” is similarly subdued in tempo, except for the chaotic, octave-shifted lead guitar line blaring over the dark groove of the rhythm section. But as uneasy as those tracks are, they’re practically a breather after the twin fury of “The Flammable Man” and “The Lord’s Song,” the former of which shows the biggest signs of their grindcore history.

Even at its most straightforward, it’s an abrasive and chaotic experience. “The Reasons They Hate Me” could almost be a straight up rock song. It’s even almost catchy. But the dissonant lead guitar and tuneless vocals derail any attempts for radio play.

But in an album like this, “abrasive and chaotic” is the name of the game. This isn’t a record meant for casual listening. It is meant to be unsettling—even terrifying. As Pitchfork described it, “This is not music interested in growing on you: it consumes and dominates.” This is a record that has come to destroy everything in its path. It is wholly uncompromising in its vision, refusing to give away any ground in the interest of accessibility, palatability, or making sonic sense. And in a way, this brand of pummeling sonic punishment becomes almost hypnotic. The aural assault crashes against your mind until your brain can no longer resist it. It breaks through and burns through the landscape like a wildfire, cleansing everything it touches. When “Guest House” dies down and fades into a string outro, it’s an almost redemptive experience. This album probably isn’t going to join the regular rotation on my turntable, but each listen will be a significant experience.