Zs’ new double-LP, New Slaves, is made for thought. Just think of it this way: Art school is already a collection of weirdos, but there’s always an even more eccentric, far out, space cadet stuck in the studio all night, every night. This album is for that person. It’s also for the classical music lover who is sick of concertos, operas, and that old, played out 18th century sound.

It was actually recorded at guitarist, Ben Greenberg’s Brooklyn studio, but this eight-track collection of art-rock noise could’ve easily been recorded in Satan’s basement. Something happens during the course of this haunting, tense, hour-long exploration of sound. It makes you shudder and wince, while leaving you wanting to explore it’s intricacies over and again.

Depending on what mood you’re in, the clanking in the background of “Concert Black” sounds like a demonic chain gang from hell, or a really loud ticking clock. It feels like a carnival put on by Rob Zombie, and from the jump, New Slaves sounds a little creepy.

However, the album’s lead track seamlessly bleeds into “Acres of Skin”, and for the next six minutes, all that comes through the speakers a cacophonous blend of screeches, pounding bass, and what sounds like a wrench on a pipe. It’s as unsettling as a dingy, dirty factory but the end of the song does feature a nice, bare bones, fully realized rhythmic passage.

“Gentlemen Amateur” kicks off the album’s loudest movement and sounds like a taper at an arena rock show left his DAT machine next to a box of ringing cell phones. A far off snare drum, and the standard rock bass line can be heard behind what sounds like a 56k modem trying to download the Star Wars trilogy in 1997.

Thankfully, the boys in Zs are pretty handy with the rise and fall, and New Slaves eventually quiets down before its tranquil conclusion. “Masonry” sounds like the band is toying with a marimba housed in the back of the emptiest church in town with the sound of a NASCAR tire gun in the background.

The title track is a 20-minute long, jarred spectacle that is riddled with more mechanic’s garage noises, saxophone blasts, what sounds like a submarine’s torpedo alarm, feedback, and eardrum-rattling percussion. If tension is what Zs is after, then they’ve accomplished the job. It’s hard not to listen to the song and not shudder at it’s shrills and overabundance of noise.

The end of the record is a two-part suite that is remarkably calmer then the rest of New Slaves. It’s as if the Brooklyn based four-piece wanted to give listeners a chance to unclench their muscles, and actually lay down on the couch they’re, sitting on. Amid looped reverb and a haunting chant, electronic glitches and spoken word voice samples layer themselves upon each other until the album’s abrupt stop.

The end is where New Slaves’ weird charm reveals itself: While the silence is a welcome relief, for some reason, you’ll want to hit the play button again.