That the Prayer Chain was edgy enough to make an obstinate break from the radio-friendly modern rock of Whirlpool is made clear the instant Tim Taber sneers "Shine is dead" on Shawl's opening gambit.

A deliberate reference to Whirlpool's sunniest number, the lyric also serves as the album's unifying theme: the death of all that glows with hope.

Shawl is a bleak, stubborn record, an unrelenting assault of churning Alice in Chains-style grunge that scraps melody in favor of unfettered emotional angst.

The tradeoff isn't always worth it -- Eric Campuzano's painfully poetic lyrics are too often self-important and overwrought, and Taber's blustery, iron-man vocal delivery frequently smacks of needless histrionics.

As a statement of purpose, the record is brilliantly conceived -- its jagged chords and complicated song structures easily alienate the casual listener, ensuring that those who stick with the Prayer Chain are as passionate about the band's music as the band is.

And despite its air of pretentiousness, there is much to admire about Shawl.

The shattering epic "Never Enough" moves from redemption to sin and back again with the sweep and scope of a DeMille movie, and the galloping "Fifty-Eight" is as fine a rock number as the band has ever produced.

The flangey "Like I Was" and rambunctious punk of "Grin" provide the record much-needed forward momentum, propelled by Andy Prickett's fiery guitar work.

Still, Shawl feels more like a press conference than a rock record, and as such its lifespan is incredibly limited.

Though they broke with the pop clichés that hampered Whirlpool, they quickly embrace a whole new set of clichés -- those of the grunge age -- and, consequently, Shawl over time sounds neither as brave nor as adventurous as it did upon its release.