The Albatross became a self-fulfilling prophecy for Foxing. While the St. Louis band's relentless touring enabled the slow-build success of their debut, the aching opening track on Dealer recounts the effect of Conor Murphy having to repeat ugly truths about himself night after night for the better part of two years: "I am caught up in the guilt/ Making a living off of drowning." Though Dealer is an artistic triumph and a significant advance from The Albatross, it's even heavier, more compositionally complex, and more personally revealing than its predecessor. And that's why, from its very first second, Murphy sounds drained over the prospect of doing it all over again—Dealer is not an easy listen. It sounds like it was very difficult to make, and reliving it is going to be even harder.

It's in Foxing's nature to welcome a challenge. Of all the leading figures in the Fest-centered post-emo world, they made the most demanding, unique and self-assured debut. It certainly earned the genre tag—silvery guitar figures streaked and twinkled like tiny Explosions in the Sky, while Murphy's keening vocals delivered confrontational and caustic lyrics with spasmodic, burst-and-bloom dynamics. To paraphrase the slow-motion self-evisceration of "Rory" (think the Wrens' "This Is Not What You Had Planned" stretched to four minutes), he ripped his heart out while it was still beating and shoved it directly in your face. But Foxing are more interested in a renaissance than a "revival", and they mirror the adaptive and forward-thinking qualities of their scene, creating a new voice for familiar sentiments: There was certainly hints of Cap'n Jazz on Albatross, but also actual jazz, as well as Sufjan Stevens' baroque Americana and touches of avant-garde R&B.

The Albatross darted fitfully and stretched out in all directions, while Dealer pulls all of Foxing's influences inward. Inverting his typical role of making burly post-rock bands sound delicate, producer Matt Bayles (Isis, Caspian) boosts Foxing's fragility—Dealer is constructed like an expensive timepiece where you can see every exacting movement behind a thick, glossy lacquer. Murphy's much-improved vocals negotiate the curvature of "Weave"'s mournful melody and the band's syncopated sway—imagine what the Chicago late-'90s post-rock scene could've accomplished if they hooked up with the guys downstate in Urbana-Champaign. While there were short instrumental interludes on The Albatross, "Winding Cloth" is a full-on string orchestration, offering four minutes to absorb the shellshocked war reportage of "Indica" before segueing into the heavy-hearted poetry of "Redwoods".

Foxing are willing to delay gratification or even deny it entirely if the song requires it, and on Dealer, it often does. When Murphy and bassist/co-songwriter Josh Coll take on universal topics like sex, religion and war, they're framed through discomforting personal experiences: "The Magdalene" is the most dour song about losing one's virginity since "Sic Transit Gloria…Glory Fades", drawing on strict Catholic upbringings that instilled what Coll described as "the internal fear that spirits are in the room witnessing 'sin' in action": "Mother of God on the rosary/ Is she here with us?/ Does she want what she sees?" The guilt carries on to the present day as Murphy becomes choked by the supposedly no-strings hook-ups in "Night Channels" and "Glass Coughs". Both build up from spare, plaintive introductions to restrained screams and contained, brassy cacophony—Murphy allows you to feel every pang and writhe of guilt, but catharsis is scant.

There's none whatsoever on "Indica", which recounts Coll's time as a soldier in Afghanistan. Few, if any, indie rock bands have access to this kind of firsthand experience, but that alone isn't enough to ensure it avoids "Rooster" or "Support our Troops OH!" overstatement on either end. Aside from a brief clatter of field snares, there's little but a single, clean guitar and Murphy's voice catatonic from both PTSD and self-medication: "Could I give back the sounds of their children's screams?/ Let go of what I've seen?" Dealer isn't a narrative, but both his civilian and Coll's soldier could share the exhaustion of closer "Three on a Match"—"For what we did, my love, I'm sorry...the Lord won't let me in/ I'm survived by the weight of my own sins." The devil and God aren't raging inside of Murphy and Coll anymore—Dealer is the arduous post-war reconstruction.