Low is a band from Minnesota that traditionally makes music that sounds like snow. Not a light sprinkling that makes everything twinkle with Christmas card frosting, but a very heavy fall that deadens extraneous sound; beautiful but at the same time unnerving in its stillness. For 2005’s The Great Destroyer they seemed to be moving away from the back catalogue to play fast and loose with dollops of noise, and melodies less measured and intense than found on the likes of Things We Lost in the Fire. It was a mixed bag of work that at times veered towards the mediocre, but ultimately seemed to be a half-way house between their before and after.

As it is The Great Destroyer was not much more than a scenic diversion. New album Drums and Guns sees the return to a familiar path, albeit one that is cast in long, dark, lonely shadows by a bleaker landscape than we may have seen before. There’s nothing obscure or oblique about the album’s title, like an ingredient listing it tells you exactly what to expect. – œDrum’ implies that beats and rhythm have more or less usurped melody, whilst the – œgun’ represents a pervading theme of brooding, bloody violence

From the start Low make it clear that they have no intention of dealing in superficial sugar-coating. Alan Sparhawk’s tired vocal on Pretty People states the grimly obvious against grubby guitars and a _death-march drum, “all the soldiers are all gonna die. All the little babies are all gonna die”. The harsh keys of Breaker introduce a pondering on the futility of bodies that break and hands that kill, whilst Murderer makes an ominous offer in the name of religious fanaticism “don’t act so innocent. I’ve seen you pound your fist into the earth, and I’ve read your books ”.

The strong subject matter is augmented by a minimalist approach to sound. Gone are the warm organic guitars that may have softened the blow in the past. In their place are cold-blooded electronics that loop in on themselves throughout the album like a recurring nightmare, stripping some of the songs clean of their humanity. Dust on the Window looms into view via the relentless chug of a drum-machine that almost dehumanises Mimi Parker’s sweet, sorrowful vocal and Always Fade reverberates with a repetitive rhythm that bounces endlessly off the walls of Sparhawk and Parker’s compelling duet.

Although Drums and Guns is at times a tough listen, like an allusion to life itself, the band has littered the bleakness with small nuggets of light. Belarus and Violent Past both help ward off the nihilism that threatens to swamp the album. The former contrasts the persistent crack of a stuck record with strings that dance merrily in the background like blissfully ignorant children playing in a war zone, the latter turns its back on a heavy atonal organ to drag a pretty, if not slightly pensive, melody into its midst.

On all fronts, Drums and Guns is by no means an easy album. Its black themes and stark arrangements aren’t for everyone. But those who are brave enough to spend time in Low’s dark and barren world will find the experience possibly disturbing but wholly rewarding.