Geese’s third studio record, Getting Killed, is itching to lose all restraints. Beneath its winding, almost effortless sound—its unpredictable vocal melodies, extended drum and guitar solos, flurries of percussion, and loose lyrical structures—there is a pot boiling with white-hot rage building up unimaginable pressure from societal demands for politeness, order, structure, and calm before breaking into a cathartic crash-out. It’s rich in sound, emotion, and lyrical motifs, but it’s also just one of the best rock albums of the year.

The first triumph of the new record is “Trinidad”, which establishes the sonic and lyrical themes from the moment it plays that relaxed rock guitar riff, a thick and hypnotic bass, and drums that simmer in the far background. At first, it shrinks and explodes: vocalist Cameron Winter restrains his naturally booming voice to a slight falsetto that only barely overcomes the sound of the guitar, only for him to burst into a messy, full-throated scream, “THERE’S A BOMB IN MY CAR!” while the band crashes out. They all quickly snap back into composure for the second verse, but once the anger slips through the cracks, it’s hard to contain it further. Vocal harmonies start building up the second chorus, following Winter just slightly out of sync as he gets louder and more frantic until his voice cracks while he seethes, “When that light turns red, I’m driving away / THERE’S A BOMB IN MY CAR!” The song perfectly embodies a person pushed to the absolute brink, showing how the anger overtaking one’s subconscious leaks out uncontrollably.

Getting Killed is the loosest of all Geese albums, focusing more on the flow of sound rather than the density of the lyrics. Compared to the titular track off 2023’s 3D Country, whose first verse packs in 143 words about a cowboy’s psychedelic trip that transports him to Ancient Rome, almost all songs carry a sort-of manic obsession with particular phrases, replacing coherent thought with simple repetition. “Husbands”, for instance, offers a pounding, Gospel-meets-slacker track that crescendos in intensity and volume as it fixates on the simple images of washing hair and stampeding horses to express crushing loneliness. “Islands of Men” follows a similar pattern, pushing nearly six minutes yet delivering only a steady stream of short phrases, most of which are “You can’t keep / Running away / From what is real / And what is fake.” It’s guided, instead, by a prolonged instrumental break, progressing from a groovy rock guitar solo, to a brief trumpet and woodwinds section, and then to a bell twinkling, keyboard-rippling, angelic finale. The airy composition, relaxed and danceable beat, soulful vocals, and almost spiritual and cathartic lyrics, all come together to create a song that breathes.

Furthermore, Geese’s album stuns because it’s so delightfully unpredictable. While Cameron Winter’s vocal patterns are pretty much the same as they ever were—playing with the full range of his voice, from the deep drawls to the wobbly falsettos, sometimes within the same measure—this album finds him relinquishing some of his impressive control, going some wild places in the process. In the quick track “Half Real”, each time Winter repeats the same visual of dividing something in half—his love, his thoughts, his life, and his brain—his inflection and tempo change slightly, as if he’s struggling to keep in time with the constant trilling piano.

Likewise, “Au Pays du Cocaine” is a beautiful, heartfelt track that spills melancholy, tenderness, and desperation out of the vocalist’s mouth like water from a knocked-over cup. “Bow Down” then follows and abruptly switches the mood into an upbeat, Jazz-influenced rock song. Amidst all the chaos caused by the honks, booms of a shotgun that blow out the speakers, claps, and tambourine shakes, Winter just sings whatever; the notes that land are about as esoteric as the surreal, Catholic-soaked lyrics. For an album all about permitting oneself to indulge in one’s mania—to step outside one’s restraints—Winter’s free-spirited approach to singing makes for an earnest, powerful performance.

Two songs on this record are some of the best written and composed tracks of the year. “Getting Killed” radiates warmth and fun with its percussion-heavy instrumental introduction and hook. Cameron Winter’s vocals sound perfectly crazed, fraying as he belts out, “I can’t even hear myself talk / I’m trying to talk over everybody in the world!” and the perennially cathartic, “I’m getting killed by a pretty good life!” The finale “Long Island City Here I Come” is equally a stunner: the impulse for self-destruction laid out in the lyrics evolve into something apocalyptic, using biblical parables of Judgement Day to craft a violent story of homecoming. The “Here I come here I come come here I come here I come come” muttered at a fast tempo becomes the manic heartbeat of this liberation cry. And with no chorus but a crash of percussion, a crescendo of keys, a steely rock guitar solo, and a bizarre voice narrating it all, it’s a song governed purely by its death drive.

I can see many people of Geese’s generation resonating with Getting Killed’s outbursts, understanding the gut feeling behind “THERE’S A BOMB IN MY CAR!” or “I’m getting killed by a pretty good life!” without needing much explanation. I can see those who witnessed institutions crumble at the roots just as we’re supposed to latch on and use them to make something of ourselves nodding and going “yeah” when Geese half-jokingly demand lobotomies and crucifixions just to get out of this endless hell of bad news and taxes. The albumisn’t a manifesto—it doesn’t offer any solutions to everything that makes us angry—but it does speak to that general tiredness, that desperation for fun, that wry humor, that disappointment in one’s elders, that void of any remaining feelings for this country, and that impulse to buy a gun and hit a cowbell with it that are a part of this generation’s sensibilities. Getting Killed is an instant classic that only a band as nuts as Geese could compose.

pre-order Getting Killed by Geese HERE