If Songs of Praise was fuelled by teenage vitriol and Drunk Tank Pink delved into a different kind of psychological intensity, then Food for Worms sees shame enter a new, surreal landscape, and becomes, what frontman Steen describes as: “the Lamborghini of shame records.” The band’s third studio album sees shame enter a new, surreal landscape, as reflected in the cover art designed by acclaimed artist Marcel Dzama. It’s suggestive of what is left unsaid, what lies beneath the surface, the farcical and fantastical everyday that we are living in, in a society where both everything and nothing is possible. Recording each track live meant a kind of surrender: here, the rough edges give the album its texture; the mistakes are more interesting than perfection. In a way, it harkens back to the title itself and the way that with this record, the band are embracing frailty and, by doing so, are tapping into a new source of bravery. For the first time, the band are not delving inwards, but seeking to capture the world around them. “I don’t think you can be in your own head forever,” says Steen. A conversation after one of their gigs with a friend prompted a stray thought that he held onto: “It’s weird, isn’t it? Popular music is always about love, heartbreak, or yourself. There isn’t much about your mates.” In many ways, the album is an ode to friendship, a documentation of the dynamic that only five people who have grown up together and grown so close, against all odds can share.