All these soulsuckers, they're among us. They're stealing our privacy, our convictions, the very essence of our being, and leaving behind little more than a "for sale" sign and some vague, constant hollowness. In music, a dwindling whirlpool of funds only spurs on these parasites as they scavenge for scraps of humanity wherever ears can hear. Their thirst is real. And artists—those blasphemous and holy conduits for truth, liberty, and whatever else is missing from our lives—can't help but succumb. To last more than 20 years in rock'n'roll without sacrificing a lethal amount of one's soul requires a certain vigilance; to navigate around the pitfalls of both punk and ambition without tripping-up on either can seem just as hard as making a great album. But Spoon, one of the most stand-up bands of their generation, have figured all of this out. On their eighth album, they laugh in the face of leeches, defy gravity, suspend time. "All they want's my soul, yes, yes, I know!" hollers Britt Daniel, stretching every crevice of his 43-year-old throat. His message is clear: They can't have it.