Head in the cirrostratus, cheeks smooth and porous as unglazed ceramics: Beatrix’s cherubs are cuddly enough for a Hallmark card, but as fearsome as the chimeric entities described in the Old Testament. While many electronic producers use sped-up, pitch-shifted vocals to achieve a hyper-kawaii, nightcore atmosphere à la GFOTY, the wobbling vocoder verses that span “//TinyLaughingCHERUBs\” take on a commanding presence — they are the wrath of a god with good taste, tearing through the feedback of the mesophere like fire. This is the rapture Bon Iver prophesied. All we can do is look up in equal parts awe and fear as Beatrix’s astral host tears a hole in sound itself.