The record’s rough sound can make this cohesiveness challenging to recognize. Part of the album’s free-flowing recording style was because Frusciante was in the throes of drug addiction, which, oddly enough, he claimed focused him on his music. In a chilling 1996 interview with Phoenix New Times, he explained, "Heroin emphasizes whatever you are...Like, if you want to record music, it'll help you concentrate on that more, but if you want to lie in bed and not do anything, it'll help you do that better."

The songs often mimic the cadences of heroin addiction. The aforementioned "Untitled #3" is less than two minutes long, but about half of that time is the end of the track, which degenerates into Frusciante muttering to himself. The impact is jarring and upsetting, but also provides a peek into an artist's private sketches, where they might have 20 different drawings of a foot from different angles. The creative process is weird, and while narcotics probably don't help with the refinement of the songs, Niandra feels like an honest window into how Frusciante composes.

The album can be a challenging first listen. There's an underlying poppiness to the melodies, but it's all wrapped in meandering guitar solos and desperate vocals that sound like someone calling for help from a distance too far away to investigate but too close to ignore. There's a lack of self-consciousness to the songs that leaves you feeling like you're hearing something you might not supposed to be.

There are, of course, many bands who use a similarly lo-fi sound, if not even less produced. Artists like the wonderful Jack Logan and Guided by Voices have perfected that recording style, but don't deploy the emotional vulnerability shown by Frusciante. Every sound on Niandra conveys distress. The songs drown in his hurt.