Album Review - 'Bless The Earth With Fire' by Allfather

Swift has been the rise of Allfather in the South-East England heavy music scene. Having previously released a 4 track EP ’No Gods. No Masters.' in 2015, they now return with ‘Bless The Earth With Fire’ via Portland’s Static Tension Recordings. Formed on the banks of the Medway delta in Kent, England, Allfather are a dark & brooding 5-piece who’ve been fed intravenously the likes of Eyehategod, High on Fire and drops of East coast hardcore, all to create a lethal dose of their own sludge-metal.

Adopting the slogan "Beards. Metal. Fuck You.” this record is the sound of a band refusing to be pigeon-holed into one style. Instead, fusing grooves and riffs in a way they want... whilst giving you the finger. Yet the songwriting craft manages to not only straddle the world’s of sludge, hardcore, metal and doom, but bring them together in one pissed-off and hairy package.

For a start, these guys love their riffs. There’s plenty to get your teeth into if you like guitar tones that could melt iron. Vocally, Tom Ballard’s ability across the screaming spectrum sits well on-top and adds those moments of energy and raw emotion just when required. And the production captures the heaviness of the band delivering a claustrophobic sense you're in the same room as them... ears ringing and surrounded with a stench of blood and sweat.

For me, Allfather own more menace and originality when they’re exploring the sludgy side of their personality, captured perfectly on slow-groove of ‘The Bloody Noose’ which opens with a signature lead riff setting the tone before stepping up a gear in a foot-stomping mid-section. Again, the opus that is ‘Death, And Hell Followed With Him’ is probably the highlight of the band’s career to date - an 11 minute monster which stretches the band’s sound further into more sludgy-doom territory.

If you like your NOLA-inspired sludge, you couldn’t go wrong checking out ‘Bless The Earth With Fire’. It's apparent Allfather have evolved their sound and have begun to hit their stride with this record. And it's brutal. Fuck you.

Check out the album bonus track 'Blood Red Sunset' below...

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Band Submission: Red Tape Revolution-Stoner Sludge Metal From Akron, Ohio

Band Name: Red Tape Revolution
Genre: Stoner Metal / Sludge Metal
Location: Akron, Ohio
Brief Bio/Description: The struggle of the proletariat is as real now as it ever has been. Long has the system successfully crushed the will of the people. Wealth is hoarded by the ruling class over people who have been overworked and coaxed into obedience by the world's major religions. Through the writings of great thinkers such as Karl Marx, Mikhail Bakunin, Emma Goldman, Noam Chomsky, Martin Luther King, Jr., George Orwell, Bertrand Russell, Albert Einstein, and Christopher Hitchens, one can begin to see through the red tape layered over the system built to oppress its people.

Aside from direct action, in no way has the proletariat expressed its anger and frustration and come together more effectively as it has through music. In 2015 our musical protest began when guitarist/vocalist Tommy Pillitiere and guitarist/vocalist Chris Hatfield began to write music for a project that was to be inspired by the many influences that had drawn them to music from early ages. From the revolutionary anti-establishment blues based rock of the 60s/70s to The Decline by NOFX to War Pigs by Black Sabbath to Propagandhi's Potemkin City Limits, the inspirations came fast and varied. Soon, the addition of long time friend and bassist Bobby Holmes, Pillitiere's former bandmate drummer Bill McClellan, and the voice of singer Bob Rivers the pieces were in place for what has become the project that was imagined from its inception.

With all members contributing to the music and lyrics, the band has become its own representation of true democracy. Music for the people and by the people. The DIY mentality of Punk. The straight forwardness of Hardcore. The mind expanding landscapes of 60s Psychedelia. The hammer strike of the heaviest Doom Metal. We are the movement. This is our creed.

It is with this in mind we bring forth this manifesto.

The Manifesto of the Red Tape Revolution.

Band Members:
Bill McClellan - Drums
Bobby Holmes - Bass
Bob Rivers - Vocals
Chris Hatfield - Guitar
Tommy Pillitiere - Guitar
Links: Website | Facebook | Twitter

Band Submission: Oswald's Cult-Sludge Metal From West Palm Beach, Florida

Band Name: Oswald's Cult
Genre: Sludge Metal
Location: West Palm Beach, Florida
Brief Bio/Description: Oswald's Cult is a dandy little group of cute high school kids (Austin King, Wayne Meinke, and Marco Antich) trying to make a name for themselves through the power of love, friendship, and behavioral modification therapy. Hailing from Florida (Birthplace of the Baker Act) Oswald's Cult's sound may very well be categorized in the following: Sludge Metal, Doom Metal, Noise Rock etc. but as we like to describe it "The government is lying to you, Lee Harvey Oswald was innocent, John F. Kennedy was killed by the Federal Reserve"

Oswald's Cult began in late 2014, when the administration of the high school Marco Antich was attending expressed their concerns when they found out he was trying to start a band called "The Klebolds" named after one of the Columbine shooters. Marco fully understanding their worries, renamed his then theoretical band "Oswald's Cult" (which at first had nothing to do with alleged Assassin of John F. Kennedy, but over the years we thought it was edgy as fuck so that's where we claim to have gotten the name)

During the summer of 2015, Marco would release the Oswald's Cult EP.

For the next year or so Marco would struggle to find kids edgy enough to join his band, but in the fall of 2015 his dreams would come true, when 2 unlikely heros would arrive on the scene: Austin King and Wayne Meinke.

Austin and Marco met based on their shared love of the Melvins, Austin noticing Marco wearing a "Stoner Witch" t-shirt. Wayne and Marco would meet on their shared infatuation with highly publicized tragic events.

