Written and recorded between London and New York from 2019 to 2025, The Living Likeness Of My Electric Daemon finds Miracle, the duo of Steve Moore and Daniel O’Sullivan, at their most distilled and uncompromising. Mixed by Moore and mastered by James Plotkin, the album unfolds as a ten part song cycle navigating illusion and embodiment, ecstasy and annihilation, devotion and domination, the ancient and the algorithmic.

The title invokes the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea, refracted through the black mirror of the 21st century. The electric daemon is both inner familiar and externalized intelligence, the soul in the machine and the machine in the soul. The record asks not whether technology is sentient, but whether we are becoming its living likeness.

The album’s artwork, created by Turner Prize nominee Mark Titchner, presents a cybernetic mutation of the classical Pietà: Madonna and Jesus are rendered in rubbery black PVC-like material, segmented and articulated with zips, evoking devotion and corporeal fragility refracted through a synthetic, technological lens.

Across two sides, Miracle braid gnostic cosmology, early mystery schools and rosicrucian symbolism with the psychic architectures of surveillance culture. The empire never ended. It refined its interface.

Opening invocation “Ambrosia” sets a devotional tone, steeped in alchemical and cellular imagery, where spirit is embedded in matter and matter longs for transfiguration. “Consolamentum Day” draws on the annihilation of the Cathars in southern France, reframing medieval persecution as a recurring psychic event. Featuring guest vocals from Rose Keeler-Schaffeler and Ivy O’Sullivan, it distills the fluorescence of empire into a simple refrain: “The Roman I, The Roman us.”

On “Fluid Window,” with guest vocals by Rose Keeler-Schaffeler, the apple becomes touchscreen icon. The song functions as an allegory for screen addiction and perpetual connection. “To be the most concise device to feel.” The window reshapes the perceiver. Narcissus no longer drowns in water, but in illuminated glass.

Elsewhere, Miracle explore ritualized power dynamics in “PVC Vest,” temporal dread and eschatological recursion in “Time Is The Fire,” and the implantation of the all-seeing gaze into every cell of culture in “The Eye.” “The Cross” reduces rosicrucian imagery to a stark axiom, “The rose is a soul. The cross is a body.” Closing track “Cities of the Interior,” nodding to Anaïs Nin, maps the psyche as architecture, concentric and columnated, apparently fixed yet always in motion.

Musically, the album deepens Miracle’s singular synthesis of devotional pop, kosmische propulsion and gothic minimalism. Moore’s lattice of analogue and digital synthesisers pulses and corrodes in equal measure. O’Sullivan’s voice moves between incantation and intimacy, hymnal and wounded. If earlier releases suggested a haunted jukebox, The Living Likeness Of My Electric Daemon feels like a chapel wired directly into a mainframe.

In an era of infinite scroll and simulated transcendence, Miracle offer no easy consolation. Only a mirror, polished to a dangerous shine.