I find myself in an unusual position as I review this record; I’m listening to a debut album that I already know is set to be the band’s last. Last month, with just weeks to go before a full-length release that so many brutally energetic live shows had promised big things for, Wet Nuns announced their intention to call time on their unique blend of punk and blues. The accompanying statement was every bit as abrupt as the timing; clearly not ones to put too fine a point on things, the duo explained that they were “sick of the sight of each other”, although it’s probably not too controversial to expect that kind of honesty from a pair so comfortable with such an evocative – for want of a better word – band name.

Their statement also boldly declared that “at least we’ll never make a shit album” – I’ll reserve judgement on that until later, but it does make you wonder whether this self-titled effort’s reviews might turn out to be a tad more favourable than they could otherwise have been, in much the same way you wouldn’t want to say anything unpleasant about somebody who was terminally ill; the final Wet Nuns tour, currently underway, is allowing fans the opportunity for a proper goodbye. Take, as an example, last week’s Breaking Bad finale; once the dust’s settled, we can look back and describe it as satisfying, sure, but highly predictable and unusually formulaic – the unanimously positive reviews that the episode met with represented a misty-eyed, heart-before-head farewell to the show, rather than an emotionally detached, logical consideration of affairs.

Really, though, that’s a moot point, because Wet Nuns’ unforgivingly forthright approach to their music leaves little room for sentiment. For the uninitiated, they’re probably best described as the bluesy cousins of fellow Yorkshiremen Pulled Apart by Horses; they preserve that band’s keen sense of fun, but lay the same crunchingly heavy guitars over more typical blues structures. On opener ‘7 Year Itch’, there’s relative composure; the drums are sharp and the guitar measured, so it’s left to frontman Rob Graham to provide some genuine punk flavour in the form of his delightfully unrefined vocals.

Stylistically, this is an album of two halves. The heavier, less inhibited tracks take relatively subtle cues from the blues palette – the colossal riffery of ‘Throttle’ is a case in point – whilst the more desolate likes of ‘Hanging’ and closer ‘No Money Blues’ seem to be aiming at evoking unease through persistent guitar lines and droning choruses. It’s a dichotomy that plays out well in the live set, allowing for the age-old back and forth between blues and rock and roll, but on record it can be a little more jarring; take, for example, the placement of the furious ‘Broken Teeth’ immediately after ‘Only Sometimes’, a ponderous effort which, by Wet Nuns standards, practically borders on bloated balladry.

Even greater a juxtaposition than that, though, is the impending end of this band set against the sheer vitality that courses through their one and only record. It’s all well and good having a reputation for frenetic live shows, but to produce an LP that blurs genre boundaries for the better is another achievement entirely, and that’s something that, for the most part, Wet Nuns have pulled off here. I can think of another band from Sheffield currently flirting with blues-based influences in the most superficial of manners; even if you wanted to speak ill of the dead, that wouldn’t be an accusation you could fairly level at Wet Nuns.