"It's all history from their" and now Oswald's Cult is busy promoting their first full length LP titled "Moloch"

If this story proves anything it's that, "the only shots ya' miss, are the one's you don't take at all" - Lee Harvey Oswald

Band Members:
Marco Antich - Guitar/Vocals
Austin King - Bass Guitar
Wayne Meinke - Drums
Links: Bandcamp | Soundcloud | YouTube | Facebook

Song of the Day-Heavier Than God-"Doomed and Confused"

"Doomed and Stoned" is taken off of "The Self-Titled Album" released September 27, 2015. This song, as the band name suggests is "Heavier than God". The song is a merciless mix of face melting doom and furious hardcore punk intensity. Gut-wrenching harsh vocals scorn the air with angst as the band fist pumps "hey, hey" amongst a killer stoner groove. I love this shit! For more information, please check out the following links: Facebook | Bandcamp

Sunday Sludge: Twingiant - "Devil Down"

Late in 2013, my five year-old son fell in love with Hot For Teacher when it aired on local rock radio. Figuring this could serve as an appropriate funnel into a larger, clearer picture of rock music, I purchased The Best of Both Worlds, Van Halen's over-inflated jumble that moves from brilliant to painful in-between songs. My kids quickly dismissed 34 of the 36 tracks, and shifting to Sabbath and AC/DC has yet to yield positive results. I was once told that Alexander may be the best all-purpose male name, whether placed first, last, or as part of a middle name. But figuring Van Halen to be the best all-purpose (amusing, albeit vanilla) rock band proved I still have some work to do.

Two of Van Halen's covers on that compilation sprung from 1982's Diver Down, arguably the band's most difficult material to digest. But Perhaps Phoenix stoner-sludgers Twingiant are big fans, considering the visual parallels offered by Devil Down, the band's excellent 2nd full-length. The front and back covers mimic Diver Down's format, and both albums feature three instrumental tracks. Fortunately for Twingiant, that's where the parallels end. Devil Down's seven tracks wrap us in fuzzy riffs and effortlessly saunter between rock and metal on a path blurred with cosmic dust.

The album's three instrumental tracks soothe and envelop, looming with distant plucks and leaving behind a pleasant trail of melody. Old Hag is steady, cathartic, and provides a perfect introduction to Twingiant's stoner-buzz nebula. Fuzz oozes and coats our itching craws, expanding on guitar noodles toward a closing sludge push. The huge, punchy hum on Under a Blood Moon buries us, and we can only smile. Swarms of guitar brilliance characterize Through the Motions, balancing clean licks and bristling riffs. The backdrop of sky-shot track marks builds on the foundation of heaviness and we begin wishing we never find our way back.

Dead to Rights is a quick stoner-sludge romp highlighting the band's brand of focused freedom to do whatever they choose. Brash and self-assured, Jarrod's vocal enters to complement splitting guitars on a steadily progressive spiral toward the sun. As lights begin to dim, Daisy Cutter emerges on a low-burning thickness opened up by powerful, straightforward rock licks. It's harmonized and meticulously crafted, breaking into characteristic plucks staring into the past. When the clouds break, sludge flows freely and we again enjoy a tingle at the base of our skulls.

The closing title track is the disc's longest, and likely its most encompassing in terms of stoner and sludge metal tags. There's a bit more violence here, interrupting a brilliant calm and entering a buoyant, drawn-and-quartered swing against a tapestry of matted fur. The ominous gait ties-in to sludge vitriol, and we're carried home atop trademark chalky, sandy licks directed at the heavens. All we can do now is cruise and take in the twilight.

Devil Down provided me with a reality check, being that I crafted my list of 2014's favorites without having heard this album. Twingiant ease in and gradually throw back, introducing a sooty reality laced with surges, fades, and swoons. The detours are sticky and consoling, reflecting the band's commitment to finding harmony between evolution and allegiance. These seven tracks are distinctly Twingiant, but they're also fresh and dynamic. The sounds are never lost in the dust, never stuck in the mud, and never too high to die. And you may never want to stop listening.

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Sunday Sludge: Primitive Man - "Home Is Where The Hatred Is"

Much of the so-labeled doom we chew on is swollen with the promise of pain, an ominous descent into... well, something. Bands can reach the pit and the wolf at the door, as promised, busts through. Others present a threat and rely solely on those shadowy unknowns. I guess those sounds have their place. But sometimes, I just want a band to get to the fucking point.

By now we know Denver's Primitive Man to fall into neither camp. Since the trio's 2013 introduction of the brutal, excellent Scorn, they've set their own standard of blatant bludgeoning. Through various splits over the past two years, Primitive Man have all-at-once announced their presence, delivered their rust-fisted blows, and asserted their dominance by keeping a heel to our throats. Here, with the four tracks of Home Is Where The Hatred Is, they show no sign of relent.

The EP's half-hour of screeches and hovering spite begins with Loathe, tormenting behind sustained malevolence. Ethan McCarthy still gives zero fucks who may be in his way, and Spy's encircling drum work may as well be a hostile Korowai tribe for all the anxiety it catalyzes. This blackened sludge buries us so low that it's near-impossible to sense even a sliver of hope. The cavernous, all-encompassing infliction is parted by an icy wind that carries answers further out of our reach. And as doom timbers collapse in slow-motion, the jagged squalls only augment our misery.

Downfall finds a quick groove and laughs at restraints, later shifting blackened pitches but never escaping the mire. As McCarthy chokes out brutal truths, the supporting tapestry remains wholly caustic. Tone and mood are exceedingly bleak here, but isn't that consistent with PM's catalog? Over and over, we're dragged into a horrifying meld of loose dirt, hot tar, and spiking licks piercing the sludge glaze. It's a filthy, anguished roll in the hay. If hay were fucking razor wire.

In keeping with themes of doling calculated evil, the EP's closing tandem fails to let down. Double kicks head a charge on Bag Man, rolling into itself amid a cloud of soot. The steady escalation of ire is staggering, even for these guys. And when the tracks shift to introduce the closing A Marriage with Nothingness, we're simply ill-prepared. Pain and discord are reflected in a swirling, scraping, trippy mindfuck. As static gradually hazes, everything about this release grows more terrifying.

Buzzing throughout with equal parts callous disregard and deafening feedback, Home Is Where The Hatred Is marks another triumphant blow to our perceptions of the human condition. Ugly truths are never easy to swallow, and here there's no safe alternative. Primitive Man have snatched the torch and thrust it into our gleaming smiles. So what's it really sound like? I'd imagine slowly dying alone would look, feel, and sound something like this.

