Upon first listen, Cut Yourself Free (Sacred Bones Records) eludes to a world heavy with brooding sentimentality. There’s a particular strain of self-loathing that sounds eerily familiar, like say Interpol’s Turn on the Bright Lights, an album that lurked in the shadows of Joy Division and every post-punk act that followed suit. CYF’s lead single, “Passion Plays,” is a spirited prowl through similar terrain, with bursting atmospherics and cold amplification that wade in an undertow of existential loneliness much the same way “Obstacle 1” did when Interpol was in vogue. Wymond Miles’ strangled and distorted howls crackle when the amp levels peak, before receding to a gothic croon plunged in heavy reverb during the album’s quieter moments. That’s not to suggest that Miles toils on the brink of unadulterated gloom and doom when laying sound to tape, however, it is a well-suited detachment from his day gig as the chameleonic lead guitarist for The Fresh and Onlys.

As on the Onlys’ landfill of recordings, Miles’ uncanny sound-shifting abilities are unveiled yet again with his second long-player for the Sacred Bones camp, shifting further from Frisco’s psych-frazzled pumice towards the darkened foyers of nighttime living with Ray-Bans firmly hugging his skull. “Night Drives” is wound thick in a cloak of synth gloss and vapor that rattles the cobwebbed vault of New Romanticism as Miles bawls in a low-end catatonia reminiscent of David Sylvian in his heyday. The synths froth in chilly sheets of New Wave spazzery, while the rhythmic adrenaline of bass and drums pound and thud in echoed bleats. Easily the most polished track of the album’s nine songs, its haunting stench wafts in the breeze long after the goth-gorged shambling of “Love Will Rise” fans out the flames at the record’s close. Following up on a more buoyant note, “Why Are You Afraid?” is another standout, with its heat-packing crunch and dangling guitar hooks hearkening back to the buzz-stoked chops of ’90s alt-rock, while the drone swarm of prickly fuzz during “Bronze Patina” is a surprising backdrop for the crystalline guitar plucks and keys that brew at room temps.

While CYF does have its optimistic moments, the loud-soft dynamic that zigzags freely from one tune to the next seemingly provides the perfect opportunity for Miles to lick any wounds and wring his soul dry. “Vacant Eyes” might be his best remedy, with a double-dose of twang and minor chords that resonate and dissolve in the stark hush of the song’s near-empty void. It’s by far his most gut-wrenching offering to date; as he pries the padded doors from his psyche, each quivering word tumbles into fragile shards of melancholia. Some may call it therapy, but whatever Miles is doing, it’s a great way to purge any skeletons from the closet.