Recorded in Los Angeles, engineered and mixed by McClendon and Smith and later mastered by Grammy-nominated producer Will Yip (Code Orange, Movements, Title Fight), plastic death features some of the band’s most dynamic experimentation––trumpet, trombone, violin, and even marimba dance alongside the band’s own dextrous instrumentation. Lyrically, McClendon takes a more abstract approach, borrowing from the surreal multilayered language of Finnegans Wake, the poetic slogans of Jenny Holzer’s Truisms, and dadaist Tristan Tzara’s method of pulling random combinations of words from a hat.

The opening track on the album, “coelacanth,” begins as a lo-fi home demo of bassist Jonas Newhouse playing piano over a barely intelligible conversation between lead guitarist Layne Smith and their roommate, before building into a gorgeous polyrhythmic crescendo, evoking the minimalism of Steve Reich and Phillip Glass. As the song unfolds, drummer William White launches the band into climactic cacophony, culminating in a disorienting series of chord hits.

“coelacanth,” much like its namesake—a fish that was thought to have been extinct for millions of years—heralds the band’s return after having functionally disappeared for nearly five years since the release of their 2019 debut, the first glass beach album, which had grown a cult fanbase for its unflinching depiction of queer life as mediated through social media, its oversized ambition, and its scrappy yet adventurous production.

Upon returning from their first tour, the band, eager to work on new material, would find their plans halted by a global pandemic. While trying and mostly failing to make progress on the new album over Discord and Zoom calls, they struggled to proceed. They released “1015,” a hyperpop-influenced single about the 2008 recession, wrote the song “running” as a prospect for the third Bill and Ted movie (which would ultimately be rejected), let their fans vote on songs for them to cover, and performed virtual concerts in Minecraft, all while J wrote demos at home.

These demos would finally be realized as the band moved into a house together mid-lockdown to isolate and work. The next three years proceeded as a relentless process of writing and rewriting, always attempting to serve the music and its themes while pursuing originality and avoiding anything that felt like a default choice. “It’s not a matter of, ‘What’s the best decision?’ It’s, ‘What is the decision that only we would make?’” says McClendon.

Much like the bioluminescent “abyss angel” on the cover, plastic death often lurks in the dark depths of the sea. Still, the band feels this is ultimately an optimistic and cathartic record.

“By the end of it, it’s like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders,” says Smith. “I would like people to come away feeling like it’s going to be okay,” adds Newhouse.