A Review of Nothing’s a short history of decay

To hit you hard, a song doesn’t actually have to be heavy.

This is the central thesis of Nothing’s devastating fifth studio album, a short history of decay.

Named after the 1949 philosophical text by Romanian essayist Emil Cioran—a notoriously pessimistic work exploring the inevitability of suffering and the illusion of progress—the album acts as a terrifyingly honest mirror for frontman Domenic "Nicky" Palermo. Where Cioran dissected the decay of humanity, Palermo chooses to dissect himself.

To hit you hard, a song doesn’t actually have to be heavy.

After over a decade in the "tour, record, repeat" gauntlet, the pandemic forced Palermo into a stillness that demanded an inward look. The result is an album Palermo calls his most honest yet as it strips away the signature reverb that once served as his sonic armor. For fans seeking the crushing distortion of singles like "toothless coal" or the industrial, mechanical pulse of "cannibal world," this softer approach may be disorienting. But make no mistake: this is the heaviest record Nothing has ever released. It achieves its weight through haunting acoustic guitars, unvarnished vulnerability, and the exhausting process of reconciling with the past.

To build this album, Palermo assembled arguably the most talented lineup in the band’s history. It’s a collective of heavy-hitters: Cam Smith and Doyle Martin (of Cloakroom), Zachary Jones (Manslaughter 777), and bassist Bobb Bruno (Best Coast). Palermo is candid about the upgrade, calling Bobb the "most pro" bassist they've ever had. The production is equally elite, featuring two GOATs of the genre: Sonny DiPerri (DIIV, Nine Inch Nails) and Nick Bassett (Whirr).

By refusing to mask the shake, Palermo transforms a medical condition into a profound act of artistic defiance.

An unexpected turn on the record is Palermo’s vocal delivery. Having been diagnosed with essential tremors (ET)—a progressive neurological condition that causes involuntary shaking—Palermo initially panicked when he heard the vibrato bleeding into his vocal takes. In a genre often defined by hiding behind layers of effects, his first instinct was to drown the "imperfection" in reverb. Instead, encouraged by his bandmates, he left his vocals stark and clean. On tracks like "essential tremors", the dry mix allows the listener to hear the physical toll fifteen years of "running through walls" has taken. By refusing to mask the shake, Palermo transforms a medical condition into a profound act of artistic defiance. As he noted in our recent Tokyo interview: if the lyrics were going to be unflinching, the presentation had to be, too.

Palermo has stated that the release was deeply influenced by William H. Gass’s The Tunnel. In this bleak novel, a man attempts to write a history book, only to end up with a bitter, confessional memoir of his own failures. That same sense of excavation runs through a short history of decay. Like Gass’s protagonist, Palermo turns the lens inward, exposing resentment and regret that accumulate over time when reflection is postponed too long

The standout track is the album opener, "never come, never morning".

Structured like a massive, Coldplay-esque stadium-ready ballad, it features a horn section spontaneously recruited from a Mexican Corridos band partying next door at the Sonic Ranch studio where the band recorded the album. Beneath the grandiose arrangement, however, lies a harrowing confrontation with childhood trauma:

"Asphalt and blood / Stained on daddy / Free from fury / When I was young..."

The title track, "a short history of decay", beautifully captures the exhaustion of survival: "Homesick fugitives / Quarreling / The poets and the thieves / Enduring." Meanwhile, on "the rain don't care," Palermo acknowledges nature’s apathy toward human suffering: "No way out / The rain don't care for the life of a puddle." Tracks like "purple strings" explore the exhausting crawl of time ("Shadows escape through the narrows / By the skin of your teeth"), while my personal favorite, "ballet of the traitor," delivers a melancholic, acoustic-driven sorrow that lingers long after the needle lifts.

For the fans complaining on Reddit: this is not an album you put on to lose yourself in a mosh pit. It’s the album you put on when you’re finally ready to sit alone in a quiet room and look in the mirror. It stands as Nothing's most stylistically varied work to date. By weaving together elements of different genres, they are pushing their own boundaries. This kind of exploration should be praised; in a scene that often rewards repeating the same formula, Nothing is brave enough to evolve. This genre-blurring approach doesn't dilute their identity—it strengthens it, proving the band is capable of more than just a loud-quiet-loud dynamic.