Sweary electro-punk veterans Sleaford Mods return with another confrontational take on our woeful zeitgeist. And they’ve come mob-handed, with more guest stars than ever before. Robert Plummer relishes the onslaught.

Stay one step ahead, keep raising your game: no matter how big Sleaford Mods become, they still sound like they’re up against it. Last time out, they delivered a searing state-of-the-nation address with UK Grim, so how do they top that? The Demise Of Planet X gives a resounding answer to that question – they go global.

Always different, always the same – John Peel said that about the Fall, but 13 albums in, Sleaford Mods have earned the right to inherit that mantle. Like the Ramones or Bo Diddley, although their revolutionary template was there from day one, each subsequent evolution is enthralling. With Sisyphean determination, they keep rolling their rock: their itchy, abrasive, electro-minimalist rhythms sound more compelling every time, while their scabrous social critiques only bite deeper.

Changes in their sound take place on an incremental basis. Vocalist Jason Williamson and instrumentalist Andrew Fearn operated for years as a self-contained unit, but since 2021’s Spare Ribs, guest appearances have enlivened proceedings. This time, no fewer than five of the 13 tracks are graced with additional contributions, adding new colours to the duo’s sonic palette.

Opening salvo The Good Life tells you what to expect. It features kindred spirits Joe Hicklin and Callum Maloney, otherwise known as fast-rising post-industrial funk-punks Big Special, while sci-fi actress Gwendoline Christie provides a furious cameo. Williamson disses rival musicians who “wear crap clothes like Jasper Carrott”, then Hicklin and Maloney’s crooned chorus bemoans the elusiveness of liberty: “The good life feels like it must when you’re free.”

The aggro continues on Double Diamond, with Williamson neatly skewering one of the scourges of the age, social media one-upmanship. “Why the fuck have you got a personal page on Wikipedia? You’ve done fuck all,” he spits out.

For some light relief, New Zealand singer-songwriter Aldous Harding sings while Williamson rants on the album’s catchiest tune, Elitist G.O.A.T. The contrast is so striking that they repeat the trick on No Touch, which showcases Life Without Buildings ex-vocalist Sue Tompkins trying to coax out grumpy Williamson’s sunnier side. “You’re not miserable, you’re nice,” she teases: “I’m not,” he replies.

But in between those two pop gems comes Megaton, a bleak look at weapons of mass destruction: “Combust the blast/No war, no death, no point, there’s no fucker left.” The friendly bombs might as well come, since modern life is so vacuous. “Weights and wanking/Hard bodies and phone lights/That’s all we got.”

More shades of darkness ensue: ominous synth sweeps and a slow hip-hop groove herald Bad Santa, as Williamson descends into full-blown paranoia. “I’ve been trying to work on my hate, mate,” he declaims. “Why don’t you stand outside my house, stare at me too?”

The title track’s Magic Roundabout vibe lends sugar to the spite, with Williamson fulminating about sordid sex and unquiet deaths: “Bastards sleep in noisy graves.” Meanwhile, Don Draper channels a very modern sense of being overwhelmed by cultural flotsam. Its library-music melody serves as a backdrop for a stream-of-consciousness diatribe that rhymes “Egg McMuffin” with “Jimmy Ruffin” and “roll it in glitter” with “Charles and Camilla”.

After the murky personal reminiscences of Gina Was, Shoving The Images is another exploration of the dark side of social media. Williamson voices his disgust at what he finds (“Ten versions of the same shit/S&M leather kit”). At the same time, outside in the real world, there’s a glimpse of “poverty levels like crackling meat”.

If the planet’s demise is near, it’s time to name the guilty men: a clip of Steve Bannon, White House strategist during Donald Trump’s first presidential term, opens Flood The Zone. Nottingham-based singer Liam Bailey joins in as Williamson warns that “whoever’s on the tightrope is gonna fall off it”. The conclusion is obvious: “The pied piper can’t handle this/You’d better flood the zone with shit.”

The sense of doom intensifies on Kill List, with rapper Snowy claiming to see “the horses of the Apocalypse galloping” over chest-rattling sub-bass. Williamson is as much a victim as an observer here, helplessly tilting at windmills (“I’m always leaving comments on the Guardian articles but they always take ‘em off”). In his quest for salvation, he cries out for “a pamphlet that helps” and bemoans his “sink or swim” life.

Finally, The Unwrap sees Williamson trapped in a personal cul-de-sac that is also a wider collective impasse. Haunted by the mantra of “buy stuff now”, he also deplores the futility of aspiration: there is literally nowhere to run to. “Even when you beat them streets, even when you get somewhere/No fucker likes you, no one cares.”

The mood of gathering social entropy that Sleaford Mods depict so well would be utterly disheartening, were it not for their vehement intelligence and undimmed ferocity. If William Blake could see a world in a grain of sand, they can see the dying of the light in a fast-draining phone battery. We should cherish their rage: one day, it may be all we have left.

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You can find Sleaford Mods online at https://www.sleafordmods.com/. They are also on Facebook here, on X here and on Instagram here.

All words by Robert Plummer. More writing by Robert can be found at his author’s archive. He is also on X as @robertp926.