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Sunday Sludge: Bardus - "Solus"

Sandwiching several days' activities into one weekend bakes an atmosphere of little sleep, high tension, and snarls at those closest to you. Add a patch of ice under worn soles and you're surprised a trip to IKEA could get any fucking worse. Why does cabin fever lead to thoughts of redecorating, upgrading, enhancing, storing, displaying, constructing, and ultimately throwing tools? I woke up this morning scanning a backlog of submissions for some soothing, droning, cathartic, ambient post-metal pretentiousness that wouldn't be offended if I nodded off. Well, too bad. I stumbled on Bardus.

This Philadelphian trio formed in 2011 and released their first full-length in 2013. So I guess it's not new, I guess maybe you've already discovered them. And I can guess that if you haven't heard Solus, it's fair to consider you won't leave it behind after one spin. On the album's eight quick-spat tracks, I can't determine whether not a moment is wasted or if EVERY moment is wasted. Regardless, Bardus don't care if you've never been in a fight. This relentless push of sludgy noise wouldn't let me off the floor.

Tiny Teeth's hot-buttered drums and loose plunks blast fuzz through speakers and immediately rip at our skin. The sweaty, expanding thickness perfectly underlies murky stomps on this loud opener that announces the band doesn't really give a fuck. The grazing Death Letter follows with potent, violent churn, constantly shifting and leaving not a moment to catch up on breaths. As these tracks play out, the sound absolutely saturates, blanketing with shrapnel and subsequently glazing with jagged guitars. As Hex unfurls, we struggle to outrun the band's flick of a rusty knife headcharging for our heels.

The cosmic, shit-soaked cruise of Maladroid grows into phantom scratches, shoving us toward something bigger, higher, and far more sinister. No frills needed. Bloodbrain's fuzz beating interrupts the onset's moment of clarity, a far-off swarm of locusts in the closing distance. The track's warbled, indiscriminate violence is strewn all over, and you're yanked back to your burlap sack nightmare, puss.

Sludge is most evident on Dave Groan, an exposed and grimy buzz-flutter steadily cruising under exhausting, crushing drums. Guitars levitate, but the malevolent stare just won't shake. As the track chops and trails off, a deceptive haze develops and briefly lets us get lost. Eh, don't buy it. Jobber is dark and unsettled, lined with questionable purpose. A jittery, captivating rise ensues and blisters have time to form. And then, well... we're immediately flushed back into blue flames before High Tide's stoner repetition brakes toward a cool burn, bouncing with a frightening fucking smile. The fadeout, though, is perhaps more stupefying than the beating we've endured.

Call today's feature a stream-of-consciousness account of a sound I struggled to keep pace with. The impossible task of documenting everything I heard grew tiresome, leaving me no choice but to summarize with colorful, illustrative descriptors that do Solus no justice. You'll wanna scratch your head trying to describe the sound, but you'll also have trouble lifting your arm near album's end. Bardus knit hot chaos within quick tempos, only to thrust that crochet needle just under your sternum. Sludge? Noise? Ugh... Hardcore? Nah. This is just genre-defying impetuosity. And you're the fucking tomato can.

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Sunday Sludge: Koza

Ah, gettin' back to our Sunday Sludge roots... This whole thing began in 2011 and repeatedly seemed to circle South, as if every detour just above Mason-Dixon resulted in a magnetic bitch slap from Georgia, Arkansas, or Louisiana. Labels are broad, misleading, and generally unfair to bands and listeners, but Southern metal has its own hue. The family tree is tight, unwavering, and generally impenetrable from an outsider's perspective. So here I go again, worming my way to the table for loose scraps.

Served hot and violent this morning is Chattanooga's Koza and their 8-track self-titled EP. Their hue is distinctly Southern, but their sludge sets itself apart in being more to the point, never exhausting the listener and always lacing a scornful thread between tracks. It's hard to enjoy sweet tea when you're stuck in a thorny thicket, so take a hard swallow and do your best to endure Koza's spiked, hard-charged blend of heaviness.

Take Up the Serpent introduces a foreign guitar buzzing like flies, dropping a buoyant sludge gait under a dynamic veiled vocal. As this opener bulldozes through its choppy, stuttered thorax, the band's cyclical approach reveals itself and stomps back to brass tacks. Quickly and relentlessly, listeners have their comfort clipped and gnawed away. The quick-footed stoner cruise of Hoof is an abrupt juxtaposition, leaking Buzzov*en malevolence. For as amped as it gets, though, the track is somehow sticky. And now the unease has taken full grip.

The EP's midsection is an exercise in broad vision, never committing to a single rhythm or riff and shifting between doom, shoegaze, groove, and boggy stoner-sludge. Perhaps that sounds messy, but these songs have way too much to chew on for just one listen. You'll need multiple screenings, and Koza's push to grind you into powder is tense, tight, and strangely satisfying. Slow plucks on March of the Snails are merely a harbinger of fuzzy, columned doom. Death Rattle's wet cobblestone tip-toe wrings nerves like shadows in a greasy alley, fully cementing a cold, uneasy mood. At least, until an outward rip of the seams explodes into unhinged brutality. And when The Silent Bleed The Same drags guitar barbs across weathered skin, we realize we're in too deep.

While Tsunami's marriage of swarming hornets and thick sludge grooves stomps with more density, Koza set aside their crowning achievement as the EP's closer. Stench of Desire is immediately horrifying, breathing slow and opaque just behind your neck. Nodding toward Rwake and channeling the pragmatic narratives of Phil Anselmo, the track's quietest moments are its most unsettling. We're worn thin by the repeated slugs to our senses. The stylistic shifts are permeated by matted fur, and the final ceaseless stoner metal push is our last gasp.

Clocking just over twenty minutes, this goat's varied attack weighs like a lifetime of bruising. The jagged guitars, spiked tempos, and misty morning sludge crawls hardly begin to illustrate all this sound delivers. Koza drag us to a steamy swamp on a journey that's part judgment, part ostracism, and wholly taxing on our brittle frames. This EP hits all points to remind us there's still no fuckin' around down South.

