Beyond its facade as the fountainhead of American culture's glitz and glamour, Los Angeles has always had equally, if not often more alluring underbelly. Skid row squalor, gang wars, excesses of all varieties, and the stench of vanity gone awry permeate the city, poised to overtake the shimmering mirage of Hollywood idealism. Frank Alpine's eponymous debut for Wierd Records is LA noir at its finest: a frenzy of claustrophobic, danceable dread that skirts the line between outer-directed nihilistic aggression and fragrant introversion. Nocturnal synthesizers, isolated, frenetic, and monotonous, plot a destination either to somewhere new and uncertain, or perhaps to nowhere at all.

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