Despite our best efforts to categorize our lives into clearly defined terms, the reality of our person is seldom ever cut and dry. We, our relationships, opinions, and emotions are complicated, idiosyncratic, and in a constant state of flux. We are pendulums swinging between poles of needs and desires, logic and feeling, morality and rebellion. Kevin Barnes is a man that personifies this state of contradiction, transgressing boundaries of mentality, age, and gender in the eternal scramble for self-realization. Paralytic Stalks is the manifestation of the strain.

In Of Montreal's artistic territory, Paralytic Stalks comes as a culture shock; an abrupt departure from the familiar world of synth and funk that shaped the albums proceeding it. It abandons the single-oriented approach of False Priest without sentiment, in favour of rambling pop experiments and enraged ranting. Melody takes a backseat to dense compositions and emotional psychosis. Stalks is Barnes' most personal release yet, abolishing his flirtatious, sardonic writing style for violent imagery and hateful confessions of battered relationships, crutched and leaning. Emotional tapestries bleached and fraying.

To call it disquieting and revealing is not to call Paralytic Stalks an unrecognizable Of Montreal work; the first of its two definitive and opposing halves is rife with tangible structure and familiar synth noodling. Opening with the burning acclivity Gelid Ascent, Barnes spends as much time in the first five tracks layering harmonious vocal embellishments as he spends shouting bitterly over his arrangements. Dour Percentage pays its respects to Skeletal Lamping's playful pop. On Malefic Dowry, the islandly lullaby marking the album's turning point, Barnes' voice glows like stained glass; a song later, shattering in desperation.

Contrary to expectation, the cleaving of Paralytic Stalks into distinct halves serves not as a detriment to its content, but as a hypothesis, and a clever easement into awaiting chaos. It is not until the second-half assault that the listener's pleasant acquaintence gives way to stunned disbelief, when Ye, Renew the Plaintiff stumbles and suddenly hits the ground running in a nine-minute neo-psychedelia sprint; Kevin Barnes wailing anger over watery guitar wankery. Wintered Debts dabbles in alt-country gait before surrendering to a frigid modern classical come-down. The most challenging piece, Exorcismic Breeding Knife is a foray into sound collage, building tension and stress in dissonant cuts of strings and hair-raising bursts of percussive electronics. The exhaustive hour rounds out with the thirteen minute epic Authentic Pyrrhic Remission, a silver lining on the horizon of a sinking soul; a song collapsing under the weight of its own intensity into squeals of drone.

Paralytic Stalks is Kevin Barnes' most ambitious piece of work yet, juxtaposing pop and experimentation, harmony and dissonance, and the inner workings of the heart and the mind. It is challenging and complex, rewarding the resolute listener with nuances and insights on return. In a word, it is polarizing, and the mixed reactions of enthusiasm, distaste, and confusion only underline its effectiveness as a reflection of its writer. Stalks is a complete success in its aims, bridging all of the gaps between Barnes' contradictions in a tightly executed work of emotional genius: the first great album of the new year.

I have heard it said that every year has, and is bound to produce at least one classic album. For some time now, I've thought that 1989 was the quintessential exception to every rule. This time last year a facebook trend showed me that I knew embarrassingly little about the state of music during the year of my birth, which is to say absolutely nothing at all, so I set on a course to acquaint myself. After 71 albums, and countless hours spent meticulously weeding through pages upon pages of RYM recommendations, I was convinced I was wasting my time. And then I picked up On Land and In the Sea.

You can throw around words like "disintegration" and "doolittle", but it is Cardiacs' On Land and In the Sea that I consider 1989's crowning output. For all the peculiar mythology of this band, including elaborate conspiracy theories, rumoured label disputes, and neurotic enacted sketches, it's surprising to see that their legacy is such a well kept secret.

On Land begins with Two Bites of Cherry, and in those three minutes the musical theme mutates a dozen times; a virulent preview of the coming attraction: a relentless and maniacal carnival; would've-been-ritalin-kids starring in a melodic freakshow that's nearly violent in its inability to focus for any significant period of time. The resulting album is 13 tracks of spastic and playful acrobatics. Fast Robert brushes against being anthemic through its saxophone and leapfrogs into the dissonant piano of Mare's Nest. Buds and Spawn rides in on stuttering guitars, opening into an empowering chorus.

Tim Smith plays ringmaster, and his reedy shouting functions as a seatbelt on a rollercoaster of dissonant guitars and clownish saxophone. Each track wrenches and plunges in ways impossible to predict even after dozens of listens. There is no sitting on the park bench and observing from the side; you are either committed blindly to the unexpected thrill, or you can go home. It wraps up with the eight minute Evero Closely Guarded Line, a grand culmination of acts in the three-ring circus that marches on, all performers returning for final dazzling stunts, an assault of performance, ending with a flourish and a bow.

On Land and In the Sea strikes like a choreographed flash mob; a surprise flurry of excitement, activity, and confusion that leaves the bystander stunned in a state of wonder. Not a moment of time, nor space in the air is squandered. It is concentrated and caffeinated. Cardiacs are unlike any artist I've heard yet in their queer blend of punk and progressive rock, single-handedly recruiting my interest to both genres in 40 raucous minutes. On Land defibrillates pulse into a year otherwise devoid of movement, delivering a chaotic marriage of ideas; a gem so valuable it would be worthwhile to sift through another hundred pans of rubble to rediscover it.