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Seth's 2014 Year In Review

I needed every second of 2014 to craft a list of favorites. Saying goodbye to the year and its bearded buoyancy (weren't beards the rage lately?), I left behind a trail of hard-earned dollars and dodged awkward gay-bar glances as things grew real foggy. I've scratched and scribbled in hopes of trimming down an impartial litany of the most-spun releases from the last twelve months. The task is daunting, so I'll work to keep things simple and clean.

Sunday's Best

I've got two stacks. One toppled by the bands served on silver platter Sundays. The other towering with records I wasn't smart enough to write about. Regardless, these lists are little more than a refresher on a year in which the best sounds blasted down Highway 251 as I ran out of colorful descriptors. Here are the Sunday smokers that lifted our heads highest.

Possessor - Electric Hell

I had a brief obsession with Vince Bugliosi's Helter Skelter years ago. Something about these nine grinders immediately took me back there (that album art surely played a role). From cavernous doom to rat-rod drudge, Possessor gripped my fuckin' nuts and beat me into compliance. Oozing sweat and sex and handshakes with Satan, Electric Hell immediately became my favorite album of 2014.

Disastroid - Missiles

It's always fun to say an album's sound defied categorization, but this was the year's best example. Missiles struck a chord and nestled into my frontal cortex, forming memories I didn't realize existed. Steady and damn-near perfect, the shifts are never forced and the 90's morning wood never kills my buzz. It's sonic anesthesia peppered with sobering stoner-sludge, and every minute is devastating.

Godhunter - City of Dust

I knew Godhunter would deliver the goods before I even heard this 8-track crusher. What was staggering was the message, and the caviling delivery of rebellion's impetus is Godhunter's true trophy here. City of Dust marked an assured stomp toward this band not only cementing their name, but more importantly fisting convention and never caving to blind acquiescence. If only we could all be so bold.

Druglord - Enter Venus

There was no prepping for this brand of heaviness. The doom crushes, yes. But the psychedelia and doped-out howls leave a glaze on your fingers and the crushing blows are relentless. Crashing timbers couldn't shake the Earth like these four tracks. This album is just one step too far in that bad trip. Point of no return? Shit, man... Your best bet is to own it, become it. (Just stay off your neighbor's lawn).

No Way - Sing Praises

The NYC edge hardly goes wasted here. No Way's violent blend of smoke, sludge, and noise put me on my back and never offered help getting up. The sonic deception can't cloud the album's smoothest moments, but Sing Praises is at its best when it's at its most rough. Savage for being so harmonic and sprawling for being so brief, these are four tracks I'll endorse over and over.

Lotus Ash - The Word of God

The post-metal marriage composed of members of two of Milwaukee's finest bands cultivates a bullied cadence that aches gorgeously. Lotus Ash offer metal of a more acute order, grooving with violent permutations and balancing prospect with cold, concrete realizations. Whether you're a thinker or a stumbling stomper, The Word of God holds plenty for you to fall in love with.

Ancient Altar - Self-titled

Twisted slabs of filthy dregs wriggle with strange, hot psychedelia on Ancient Altar's sludgy spiral into madness. Buoyant and laced with whispers of smoke, this debut offers four tracks promising more doomy wisdom than newcomers should have any right to. Balancing those sounds of the 70's with the ugliest, grimiest assertions of tomorrow, this album hits the nail on the head. Repeatedly.

MotherSloth - Moribund Star

Sullen complexity takes its time on MotherSloth's sophomore opus. Moribund Star sprawls with precision and sprays with abandon, hoping and deflating and completing a cycle of life that you'll have on repeat. Stoner-sludge rhythms never club you, but they leave just enough burn to slug your senses numb. Instrumental outfits appear to work just a bit harder, and this is the progressive payoff.

The Powder Room - Curtains

The swagger strapped to this noise is refreshing and unmatched. The Powder Room blow smoke in your face and get real punchy real fast. If you develop a stutter, you may need to step back and pass on this one. Curtains is that asshole at work who has the dirt on management and can do as much or as little as he wants. Luckily, we're still on his good side. These tracks are way too cool for guys like us.

Giza - I Am The Ocean, I Am The Sea

Instrumental swells and hovers slammed me through Giza's sludgy atmospherics, strangely prophetic considering not a damn word is spoken here. Slow, patient boulder tosses span these five depth-charging tracks and result in 2014's most accomplished marriage of brawn and brains. Giza here boast they're only getting better with age.

And the others?

The number of submissions we receive is ever-increasing and wholly humbling. Even more difficult than working through them all is actually enjoying the music NOT sent our way. So whether I was spoon-fed the sweetest sludge this side of the bayou or had to do some crate-digging, here are ten other 2014 releases that shouldn't go unmentioned.

Yob - Clearing the Path to Ascend

Point blank, this is the best record I heard in 2014. Yob are peaking, but it's difficult to imagine this band hitting a plateau of any kind. The musicianship has never been better, and the expanses crafted within these four songs are progressive, profound, and encompassing. Each listen reveals something new, and under each layer is another mouth-breathing moment I can't wrap my head around. Yet again, this trio fails to disappoint.

Monolord - Empress Rising

Relentlessly lumbering fuzz-doom that hovers, staggers, and resonates. Empress Rising took me by surprise with its gloom and unmatched gravity. Monolord's riffs spun a web in my skull and I haven't bothered mounting an escape. This is heavy, tasty, and worth every fucking cent. Ribboned with stoner repetition, this timber drops long and sits fat. Delicious.

Lightsabres - Spitting Blood

It's easy to be impressed, knowing this is just one man. But the true accolade should be tossed toward what that one man has shaped with the sound. Spitting Blood's lo-fi, muffled, point-on-a-spinning-globe approach sounds fresher than the bulk of bullshit dealt our way this year. There's something timely and beautifully unsettling about these songs, and I can say my biggest 2014 regret is not giving this release the Sunday treatment. You'll love this record.

