It's not surprising that the Sea Scouts' second album shares its name with the Beacon of Hope psychiatric institution in the Bronx. Like the residents of that hospital, the Sea Scouts' chances of ever fitting in with the outside world are very slim, a notion the Tasmanian trio seem to revel in. The artwork, decorated with the twin metaphors of an aborigine and an alien, also boasts skulls, crossbones, and a harsh, other-worldly sketched portrait. Even the harried instruments have nothing in common. The bass melts into muddy pools that engulf the sheets of silvery, atonal guitars.
Drums work away at some meaningless low-end pounding.
And the vocals are so buried in the morass as to be almost unintelligible. Unlike Fugazi , Unwound , or even Ingmar Bergman, Albert Camus, and Werner Herzog, the Sea Scouts are offering no answers to the separation anxiety that inspires them. Actually, it's apparent that what the Sea Scouts want most is to wallow in their plight forever. And while that may be too much self-pity for most, they have the ability to make you feel better by sounding so much worse. And that's a rare feat.