Corinna Kelley
Contributing Writer
Ethel Cain’s “Perverts” is unlike anything I’ve heard. Its macabre tone may alienate fans of “Preacher’s Daughter” who miss her lyricism — yet to me, this album is far more complex. “Perverts” explores the lives of the sexually abused, depicting life as a “pull and drone.” Its portrayal of trauma and guilt between perpetrator and victim raises the question: does God’s compassion extend to our suffering — can self-harm be an attempt to draw closer to his understanding, or does it reflect a deeper absence of divine empathy? Circling soundscapes and distortion penetrate the listener, guiding them through a journey into the perversion of one’s reality.
The album begins with a song by the same name. Opening with a distorted version of “Nearer, My God, To Thee,” the line “E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me…” poses the central question: does the promise of salvation demand sacrifice? The song’s vocal layers amplify these themes when lyrics are absent, such as the line “Heaven has forsaken the masturbator” reflecting societal taboos idealizing denying oneself for salvation. Similarly, the distorted line “No one you know is a good person” is nearly masked by the music, showcasing the Pervert’s internalized isolation from God. Ultimately, “Perverts” explores the tension between suffering, self-denial, and spiritual devotion.
“Punish” depicts a pedophile who, after being shot by the child’s father, lives in exile punishing himself by maiming his body to simulate the bullet wound. The song opens with moaning and melancholic piano, a reminder of his crime. Yet he poses as a victim, “punished by love.” The lines “Shame is sharp / Only God knows / I was an angel, but they made me leave” echo the earlier line “God has forsaken the masturbator,” suggesting that God uses shame as evidence of wrongdoing. Alluding to Lucifer, once pure but cast out for defiance, symbolizes the character’s reliance on any trace of innocence as self protection. TikToker @Katrinaskata reflects on how the song, though from the abuser’s POV, resonated with her as a survivor, illustrating how shame transfers from perpetrator to victim, leaving them a ghost of the abuser’s sins.
“Housofpsychoticwomn” pulls us into an abyss of tormenting isolation, offering a hauntingly beautiful glimpse into the child’s POV from “Punish.” Emulating a Stockholm syndrome-like effect, the assault is seen as an act of love, a sentiment reinforced by the eerie repetition of “I love you.” The line “When you were young, you said you wished that someone loved you,” followed by distorted “I do,” feels like an internal battle, with trauma emerging to say, “I am with you, forever, and I love you.” These lyrics subtly allude to abuser manipulation, twisting control into affection, forcing a belief that love and suffering are intertwined. A circling droning sound morphs into resembling “no no no” or a dog’s bark, later shifting to reminiscing a roadrunner from a children’s cartoon — a grim reminder of whose story this is. The song ends with two dramatic shifts: near silence with faint static and piano, followed by a loud beep accentuating “I love you.” Deeply disturbing, it left me feeling like a helpless witness to an unseen crime.
“Vacillator” centers on a character torn between fearing love and fearing its absence, coping with violent sex. The word vacillator means “one who hesitates,” and the song’s sound — echoing banging and slapping with desperate sexual language — mirrors this inner conflict. If she is the victim of childhood assault, her understanding of love is distorted, equating violence with sacrifice and godly devotion. Instead of surrendering emotionally to love or pain, she uses her body as a scapegoat.
“Onanist” feels like an out-of-body experience with distant singing and flickering static ringing as the character dissociates, watching herself self-harm, driven by a distorted concept of love. She opens the song saying she’s “in a long, long wood, midway of mortal life,” hinting at an epiphany: she realizes that numbing her pain with sex and violence distances her from death. She’s still killing herself — just without feeling it. A distorted sound echoes the piano as she sings, “I want to know love” evolving into crashes and a darker chant claiming, “It feels good.” Like “I do” in “Housofpsychoticwomn”,” this represents the character convincing herself that abuse equals love. The crashing sound juxtaposes, as if the lies are physically painful.
“Pulldrone” is the Pervert’s liturgy drawn out, exploring the relationship between the Pervert, himself, and the divine. The song explores hunger and isolation, questioning who we are and why. Early on, a sound reminiscent of Tibetan singing bowls symbolizes a spiritual awakening akin to the journey exposed in “Onanist.” The lyrics follow a parallel, starting with “I am that I am, and I am nothing,” then “I am what I am but we are not the same,” and finally “I am that I was as I no longer am for I am nothing.” The story explores the insatiable desire to understand what God makes of us. As Cain said, pulldrone is life — the pull and the drone. This nihilistic view suggests that life only takes from you, pulling and droning until finally reaching “desolation.” The song also mentions fallen angels, depicting the Pervert as God’s fallen angel, living a life of self-inflicted anguish, helpless and droning through existence.
“Etienne” and “Thatorchia” intertwiningly pair the existential weight of mortality with the hopeless acceptance of loneliness. “Etienne” features piano and subtle background sounds (footsteps, doors closing) to tell the story of a man who tried to induce a heart attack but, after a week of running, found new life and no longer wished to die. This mirrors how we become trapped in ourselves, knowing the solution but forcing ourselves to stay in pain. “Thatorchia,” described by Cain as “the bitter acceptance that God will let you near but not stay,” pairs with “Etienne’s” isolative message: we must save ourselves while God watches, unhelping. The instrumental track creates a foreboding sense of impending doom, with ethereal angelic humming, echoing the Pervert’s longing for divine love.
“Amber Waves” closes the album’s exploration of insatiable hunger for knowledge introduced in “Pulldrone” — “I want to know what God knows, and I will be with Him” — leaving the character confronted with pain’s inescapable reality. The song explores numbness, ending with the metaphor of “Amber Waves.” Initially, Amber’s elusive figure waves goodbye, embodying the character’s loneliness and the audience’s own disconnection to the character’s story. By the end, “amber waves” transform into something physical — something the character clings to: “Me and my amber waves.” This shift symbolizes the character’s dependence on trauma, an addiction to satiating the void left by past wounds.
Ethel Cain’s “Perverts” creates a limbo-like world where its characters are “fixed on their sins.” This evokes the idea, similar to Dante’s Inferno, that sinners willingly embrace their fate because it preserves their sins and selves forever. Reflected in songs “Onanist” and “Punish,” this album explores the perpetual torment of self-inflicted degradation. Cain’s album immerses the listener in this limbo, confronting them with a perversion of religious ideals and the haunting weight of guilt that becomes inescapable.