Swans - To Be Kind

A year in review generally results in me flipping open my wallet as album copies run out. THIS album fucking blew me away! Is this the backlash against the backlash? Hipsters LOVE this album. Wait! Hipsters HATE this album. Dude, I just had my mind raped by Swans, so I don't give a good fuck where you think these sounds fall. My torso evolved into a littered cemetery as I listened. Essentially, To Be Kind is a mindfuck of an album and Swans remain patient, experimental royalty.

Electric Citizen - Sateen

Electric Citizen toured with Fu Manchu and made no haste in stealing the bill. Four decades of influence, no shortage of guitar fuzz, and Laura Dolan's witchy presence combine to make Sateen doom's sexiest response to Sabbath. The band's dark majesty is more substance than hype, trust me. The psychedelia buzzes and chops at comparisons, carving little option but to embrace Electric Citizen as your new favorite band.

Ogre - The Last Neanderthal

I've loved Ogre since they served a strange hearken of classic predecessors in 2010, but here they cement their meld of doom and stoner metal in a hurried, focused fashion. This latest is honed and pared, resonating with the good-feel of brothers reunited. Fuzz-headed doom needn't overthink things, but Ogre find smarts when they find restraint. 70's influence saturates recent releases, and Ogre may be the most backboned of the lot.

Greenleaf - Trails & Passes

To which Keith alluded, these sounds vary and sprawl. The stoner supergroup that is Greenleaf has yet to stumble, and despite their loveseat haze, they still offer a bit o' heart. Not a damn one of these nine songs mimics the inflated horseshit of their imitators, yet none manage to posture in the shadows of the members' other bands. Greenleaf burn their own path, and every detour is just as delicious as the last.

Rodha - Welter Through The Ashes

I've finally found a Rodha ally in Pete. These boys pack emotion into every corner and the gravity injected into every note just fucking amazes me. Channeling sludge violence and (incredibly) funneling feeling under stoner-doom cadence is nothing short of miraculous. How the FUCK is this band not conquering the world right now?! Good GODDAMN this is gorgeous!



Indian - From All Purity

Indian opened up 2014 without a glimpse of hope. This is flat-out fucking violent and vile, six scorching sludgers that can't find relent. From All Purity is abrasive and scornful, so much so that I'm shocked I can even return to the bloodied corpse of last winter. Indian ensure you'll feel every barbed note and forget about enjoying your dinner. Sludge? Doom? Noise? Fuck. This album sounds like murder.

Floor - Oblation

Roaring over beautiful 'scapes and cascading melodies, Oblation is that devastating pull between hope and lament. The chewy sweetness complements the fuzziest of tones, structured underneath a shiny psychedelia rarely found. It's as if stoner-doom took the day off to spend some time under palm trees. Then again, the screeches and crushes remind us where to plant our feet.

Sunday Sludge: Jucifer - District of Dystopia

So that walk home really sucked. I'm not terribly fond of interacting with law enforcement, so those flashing lights interrupting my route evoked that fight-or-flight retort. Fuck it. I'll take the long way home. And fuck them.

Oh, these new Jucifer sounds... It's not only unfair to scream "departure," it's also categorically inaccurate. The ever-ambulant duo have never allowed particular descriptors to stick, so calling their nine-track thrasher District of Dystopia a change of pace isn't fair. But it also doesn't fit their sticky-flogged mold of gigantic, expansive noise-doom. The largest head-turn here results not from the sound, but from the message. The duo would roll over in their roving bunks if they knew you'd given a listen and failed on realizing the larger fucking point. Turns out they care less about amped cabinets and more about what's just.

From the quickly disjointed onset of Non Gratum Anus Rodentum through the blackened grindcrust of the swamp-ridden The Object of Power, Jucifer exercise a legislative muckrake from the bottom up. A soldier's misfortune, though partly pinned on his own poor judgment, also points to higher powers recruiting, promising, lying, and never giving a single fuck about the boys in queue. With honesty comes pain, and the band's brutal, scabby pace sets sights on capturing lo-fi consciousness with the hope that this audience digs deeper and pays attention to more than rattling speakers. More than metal, this is rebellion.

Quick, low-slung filth immediately puts light years between these sounds and the droning marriage of metropolitan doubt and teen angst lacing their previous work. It's as if these two intentionally gave a fistfuck to production and hope these runes get marquee billing. Utilizing no shortage of fuzz and Edgar Livengood's intermittent but never absent drummed violence, stop-start chops form swarms of hornets that encase the senses. Sure, the fur gets as saturated as you'd expect. But we're in trouble... When Jucifer pull a burlap sack over our heads and a breaching hammer makes its blows, we know this flaming gaze has a purpose. More importantly, though, it has a heartbeat.

Gazelle Valentine's vocal remains, at times, breathy as you'd expect. But these wheels come off quick, essentially gnawing with an overt aggression directed at D.C.'s representatives. The unrelenting spite is wholly infectious, so perhaps the duo's objective remains more clear and accessible than the sounds. Oh, you weren't expecting this? Did you hear Jucifer's LAST release?! The shifted tempos hide the lyrical depth, but there's a LOT to absorb here. And that this couple finds its mark in well-under thirty minutes is their exercise in hazy, shrouded brilliance.

District Of Dystopia will remind you of those demos your buddy handed you in ninth grade. More raw than the sound, though, is the sense that something's not right. Jucifer take that sense, smack it sober, and shove it in your face. It's revved and uncompromised, devoid of restraint and any second guess. Don't bother getting uncomfortable when your uncle brings up political incompetence as you're chewing Virginia Christmas fat. For those with any virtue, this album is little more than an adjunct argument. For the uninitiated, this sludge-thrash exercise is Insurgency 101. It's also one of 2014's most compelling releases, front to back.

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Sunday Cephalopod: Squidlord

There's a strange numbness in some of my extremities. Who knows what that might indicate, but it's just one more shining example of my fleeting youth. I'll do my best to keep typing, but I'll apologize in advance for any abrupt disruption of today's feature. Now that I think of it, perhaps today's sounds are to blame for the loss of senses.

