I’ve spent much of my life trying to fight the idea that the “local” in “local bands” is a polite way of saying “bad.” After all, if they were any good, wouldn’t they have graduated from being local bands, right? We all know the universe unilaterally reward talent with notoriety to a proportional degree, right? Obviously, we know that’s absurd, but the idea persists.

One of my most frequent rebuttals to this prejudice is my friend Joe Baughman and his backing band, that is most recently called The Righteous Few. Their performances, whether in a theater or a basement, have been filled with the sort of ambitious, freewheeling quirkiness that brought acts like Arcade Fire and Sufjan Stevens to prominence. While there’s no real substitute for seeing this costume-clad beastly collective in person, Antichrist Complex is the closest they’ve ever put to tape, complete with horn and string sections, instrument changes, and lyrics just as manic as the unpredictable swirl of folk rock, funk, and gospel bursting out of the band.

I’ve known Joe a long time. We met sometime in college, but I mostly just considered him a gentleman of impeccable taste—and a talented stop-motion artist. That is, until I saw him perform a solo set at a local festival a few years after graduation, hammering on his keyboard with a chaotic frenzy and howling with a voice that I never would have expected out of the mild-mannered Mennonite I knew in college.

A few years later, he put together a backing band that amplified his rollicking indie rock to a degree I never anticipated, perfectly channeling his incredible fusion of pop culture touchstones. There are bits of Paul McCartney’s charming songwriting and howling vocals, Talking Heads’ art school wit, Paul Newman and Harry Nillson’s humor, Sufjan Stevens’ confessional storytelling, and the manic energy of Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem—and I mean that completely as a compliment (and Joe is the kind of guy to understand it as such).

Antichrist Complex is as successful an attempt at capturing their lightning in a bottle as they’ve ever done. The music is mercurial and chimeric. Just when you think you’ve gotten it pinned down as a sort of Man Man-esque piano chamber rock, they drop a thick layer of synthesizers into a Beck-ish alt pop. And once you’ve gotten your head around that, they pull out the banjos, mandolins, and harmonicas before launching into a baritone-sax led funk rock.

Joe’s lyrics are just as unpredictable and far-reaching. There are biblical images galore, but they’re mostly bereft of hope. Instead, he spends most of his time reflecting on the existential crises they can bring. There are bits of American exceptionalist ennui, doomsday anxiety, and the depression that comes from hearing that God has a special purpose set aside for you that you feel like you’ve missed. It’s heavy stuff, but you’d be forgiven for missing it under his wry sense of humor and pop culture references.

And I’ll admit. For a long while, I might have thought that there was no way to capture the group’s storm-like live show onto tape. It was too attached to costumes, props, giant papier-mâché heads, and the unhinged movements of Joe’s own wiry body. But this is as pure an essence that can be distilled from that hurricane. Obviously, you should make every effort to catch them live if you can, but if you’re not anywhere near South Bend or their usual live-show circuit, Antichrist Complex is the next best thing. Set aside an hour and listen to this record. I promise it will be worth your time.