It should come as no surprise to anyone that some of the world's best things -- skyscrapers, automobiles, unified physic theories, whatever handy-dandy iPod accessory you're saving up for -- have been developed by pretty smart dudes. Smart people are pretty great. The only problem with smartypants types, especially when they start picking up guitars and making noise, is that they tend to take themselves a little too seriously at times. You know, trading reverb pedals for ProTools rigs, hot-and-sweaty jams for precisely calculated soundscapes and rock's most universal themes (sex, drugs, violence or a beautifully decadent combo of the three) for big ideas, be it existential philosophy, commentary on the shrinking role of self in the post-modern era or other topics best left for term papers.

By anyone's standards, Nick Cave's a pretty smart fella. His recent work's checked everything from Greek mythology to evangelical God-is-love notions (alongside a few creeper's tales of murder and pillage, too), while he's been witty enough to hide his dark side behind lovingly created, sophisticated pop tunes. You know, the sort of thing that'd be playing in Chipotle if they weren't so morbid. He's a clever dude, but not so clever as to take his work too seriously, and with Grinderman, his latest project, he holds primal blues-rock close to his cold, black heart.

Maybe Grinderman is Cave's mid-life crisis, as the 50-year-old sophisticate suddenly finds himself in the same sonic stomping grounds you usually find twentysomething binge-drinkers and embittered thirtysomething rockers. He has the benefit of experience and intelligence, though, and leads Grinderman through an effort that's as dark and pointed it is loud and snotty. And while it's pretty easy to get caught up in the sleazy, booze-soaked riffs, doing so loses Cave's ever-witty lyricism. Over the top of a hulking, grinding bass line, "No Pussy Blues" is a cry for every consumer who was ever made to want something he or she couldn't afford. "Honey Bee (Let's Fly to Mars)" isn't quite as optimistic, as Cave (who's joined by guitarist Warren Ellis, bassist Martyn Casey and drummer Jim Sclavaunos, all Bad Seeds alumni) spits bile at damn near every bit of the modern world's hurly-burly, while the band cuts a jagged swath of buzzing guitars, garage-rock organs and an undeniably ominous presence. "Electric Alice" gets even weirder, as everything from Ellis' violin work to droning organs get freaked out in hack-and-burn loops. "Depth Charge Ethel," an ode to a woman of the loosest morals, and "Love Bomb," which closes the album with a dose of isolated despair, are slightly more straightforward, as Cave and company freak out what are, essentially, blues-rock based riffs -- though you'll need to dig deep down below their surface to find their blues roots.

If Grinderman's noisy and brash, which it is in spades, the band's inventing a new way to kick up a racket. Loops and buzzing guitars collide with primal bass lines and caveman rhythms while blues traditions are turned asunder as bits of everything from jazz to garage rock pepper Grinderman's eclectic palate. It's the perfect complement to Cave's thinly veiled philosophical malevolence. The guys behind Grinderman are obviously sharp, but they're not going to let that stand in the way of making an album that tears your ears off.