Asheville's Squidlord hardly sound like a band delivering their first album. The eleven instrumental tracks on their self-titled debut may as well be connected as one. Transcending labels like psychedelic, stoner, doom, and sludge is hardly the album's greatest achievement, but it's a hell of a place to start. You're gonna love this.

Using no vocals whatsoever, the band still weaves quite a tale. The riff spikes and shifting tempos chronicle a steady ascent, seemingly insurmountable challenges, climactic passages, and a staggering denouement. Squidlord's narrative buzzes in cyclical fashion, keeping listeners locked in for the better part of a forty-four minute journey at sea.

Discovery's smooth introduction buoys and swells toward an angry stoner sea of epic crashes, while The Whiskey Barrel spills cool breaths and cascading drums. A colossal tapestry of hanging guitars crafts a layered sound that's as gorgeously turbulent as it is ever-progressing. Things get sticky with the sludge of Washed Up, kicking southern licks and lifting tempos into a trot. And doom? Well, Thrown In Jail (Locked Up) is a slow-motion, one-eyed stagger swaying and burning with cosmic strings. Fate is tempted, battles are lost, and the pain of truth is realized.

So all the Heavy Planet essentials are bookmarked, but the album's greatest moments follow on the back end. A meaty southern approach emerges on the confident Vision of the Phoenix and the slow, bass-driven treads of Calling Abraxas. Tide's End warbles and weaves with awesome movement, and Soosah's Tavern chugs, busts bottles, and may be the most fun you'll have all day. Pull after pull, this libation lingers on the tongue.

Squidlord take moments to look back and assess the damage, but more important are their puffed-chest, fist-swinging returns to flattening. Cover to cover, this instrumental trip meets challenges, finds its knees, and emerges for an even more impressive push. Rock-hard stutters somehow complement passages of somber woe. This album gathers moss as it gains momentum. Not many can boast such improbable achievements.

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Sunday Sludge: Grizzly - "Rapturous Decay"

For all the early-morning fog, sweet-spiced coffees, and open-mouthed gazes toward changing colors, there's also plenty I never trusted about the autumn shift. Something seems underhanded and sinister to the point of my guard lifting. And to be fair, that's why it's so great. But don't you get tired of everyone saying they love fall?

Two years ago, we introduced ourselves to Budapest's sludge-n'-rollers Grizzly, an overtly violent quintet of pissed-off stoners committed to unleashing hot, gnarling malevolence on unsuspecting lemmings. Their six-track Fear My Wrath stayed on my radar through year's end, cemented as one of the year's best, as I saw it.

With their follow-up, the band adopt autumn's roundabout, nuanced administration of subversion. Rapturous Decay offers a rollicking half-dozen meaty slabs of hate, masked in groove and caked with steaming shit. Grizzly have discovered an element of patience, making their toxic blend of Southern stoner-sludge all the more dangerous. Monolith opens markedly more subdued than The Cultist, rolling smoothly until Grizzly find their fangs. The track is coated and self-assured, so perhaps the mere threat of lurking evil is even more effective than a blade in your nostril. Slick resin, buoyant rhythms... The boys are back.

Pass Those Pills follows with effective pregnant pauses that heighten anxiety. This cool roll in the hay dizzies as it soaks, and the head-shaking search for answers proves this band is maturing. Bluesy lament and self-realization were never expected. Ride Along is more upbeat, not giving two shits about spilling. The trademark middle finger is back, kept greasy via Knapp's grimy pipes. They're still Grizzly; nothing ever shines for long.

Serving as a harbinger of evil, The Silver Key is fucking fed up. This chugger rolls slow and gathers momentum, churning and flattening with unhinged riffs. What follows on the closing tandem, however, pairs nine minutes of beer-swiggin' bar blues and a potent wall-to-wall stagger. Rapturous Decay Pt 1 is all-inclusive, no less dynamic given the muted aggression. Sitting dockside with a harmonica, an empty bottle, and more than a few rough thoughts, we're hardly prepared for what's hovering and taking shape above. Part 2's stoner foundation is spiked with roaring rants, promising Grizzly's lack of regard for consequence. Calm nods and long breaths briefly deceive us until the shakes return. Tension grows, coils tighten... These guys are gonna snap. One slam after another and we're spent.

Grizzly's swampy stoner roots remain intact, and the intentions still ice the spine. So the band found their own fog in the form of cool plucks to ease the burn. We're given time to be frightened, questioning all around us. We get stuck in the mud, we scratch for branches, and we briefly believe we've found a foothold for a fighting chance. Nope. Turns out the murderous Hungarians are still pissed. And hungry. And breathing on your neck.

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Sunday Sludge: Lotus Ash - "The Word of God"

I remember when Audioslave formed. I fucking loved Soundgarden as a teen, and Rage Against The Machine was extreme for the mainstream, so I was hooked. But you take Chris Cornell minus Kim Thayil's licks (and Matt's drums, let's be serious) and RATM minus Zach's spits, and who gives a shit? Audioslave was so bland I could barely stomach the term "supergroup," just a couple o' radio-friendly singles and foam filler for the uninitiated.

Heavy Planet alums Maidens and Northless may not boast such an inflated pedigree, but their members aren't foreign to sculpting dynamic post-sludge sounds leaning toward the year's best. Rarely does the sum outperform the parts, but today's feature is an exercise highlighting growth, and egos won't stiffen the sound this time. Lotus Ash's The Word of God is five walled progressions of post-sludge perfection saturated in a groove that's both infectious and proficient.

Redemption's epic rush of sound is immediate, revealing waves and layers that immerse the listener and nail down the mood. The isolation is countered by a strange sense of belonging (compliments of vocal drapery) and elements steadily meld and forge a staggering post-sludge statement. Heavy as this opener is, though, we also catch glimpses of vulnerability. The pensive progressions give way to hopeful elevation, challenging any of contemporary sludge's pedestrian, downtrodden stomp.

