Maynard James Keenan turns off the morning coffee until an idea shows up on the screen, then lets the caffeine back in. That’s basically Puscifer in a nutshell right now. They sound hungry on Normal Isn’t, not in some grand heroic way, more like three people in a room poking at a riff until it bites back. Keenan, Mat Mitchell, and Carina Round have always treated this project like a permission slip for jokes, ugliness, tenderness, whatever weird costume the song wants to wear. This time the costume rack is heavy on black lipstick, stiff collars, and synths built to glare at you.
Mitchell produces the record with serious control but it never feels sterile. Everything is sharply placed but it still breathes and snags. Guitars sit more forward than usual, not as some macho “now we rock” announcement, more like a texture they’d kept at arm’s length and finally stopped pretending they don’t like. The synth palette is thick and specific. You can almost see the hardware: Moog One, Fairlight, Synclavier, the sort of machines that make nostalgia feel less like a vibe and more like a physical material. Round’s vocal sampling and harmonies fill out the sound. She’s doing a lot here, fog and spotlight and everything in between.
Thrust kicks the door in with off-kilter percussion and a chanty, itchy momentum. Keenan and Round play their usual game of contrasting energies, but it’s less beauty-and-beast theatre and more two people finding the same thing darkly funny for completely different reasons. The groove stutters, resets, lunges again. The lyric about trying not to murder as a daily battle lands with practical gallows humour.
The title track Normal Isn’t is where the record’s centre of gravity really shows itself. Not as a manifesto, as a tug. Dual bass turns the low end into a conversation, Greg Edwards locking in while Tony Levin adds that unmistakable sense of authority. Sarah Jones’s drumming sits oddly, syncopated but never showy, pushing the song sideways when you expect it to march forward. Keenan’s voice floats above it with a pleading calm. The repeated ask for serenity and tranquillity sounds less like a spiritual pose and more like someone trying to talk themselves down in real time.
Self Evident doesn’t bother with subtlty. It’s a chugging six-string hook with a steady beat and a lyric that’s both childish and dead-on. The “bunghole” line is pure Keenan: gross, precise, and somehow catchy enough that you can imagine people yelling it back at a show without even thinking about what they’re agreeing to. Round adds bite of her own. The song moves with punk efficiency and wraps up fast.
Bad Wolf slides into something woozier, flickering keys and a pulsating synth bass that feels like a streetlight hum at 2 a.m. The simulation line lands like a shrug and a wince at the same time. Not sci-fi cosplay, more like the tired recognition of how easy it is to live through screens and start trusting the wrong things. Round’s vocal transmissions drift through it like intercepted radio.
The Quiet Parts has that darkwave melodrama Puscifer can do without turning it into pastiche. The chorus opens up just enough to feel like air rushing into a sealed room. Then Mantastic comes in with that jittery confidence they love, where rhythm and sound design act like comedy timing. Short punches, sudden pivots, little ugly details that make you laugh and then feel weird about it.
Pendulum is one of the record’s best mood pieces. Fairlight pulses like a nervous system, bells and harmonies hovering in the background while Keenan repeats the swing-and-balance mantra. Round calls it a gothy playground and you can hear why. It’s got that sense of motion without resolution. ImpetuoUs keeps the synth-forward tension going, less a release than a decision to keep moving even when the ground feels unstable.
Then Seven One arrives and changes the room temperature. Danny Carey on drums brings a specific kind of weight. Not just power, but that rolling, articulate force he’s known for. Mr Ian Ross narrates with a calm, almost ceremonial tone, and Keenan’s processed vocal becomes something between a chant and a transmission. It’s a strange interlude that still feels central.
Ending with The Algorithm in its live Sessanta mix is a smart choice. Not because it’s a victory lap, because it’s messy and immediate. The crowd noise matters. It turns the song into a shared ritual, a bunch of people agreeing that doom scroll and attention addiction aren’t abstract concepts, they’re daily reality. It also underlines what Puscifer have always done best: take the ugliest bits of the present, dress them up in hooks and theatre, and make them singable without sanding off the discomfort.
The chemistry between Keenan and Round remains the engine. Her voice can be soothing, taunting, spectral, sometimes all in the same verse. Mitchell holds it together with a producer’s patience and a bandmate’s lack of preciousness. The songs can mutate without sounding like they lost the plot. There’s a rawness in the guitar choices, a crispness in the synth design, and a sense that they’re still willing to be a little ridiculous as long as the ridiculousness cuts true. If Puscifer is friendship, as Mitchell puts it, you can hear that safety here. Not comfort, but the freedom to take risks.
Normal Isn’t will be released on February 6th, 2026 via Puscifer Entertainment, Alchemy Recordings, and BMG.
Photo by Travis Shinn
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