Saturday Night Wrist

The Deftones' atmospheric metal has always reveled in a pitch-dark realm, one boiling over with murder ballads, the sadomasochism of a Saw sequel, and strange characters that wield knives for fun and change into flies as if they were knee deep in a Kafka novel. And so the story goes on the band's fifth album in more than a decade, a melodic but massive affair obsessed with redemption, religion and figurative battles that gaze inward and out. (Or are they literal? Chino Moreno's lyrics are still as obtuse as they are ominous.) All in all it's paranoid music for paranoid times, propelled by a poisonous backdrop that's less concerned with maintaining a heavy metal profile than one that's simply heavy. As in guitars that tremble and triumph, drums that sputter and spark, and subtle samples that color every blank slate in sepia tones. There are even a few vintage Deftones moments of Moreno shrieking and spitting like he's still on the second stage of Ozzfest ("Rapture," "Rats! Rats! Rats!"). Apparently, Sacramento's finest metallurgists haven't grayed as much as their hairs would suggest.