The Painful Truth
Skunk Anansie
An Artist Is an Artist is a good way to announce your return. Skunk Anansie open The Painful Truth with a tense, impatient song about being judged and written off. Skin gives it the sort of performance that makes the argument fairly difficult to ignore. The band sound like they still have something to say, and plenty of ways to say it.
The interesting part is how much of that comes through unfamiliar sounds. Producer David Sitek helps the band bring electronic textures and unusual rhythms into the music without removing its force. This Is Not Your Life has a restless, almost mechanical feel, but the voice keeps it human. The tension is part of the appeal.
Shame takes a more exposed route. Skin sings about family and the feelings that stay with you, and the arrangement gives her enough space to make the words count. She has always had a powerful voice. Here, the quieter control is just as impressive as the moments when she opens it up.
Lost and Found is another highlight. It begins with the vocal alone, then adds piano and rhythm before the heavier instruments arrive. The changes feel purposeful. The song keeps finding another place to go without losing the melody that holds it together.
There is also room for a more direct lift. My Greatest Moment brings a brighter chorus into the record, and that matters on an album carrying this much personal weight. The band don't mistake seriousness for a requirement to keep every song in the same mood.
Some of the new textures take a little adjustment if you come here mainly for the old guitar-heavy sound. The album asks for attention rather than supplying an instant set of replacements for familiar favourites. It repays that attention with details that make the songs individual.
The Painful Truth is convincing because the band treat change as something worth doing. Skin is an exceptional centre for the music, but the arrangements give her a proper reason to push further. It is a strong, involved record with a real sense of discovery behind it.
