London is a ruin. The remnants of human civilisation litter the streets and the buildings, tall twisted monoliths of concrete and steel are now just artefacts of a time when money was God and capitalism a religion. What survivors remain pick their way through the quiet streets alone in thought with a ringing in their ears that seems to have been there now for several weeks. A radio, its sound crackled and struggling to maintain the power needed to operate, transmits a message from before - from a time when there were people to hear its broadcast.

"November, in what remains of the city."

The opening to 'Servant' the third track on Master, Teeth of the Sea's latest album, is a master-class in how music can create intricate narratives through melody, sound and texture alone. The quiet opening hi-hat creates a tension that runs throughout the song as you wait - nay, expect - a climactic flurry of drums, energetic and tribal, that never arrives. Instead a solitary trumpet plays out over the percussion hinting at a grandeur that's possible, but not obtainable, and a loud whining synthesiser. This produces a buzzing in the ears not too dissimilar from the one experienced by Clive Owen's character in Children of Men shortly after witnessing a bomb blast. You almost don't notice the spoken word piece that runs throughout the track, fading in and out, hidden and distorted so its message is lost, misheard and forgotten.

'Servant' is about restraint. There is a sense that Teeth of the Sea are building up to a climatic conclusion. Instead it gradually grows in intensity until it reaches the point where you think it'll erupt, but chooses to back away. It's as though what awaits us is too horrific to go any further - and it takes a brave band to toy with their audience like that.

Of course, that's not to say Master doesn't have its moments of earth-shattering brilliance; in fact these moments, euphoric, terrifying and ferocious also help to make 'Servant's restrain all the more effective. Both tracks either side, 'Reaper' and 'Black Strategy', build to epic proportions and do so in distinctly different ways. The former starts with a dance-rock style drum beat and an arpeggiated keyboard riff; a quick tempo suggesting movement. A distorted synthesiser is introduced and fed through delay. Trumpets are layered on top along with another keyboard riff. The band build up on the initial foundations for three minutes before suddenly the tempo changes and moves from DFA dance party to prog-rock riffs. A lead guitar is let loose in the final minutes amidst choral chanting; there is a sense of finality that creates a dark undercurrent, which then flows into 'Servant' and on through the record.

Teeth of the Sea are hard to place musically. They seems to cross and embrace so many styles and draw upon different points of interest that it's hard to pin down a good descriptor for their music. That's a good thing though, as after three albums they are still carving their own path and doing it so well, that it becomes pointless to even try to categorise them. Much better to turn up the volume and let the music take you under. But if you must have a label attached to music to enjoy it, I'm going to call it Post-Apocalyptic.

The whole album sounds like it could easily soundtrack the end of days. There are tribal drums, abrasive feedback swells and distorted electronic signals that sound like the final cries of our communication systems. At times it makes for an unsettling listen. 'Put Me On your Shoulders So I Can See The Rats' uses looped feedback and a haunting vocal sample that simply repeats the words "I was thinking about you." 'All Human Is Error' meanwhile pans the drums in such a way as to disorientate and bewilder the listener. Combined with the synthesiser it transforms into a hypnotic, suggestive dance track that takes control of the senses before the layers become too much and the whole thing collapses into noise - chaos and destruction is all that remains.