You could randomly select any particular Sunday Sludge feature and bet on black that Weedeater, Bongzilla, or another weed metal act is gonna make an appearance. That stoner-sludge groove is simply too sticky and too sweet to leave alone, and I roll back to it more often than I should. You might call Weedeater the barometer, unfair as it may be, simply because I'll grab a joint with one hand, my dick with the other, and curl into fetal bliss as I scan the countryside for the best shit around.
I'm not gonna drift toward pretentiousness here. Look at Pressor's fucking album cover. Grave Full Of Weed, they called it! Do I need to add a photo of Dixie Dave Collins here and imagine he's immortalized in the disc's artwork? When the rhythms descend, the clouded guitar smoke lifts these five tracks toward stoner-sludge bliss. Cough all you can, but this shit's gonna lace your eardrums as quickly as it pollutes your lungs. It's demonic, it grinds with the buzz of a thousand muttering hillbillies, and it comes to our doorsteps straight from Russia.
On the album's introductory track, They All Deserve To Die, the screeching halt of guitar warble is met with hazy distortion, while a distant riff mangle provides just enough evil to weed out the casual user. The progressive sonic assault is swingin' like dumbbell dicks, and Pressor don't want you hanging around if you're not fully committed. It's instrumental, but you're immediately clued in. God's Forgiveness follows with a fuzzed-out doom sway that plants our feet, sinks our asses, and has no struggle in introducing Alco Tony's growl, a brown cloak of discontent perfectly suited to the smoke amassed in your coworker's car.
The groove is undeniable, but its delivery is where Pressor stand out. The title track's buzzing sludge is organ-grinded comfort, suiting anyone who ever slept on a bed of solid rock. The callous, hollow sound shakes and shifts between burnt rhythms, but it's never burnt out. You'll tune out, but you won't turn off. Your beard grew two inches while you played these songs and you had no fucking idea, did you? Just let go. Pressor steered your day and altered your state. It's okay. No, really... it's okay.
Grave Full Of Weed is loaded with bluesy grooves, but your sludge sensibility is never gonna let 'em peek through. The sped-up onset of Broken Wings is incredibly unsettling and incredibly thick, and that haze is unshakable. But you KNEW this shit was gonna slow down! You KNEW you were gonna look at the clock, tell yourself if was way later than it displayed, and you were gonna jump up from the couch and grab a handful of stuffing mix. The echoed chants notwithstanding, this was the best thing that happened to you and your buddies this week.
The incessant crunch is enough to draw you in, but the stoner sessions are gonna wrap your head and trip your wick. The buzz is never slick, never evasive... it grabs every consciousness and wrings it warped, leaving little more than spent ends and seedy trays to have pockets turned inside out. But all you had to do was sit back, man! The riffs and licks marry atop a crust-rhythm amalgam of mud and fire. Your parents are gonna wonder what happened to their little boy. You're gonna wonder what the fuck their problem is.