The buzzing transition into Soul of Man is near-apocalyptic, forcing us into a corner with the juxtaposition of cascading drumwork, murky rhythms, and majestic vocals. The ambition on display could kill lesser acts, but Lotus Ash's stone wall is cold, desolate, painful, and ultimately extraordinary. The buzz grows abrasive on the slow-rolling collapse and rise of the title track. The song expands upon itself and never relents as incredible post-metal beacons emerge to snatch marquee billing. Evolving, churning, swelling... But never willing to abandon a core of slow-simmered sludge. Awesome.

And about that sludge, Open Arms is the album's best example of caked aggression. Violent and antagonistic with a groove that won't be neglected, the grind is peppered with doubt. Drums get primitive, guitars screech, and the slugs find no pause. It's almost a harbinger for Scourge's devastation, aiming to dominate without prejudice. Metered and measured perfectly, this closer aims and stings with heavy swells, ignoring convention and painting a faint haunt with strange and calculated evolution.

Singing praises for The Word of God should hardly detract from what Maidens and Northless have given us, so perhaps I shouldn't make the comparisons. But Lotus Ash have abruptly thrust themselves into the discussions of 2014's best sounds. These five tracks are fluid and bulky, despondent yet at times glazed with hope. Throughout though, this record is very, very smart. It's not so easy to remain ignorant, and this release assures that ignorance won't be comfortable, if it's even permitted at all. You might believe you're losing yourself for thirty-two minutes. What you're really losing is an interest in shitty music. This is how it's done.

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Sunday Stoner-Sludge: Disastroid - "Missiles"

Soccer games, allergy meds, and ridiculous waves from non-friends tend to characterize my Autumns. One exhausting sneeze follows another as my fucking kids amp the tempo and I stab my fucking eye with a sharp stick. Can't we just head home, make dinner, and watch animated drivel until you lose steam and I can carry you to soft dreams, kid? Ha, whoa... "fuck you, Dad!" Sunday translates to salvation, and today's saviors may be the year's best.

California's Disastroid weave a tight sludge-noise tapestry of frayed nerves on Missiles, eight shifty tip-toed exercises of varying speeds and styles that blur lines between genres and likely inject more scope-stretching sounds than any release featured in the Sunday Sludge of 2014. Not exactly accessible, not exactly unsettling, not exactly less-than-awesome, Disastroid click through thirty-five minutes balancing grind and buzz, never quite abandoning a meter that makes you believe they're smarter than you. And they don't care.

Opening slow on Lost in Space may be the band's greatest ruse, hitting hard with abrupt collapse and snuffing comfort. The whisper-scream dynamic is never as pretentious as you'd expect, the un-hinged approach being less important to the trio than their dinner plans. Through shrill ice and the warp of convention, Disastroid immediately announce their bass-driven leveling of standards. But Bird Watcher is somehow more welcoming with its deceptively clean gait. Repetitive and numbing, the track contains elements of 90's buzz that balance the noisy and the focused, making them (somehow) more unsettling. Jagged, jarring rhythms begin characterizing the sound and wagging tongues.

Haunt and fog are never out of reach, though. Unsound Mind spaces through a bayou and grows more eerie with passing moments. Enver's vocals find their marquee here, establishing a cautious trust by calling out your flaws. Buoyant, heavily-caked rhythms harken Failure's best moments, grinding a bit before mudding and hazing. To bottom-line things, Disastroid won't let your bullshit go unnoticed.

The disc's back-end triptych may wind up being one of 2014's crowning achievements. Mighty Road sounds like sunny Sunday morning kitchen appliances when you're NOT hungover, punchy and patient until guitar noise grows atop a Helmet-ish stop/start tempo. The track shifts, dodges labels, and the scratchy unfurl is pretty awesome. When the cold-stone ending passage eases into Obeah, we're abruptly faced with the album's slickest smack. Loaded with angst and shaken-head judgments, vocal barbs peel off the wheels a la Whores. and the late Akimbo. The evolution is frightening and enthralling as listeners watch patterns and plans totally fucking dissolve.

And oh, that title track. Subtle entry, escalation, a slight hope for escape... What a cool fucking track, buzzing like your first car and fully-aware of its own strength, this juggernaut is a tense juxtaposition of piqued guitars and cool, steady rhythms. Sprinkling the landscape with hope is a cruel exercise when you consider the long, drawn-out saturation of reality on the horizon. Every element is showcased, and all corners of this band's directives are finally revealed. Maybe we weren't supposed to smile in the first place.

Spacey escalations and grounded assertions are just one of the myriad of Missiles's accomplished marriages. This stoner-sludge effort is so much more than hazy jams or drudging rhythms. Try as they might, Disastroid never let the noise detract from their proficiency. Is your stepdad gonna beat you awake or is he gonna wait for you to figure out things for yourself? It's hard to tell. Disastroid's soundtrack to your bruised walk to school won't boost your ego. It's just gonna take a nuanced approach toward your self-improvement. Self-improvement? Shit... by year's end, you'll be at your scabby best.

For fans of: Melvins, Whores., Failure
Pair with: Rosa Hibiscus Ale, Revolution Brewing

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Noisey Presents NOLA: Life, Death And Heavy Blues From The Bayou Episode 1

Today Noisey, the music arm of VICE, is proud to present NOLA: Life, Death And Heavy Blues From The Bayou, episode 1. A seven-part series examining the people and the culture that helped foster bands like Down, Eyehategod, Crowbar, and so many others, episode 1 features New Orleans native Phil Anselmo who exports his style to Dallas band Pantera, thereby changing the landscape for metal in the '90s. Meanwhile, a visit from the Melvins to the New Orleans area would alter music as we know it, while Kirk Windstein of the band Shell Shock was discovering that slower was, for him, indeed heavier.

Starring: Members of Down, Pantera, Eyehategod, Crowbar, Corrosion Of Conformity, Goatwhore, and more, Noisey delves in deep with the NOLA natives on Tuesdays and Thursdays starting TODAY

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Sunday Sludge: Sploof

Sometimes, it's all in the name. Sploof caught my eye with their overt endorsement of hiding the evidence. I expected slow-rolling riffage and a wicked haze. What I didn't expect was to play these two tracks on a repeated loop for hours on a Sunday morning. I planted myself in bed about six hours ago and can't believe I'm saying this, but this band is making it impossible for me to catch a few more winks.

