Several months back, the words “the mind boggles at what these guys are capable of over the course of an LP” graced the pages of The Silent Ballet. As prophetic as the words were then, the reckoning is now upon us. Following such an inordinately accomplished debut, Giants have perpetuated their lyrical palette, bucking stale melodies and ideas in favor of polished and sophisticated patterns. The resulting record is a product of these cultured themes - at times melodic and captivating, and at others profound and intense.

They, The Undeserving is a distinctly American record, basking in the flavorful and effervescent expanse that is the burgeoning instrumental scene. Akin to cohorts Kilion and Mahlon, the sheer exuberance of Giants’ work is staggering. Working from simple rhythms and blueprints, the tracks build with complexity and dynamism that display a verve and maturity that transcends their relative youth. Consolidating it all is an understanding of narrative axioms; passages of the tracks don’t so much as journey to particular climaxes, but allude to other sub-sections on the album. It plays like an unfolding allegory - self-referential, structurally ambiguous and wholly entrenched in the superlative musicianship that binds it all.

Central to this (or rather their) elegant demeanor is certainly its exquisite production. Such is the validity and scope of the flawless acoustics that they instill the record with an affinity of its delicate trappings; this weaving story would, after all, be rather redundant with pages missing. To this extent, guitars resonate with sparkling and moving significance, and the percussion evokes fairytale and Hollywood connotations (the uplifting and glorious culmination of its parts). It is, in every sense of the word, an opera. An amalgamation of the purity and heart that drives the melody and that drives the story - we get tragedy, hope, desperation, apprehension and, ultimately, we get compassion. Critical and unrestrained, the empathy is deafening.

“Under The New Sun,” a literal and ominously titled beginning, is merely the overture to the ensuing religion. Built on layers of simple and entwining guitars (inspired once again is the bands ability to accomplish an excessive amount of work in such short durations), the crescendo makes way to the most similar offering to their debut EP. “Steps In Static Progression” opens so deftly with tremolo strings fluttering that it sounds like it’ll simply dissipate. The exquisite, sweeping melody that follows, however, hauls the tracks along effortlessly, heroically and soars into an extravagant, roaring end. This idiom of valor and courage, you’ll notice, is a prevalent device as the album plays out. Moments of inspiration and awe are widespread - the ebow breakdown, for example, that wrenches into “Swiftly It Comes, Swiftly It Flees” is, indeed, a haunting and provoking inclusion. As the snare rolls that engulf this passage grasp and cling to its resourcefulness, we are made to believe how fleeting these moments in our lives genuinely are - how their brevity is to be cherished. Such as is the case with most stories - literal or otherwise.

How fitting it is, then, that “Withered Life, Communal Ruin” takes us by the arm and marches us to the record’s finale. It is a military ode, a march of such unequivocal vitality that the destination may as well be the stars. For the first and only time the band aren’t set on their objective, they don‘t simply get from one place to another. Guitars start. Stop. Start. Stop. They crash with the percussion, wail with each other, and temper themselves alone. The intertwining melodies are almost reprises of everything that’s come before them, condensed and laid bare. It’s so utterly vivid and uplifting that it should become musical dogma. It is a climax that thrills and obstructs thought long after its finish. Yet one message remains - the record’s appendix, that your heart is quivering and pounding - the experience of extreme loss, profound longing or glorious euphoria. That tension. Laid bare. As you breathe.

The earth is not a cold dead place.
Not because you are listening.
Because you are alive.
You are alive.
You are alive…
…
…

- Alex Bradshaw