The song feels like candlelight flickering in a soaked corridor, an echo of doomed love translated into electricity. Cale’s voice seeps through the mix like a sermon delivered in an empty chapel, while Charli drifts above it, part storm, part ghost, part confession. Together they make something that doesn’t aim to modernize Brontë’s world so much as haunt it anew, a house built not on melody but on memory...

This record doesn’t ease you in. It doesn’t even open like an album. It convulses, spits, and then clamps its jaws around your skull. The...