If ever there were a manifesto for 1970s , one that prefigured both the decadence of the decade's burgeoning and excesses and the rage of , the opening track from 's fourth album, was it. The irony was that while the cut itself came down firmly on the side of the fence, most of the rest of the album didn't. was co-produced by longtime Cult record boss , and newcomer , and in addition, the band's lyric writing was being done internally with help from poet-cum-rocker (who also sings on ). , a major contributor to the band's songwriting output, received a solitary credit while critic , whose words were prevalent on the Cult's previous outings, was absent. The album yielded the band's biggest single with a multi-textured, deeply melodic song with overtones, written by guitarist . The rest of the album is ambitious in that it all but tosses aside 's proto- stance and instead recontextualizes their entire stance. It's still dark, mysterious, and creepy, and perhaps even more so, it's still rooted in posturing and excess, but gone is the nihilistic biker boogie in favor of a more tempered -- indeed, nearly -- sound that gave 's keyboards parity with 's guitar roar, as evidenced by This is not to say that abandoned their adrenaline sound entirely. Cuts like have plenty of feral wail in them. Ultimately, is a solid record, albeit a startling one for fans of the band's earlier sound. It also sounds like one of restless inspiration, which is, in fact, what it turned out to be given the recordings that came after. It turned out to be 's last consistent effort until they released in 1981. ~ Thom Jurek