It seems strange to imagine given how iconic Refused’s third album became, but 1998’s The Shape of Punk to Come was widely despised when it was released. What is not so strange is why that happened: It was supposed to. Ever the rancorous socialists—opener “Worms of the Senses/Faculties of the Skull”’s first lyric is “I got a bone to pick with capitalism/And a few to break”—The Shape of Punk to Come proved itself a protest album far beyond the political. It was a pointed reaction to what Refused felt was the agonizing irony of punk and its logically angrier next step, hardcore. These genres had erupted from the often working class and always liberal-minded as they railed against conservative oppression. What made a sound “punk” or “hardcore” by the late ’90s had, maddeningly, become the domain of elitist gatekeeping. Refused was having none of it. Lead vocalist Dennis Lyxzén has even semi-joked The Shape of Punk to Come should’ve been called Fuck You. On “Protest Song ’68,” his spoken word was more elaborate: “Fixed dogmas can’t substitute/Creative thought and action/We could be dangerous/Art as a real threat.” The Shape of Punk to Come rediscovered the anarcho-punk ethos by reexamining the timeless essence of its rebellious spirit, resulting in a referential rabbit hole from presentation to articulation. Lyxzén and drummer David Sandström’s front-cover collage of new technology, rioting, post-war swing dance, and untethered expression sit purposefully underneath the record’s title—itself an allusion to Ornette Coleman’s seminally subversive and similarly derided (at the time, crucially) 1959 free-jazz record, The Shape of Jazz to Come. All compulsions for existential activism at its most authentic, particularly the latter—which is not just lauded visually but frequently incorporated musically. Most portentously, “The Deadly Rhythm” opens with ’50s radio announcer Bob Garrity introducing a brief snippet of Dizzy Gillespie’s “A Night in Tunisia.” Refused cataclysmically lapses into swinging ride cymbals and acoustic walking bass at 1:38, a threatening promise that comes to full break-it-to-remake-it fruition on the now-anthemic “New Noise”—a five-minute elevator pitch for the shape of punk to come that declares, amidst sizzling momentum and brooding minimalism (not to mention the unspeakable incorporation of electronica): “How can we expect anyone to listen/If we are using the same old voice?”