Those cursing the demise of the traditional studio album may find comfort in the shape of Portland alt-country four-piece Richmond Fontaine, whose tenth studio album, The High Country, couldn't be less suited to the instant 30-second previews of today's download market.

Taken out of context, many of its 17 tracks are nothing more than the meaningless spoken word interludes and incidental noodlings that sound like they've been lifted from a Coen Brothers movie.

But pieced together on an ambitious concept record, they form a vital part of the mysterious and slightly harrowing puzzle, providing a further sense of claustrophobia among the more conventional literary numbers.

Of course, frontman Willy Vlautin is no stranger to the idea of the narrative, having already published three novels (one of which is being adapted into a film), but this ominous tale of two young lovers trying to escape their small-town roots is arguably his darkest to date, taking in everything from crystal meth addiction to twisted love affairs to murder.

Unsurprisingly, its soundtrack is equally murky, drifting from world-weary alt-country ("Let Me Dream of the High Country") to disjointed Neil Young-esque blues ("The Mechanic's Life") to hazy fingerpicking folk ("Claude Murray's Breakdown") in a fog of steel-laden twangs, mournful strings, and hushed melodies.

At times, it's unbearably intense, especially considering even the few uptempo numbers, such as the discordant blues-rock of "Angus King Tries to Leave the House," the fuzz-laden grunge of "The Chainsaw Sea," and the swaggering garage rock of "Lost in the Trees" are just as tortured and angst-ridden.

But while it's far from an easy listen, The High Country is an intriguing, if resolutely slow-burning, portrait of rural America's underbelly, which is worth the perseverance.