Derek Rogers deserves something better. The gnarly guitar whippets of Institutio Amet may be the cursory high you’ve been waiting for. Rogers is a traditionalist in regards to melody; nothing is off-putting to even the most mundane music fan. But underneath the jangled guitar and overblown synth is a call to our primitive ancestry. We scratch at our cropped hair, beat our flat chests, and become prehensile. Only by entering this devolved state of detachment are we able to tap into our imagination as a means to true creation, to evolve in a newly designed form. Institutio Amet is that odd, ebon obelisk dropped into our fragile ecosystem. It all comes together by lone B-side beacon, “Franklin,” the pieces of the A-side torn apart and reassembled in our new neanderthal existence. Men are dragged back to caves by lusty, powerful women. Kings are given no quarter as peasants control fiefdoms. Glass ceilings are non-existent in a world where all fear has been erased. We didn’t beat this obelisk with sticks and bones; we hugged it and nursed it as an equal. What a much better world it would be if Institutio Amet had been born from Adam and Eve. Our transformation complete.