West Midlands are a gang of weird pop magpies cranking out high-concept, no-budget DIY death rock from a dank room on an industrial estate, round the back of PC World.

Their songs chart the decline and fall of a rapidly decaying musician, dropped by his label, forgotten by fans, and forced to return to his childhood home in the Black Country to confront his demons – some of which, it turns out, are actual demons. It’s sort of a documentary.

Cosmic Scouse super producer and legendary Windmill soundman Paul of Sound provides the music, former Winter Olympics’ singer Andrew Wolfman plays the unknown frontman.

Live, the band are bolstered by a gang of serious heads who transform West Midlands’ lofty ideas into an often hilarious, occasionally heartbreaking festival-ready rock show that’s long on stagecraft, self-loathing, and big songs. BBC Introducing called them, “The best live show I have ever seen.” Joyzine magazine thought them a “ridiculously addictive stone age riot… weird music for weird times,” while Kurt Vile just called them, “Genius.”

The band takes the last 50 years of West Midlands music as a jumping-off point for their sound (and the reason for their name).

It’s all there: the Hammer Horror heaviness of Black Sabbath, the chaotic post-punk clatter of The Swell Maps, the grubby grebo rock from that weird six month period in the nineties when Stourbridge was the new Seattle.

There’s a decidedly Dexy’s “whoa-oh!” here, a whiff of Zeppelin’s spooky village mysticism there, and more than a nod to the plate-eyed after-party poetry of The Streets and the Brummies-on-a-yacht pop swagger of Duran Duran. In the background, the dull throb of a secret rave rolls off the Clent Hills in the distance.

This is pop music for music nerds, by music nerds. The musical proof that comedy equals tragedy plus time. Hard art by high friends in low places. It’s not for everyone, but it might just save your life.