It’s a common trope to describe music as being “raw.” In literal contexts, this word means unprocessed for use: food that hasn’t been cooked, ore that hasn’t been refined, footage that hasn’t been edited. But even much of the music described as being raw has usually gone through some sort of processing. There’s an obvious effort taken in the rhyme schemes and meters to filter the raw emotion into a more palatable listening experience.

I don’t for one second want to suggest that there’s absolutely no labor involved in the creation of Chat Pile’s new record God’s Country—there’s plenty of sweat on this record. But the end result is as raw a record as I’ve ever heard, as if the labor was more one of mining the ore of the music from the earth than tediously sculpting it into shape.

Throughout the post punk beats and sludge metal riffs, vocalist Raygun Busch delivers unfiltered diatribes in a tuneless monologue. He aims his finger in a few directions, but the biggest target is the so-called Christian Nation that is the United States and its hypocrisy. And coming from Oklahoma City, Chat Pile has a front-row seat to the Bible Belt.

Across the disc, Busch juxtaposes Christianity’s professed values against the realities of a world that should look much different. And unfortunately, there’s plenty of ammunition. He points to climate change, the cultish devotion to firearms, dismissal for the poor, and more. The most pointed—and raw—is “Why,” which looks at homelessness with razor sharpness, asking “why do people have to sleep outside? There are empty buildings,” pointing out the obvious picture that every child notices before they’re taught to turn the other way. His cadence is conversational and manic as he zooms in on the details we ignore, imploring the listener to empathy. “I couldn’t survive on the streets. I’ve never had to push all my shit around in a shopping cart. Have you? Have you ever had ringworm? Scabies? Have you ever had to live outside?”

He maintains this energy throughout the record, only occasionally shifting into lazy melody. Around him, the band translates his emotional furor into a wildfire of metallic noise rock. Drums are simple and commanding, processed with a gated reverb stolen from 80s new wave. The bass lines are wrapped so tightly around the drum grooves that the bass might as well be part of the drum kit. Guitars shift between gauzy atmospheric licks and amp-blowing distortion. It’s as fitting an accompaniment as you could have for Busch’s mania, and it creates a powerful maelstrom.

This chaotic energy reaches a full head of steam on the nine-minute final track, “grimace_smoking_weed.jpg,” which feels like a noise rock remake of “The End” by the Doors, but with weed-induced hallucinations instead of an Oedipus Complex.

To say the record is rough around the edges is an understatement. It’s as elegant as a brick through a window, as polished as a Molotov cocktail. And it’s exactly the kind of record we need these days. Unfortunately, I’m not sure the people who need to think about these questions are into noise rock.

God’s Country is out July 29 through The Flenser.

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