Florence + the Machine give in to the spellbinding power of performance on Everybody Scream

Three tracks in and you can already vision them on the dimly lit stage, with Florence Welch at the centre screaming all she’s got left as a woman in insurmountable pain and an artist in wrought-up frustration. “Do I win a prize?” she gnarls in the chorus of poem-turned-rant “One of the Greats”. The desire to prevail against misogynistic favouritism in the industry, to make music not as a crowd pleaser but as a hardwon result of catharsis, enlivens every minute on Everybody Scream. Welch’s voice is as expressive as ever, and the band’s company – supported by Aaron Dessner – pairs it with live instrumentation that feeds on their unruliest impulses yet.

Everything comes together like fate, as if this is what Florence + the Machine are meant to make all along. Drums stomp in purest fury, guitars spear Welch’s deepest struggles with blaring noise; they’re a spiritual discharge of negativity. The little spasmic additions such as that screech at the end of late-career highlight “Sympathy Magic” and the distant backing vocals on “Kraken”, a feverish sister to Dance Fever’s “Daffodil”, heighten Everybody Scream’s coven-like allure. Their use of synthesizers reduced to a minimum, it may also be their most ritualistic record due to how large, crisp and unedited it sounds. Most songs here can definitely be performed live without any compromise.

Welch’s songwriting is one of the causes; she’s never taken a more accessible approach. Lines can be as easy to comprehend as “I thought I knew what sadness was / I was wrong” on “You Can Have It All”. Metaphors are stowed under her belt, prioritising instead the spellbinding power of performance. Knowing that she’s gone through a miscarriage and other fatal illnesses, one might’ve expected a more elaborate account of her past few years. But what she realised from such a turbulent time is how much connection matters, and that requires honesty and clarity. This is double edged, though: some tracks like “Buckle” and “Music by Men” will struggle outside of a live setting because of how simplistic and tongue-in-cheek they appear.

Those who aren’t invested in live performances may find Everybody Scream less compelling. The deeper the record goes, the more dependent it is on Welch and co’s theatricality that can sometimes only be appreciated by seeing it seep into their stage presence before your eyes. It’s like, say, watching a Shakespeare play on a phone; the magic of each movement the actors make, of each stress and syllable that they mouth, pretty much disappears. Take a look at, for example, the “Sympathy Magic” gig she just did for Jimmy Fallon – how rigorous and empowering and therapeutic that was. Luckily, there are just enough tracks on the album that emanate with such radiant energy even on stream, beckoning you to lose yourself in the restorative and ever-expanding coven.