Austin’s current kings of neurotic bummer-punk have put out their most confident and cohesive record yet, Dopers (Monofonus Press). Trading in much of their earlier treble shrapnel for a rich thickness, the band keeps these songs mired in a funny/sad stasis where the night’s gotten too cold, but the sun is plotting enemy action. Several of Dopers’ best songs hover around that moment of horrifying, ecstatic clarity in the middle of an afterparty. The opener, “Bad Times,” uses drums as washes of shadow and flecks of life washing over guitars that careen and plunge before the song climaxes with a whirlpool of static. Lines like, “Now I’m coughing up blood, let’s take it to the country!” and “The late night speed was a bad idea. Don’t ask what we’re breathing,” float to the surface and submerge again. “Signal Matter” is a dance of swivel-hipped isolation with circling, repetitive guitars punctuated by rock hard drumbeats caked in distortion that recalls a choked, gnarled heartbeat.

Spray Paint avoid solipsism here, unlike many authors of this brand of end-of-the-party record. There’s a keen eye for other people, for characters, even if the empathy is filtered through dry eyes and sour smoke. “Goth Apologist” is one of the finest songs in the “bartender as arbiter/God” sub-genre in awhile, hitting the same sweet spot as Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments’ “El Cajon” and Leonard Cohen’s “Closing Time” for the kind of listener who makes room for both those tentpoles. Surging low notes thrashed by high-end neon squiggle through an austere sculpture. It hints at a story in shattered fragments from mercurial points of view: “She lost 10 years in there, somewhere… Wracked with the habit, she ain’t no stranger… She can pour a stiff drink. It gives me a solid feeling.” “Voice Modulator” is a relentless, scratchy yearning with guitars lurching forward through a parody of punk sloganeering that has the sting of a real accusation by someone who has it even worse: “People here always give me their money. No one here has ever been starving.”

“Anyone Else Want In” is the moment everything comes together as a six-plus minute tour de force in jittery shuffle time with rubbery guitar work. It pans down the sad street walked from last call to dawn. “It’s not ideal, but it’s vacant. It’s one of two. These fucking cowards, they’re in bad shape.” It’s followed by a palate-cleansing instrumental, “Gravity Drainer,” that lets the preceding track fully sink in. Dopers is a perfect example of a record splitting apart the DNA of musical genres and scenes before refabricating it, leaving out what doesn’t directly apply to the task at hand to create something that feels as fresh as those nights you only remember in broad strokes.