After conducting an extensive online search for "Sploof," I've found plenty of information my boss never needs to know about. I'm offered hope by the words "demo clip" at the end of each track title, leading one to believe these are pieces of more extensive, exhaustive sonic sessions. White Widow and Granddaddy Purple are seemingly seasoned heavy-hitters on par with sludge metal's lumbering titans, those worshipping the Yesca. This tandem offers resinous sludge-doom laced with swinging, swaying riffage of epic dimensions. Grab the dryer sheets and blast this fucker at a volume your parents won't test.

The unfiltered, cavernous sonic resonations of White Widow break into viscous stoner-sludge-doom-drone elements of unmatched viscosity. Guitar acmes pepper the dense riff drills and the coughing fits are simply collateral damage. Granddaddy Purple, on the other hand, clobbers with more oblivious abandon. Chugging only fast enough to avoid getting fully stuck in shit. The choppy stutter is fucking glorious, and the passages of illuminating embers craft a landscape littered with cymbals and distortion that pans and ends all-too-abruptly.

Hey, Sploof... If you're reading this, hit me up. I wanna hear more.

For fans of: Sabbath, Bongzilla, Weedeater
Pair with: Extreme Intensage American Imperial IPA, Solemn Oath Brewery

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Sunday Sludge: Fistula - "Vermin Prolificus"

If you expected to pour some coffee and breathe in some crisp morning air on your front porch, you've come to the wrong fucking place. I've said it before: Cleveland's Fistula are never gonna make you feel good. Through various lineups and countless EP's, splits, and full-length albums, these snarling scumfucks have consistently drawn distinct lines between societal classes and never been burdened by things like tact or nuance. Whether its a low, pensive groove or a breakneck pull on your tie as your teeth are beaten in, Fistula's overt violence is ever-present.

On Vermin Prolificus, thirty-five ticks of abrupt tempo shifts and screeching, stabbing guitars canvas larger truths. These seven tracks are less symptomatic of Oppositional Defiant Disorder and more indicative of the human condition's natural response to authoritative bullshit. Nowhere is this more evident than on Pig Funeral, a slow-simmered revolt slung low and hot and brimming with cracked-tooth spite. Rhythms churn and wave a fist in the fat faces of power, evolving toward a blistering close that repeatedly bloodies its knuckles on sharp bone.

For all the vile sludge bubbled underfoot, however, the band is never a hair away from lashing your back with a barbed rod. Spitting back to 2012's Northern Aggression EP, Harmful Situation and Sobriety are slightly reworked, slightly shorter, and seemingly more destructive with this go. And the contempt displayed on Upside Down is a call not just to authority, but to mainstream society as a whole. And the shit-caked trudging tempo is like an added bonus.

But Vermin Prolificus makes its boldest assertions on lengthier exercises. Smoke Cat Hair and Toenails is fuzz-coated sludge marked by violent, screeching pulls. Again, the sounds are absolutely foul and filth-laden. Moments of torrid tension are broken by hard coughs, assisting to uncover grimy truths of contemporary youth. The slugs come slow and poisonous, evoking incredibly dark imagery consistent with the middle finger this album throws in the face of convention. The title track is similarly jarring and unsettling, utilizing drawn-out, splintered extraction via drug-fueled samples. Layers continue to emerge, wounds work deeper, and slow-burning ruminations reveal (somewhat) rational explanations of drug distribution and addiction. We were never promised a sunny day, but Fistula reveal that endless pain has an endless dark solution. These thirteen minutes are the sonic equivalent of picking scabs off your face and kicking your kids. Not unlike a junkie, this track simply can't escape the grips of its own demons.

There's too much going on here to bottom-line it with one summation. Each of the seven tracks on Vermin Prolificus is a bold fucking assertion (especially the album's final moment on Goat Brothel, whew). Short-tempered and fed up, this album is a slowly corroding, synthetic-smoked nightmare flogging us as we scratch for daylight. The screeches and abrasions are the effect here, not the cause. What you're really hearing is yourself, your community, and our society inches away from collapsing under the weight of a fake smile. How much longer you think you can stand it?

For fans of: Angst, piss, pills, scabs, Gummo, malcontent, broken teeth, glass, burnt hair, and whatever the fuck is rotting in your basement.

Pair with: Meth

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Sunday Sludge: Sunken - "Recoil"

Eleven months ago, I lamented "We only get five tracks, guys?" after submerging myself in Sunken's hypnotic, swollen demo. It was, of course, entirely complimentary, as those five songs collectively imposed a residual thickness that's still protecting my skull from lesser, boring releases sent my way. Sunken seamlessly hover, cool off, hit pause, and ultimately explode with more power than any two-piece has a right to. But what another bass/drum duo might reveal as weakness only serves as Sunken's spooky, chest-caving catalyst.

These Belgians lugged those swollen tracks and squeezed four more just behind them, wasting not an inch of air space and filling a sonic void that, again, we never knew existed. Thirty minutes expand and improve on the litany of the band's accomplishments, teetering between wholly encompassing and distantly foreboding. On Recoil, Sunken have found their static-sludge stride, slowly rolling out elements both adjacent and obtuse.

The new sounds are bookended by two massive nine-minute haunts that perfectly define their sound and their dynamic. On Sunken, the slow swell of A.'s smooth bass returns, graduating to a crashing storm of static. J.'s drums encircle with cool progression as rhythms worm and poke around corners. The marriage of drum and bass finds Sunken nailing their mark here, with low thumbings taking the lead only to withdraw as the burn deepens. The devastation here is subtle, dealt slowly and even calmly. Amid the haunt, however, is a gorgeous, flattened scene.

Damaged is immediately loose and abrupt, juxtaposing what we've just tread. Stop-start noise is chaotic, attributed to stringy, buoyant bass that breaks for stomping statements. You'll detect a nod toward space, approaching a shipyard on a foggy fadeout. So the transition to Downwards is a smooth one, a midnight stroll that's deceptive and captivating. A. guides our steps, but J. never trails by much. We're pulled blindly into alleys and can't seem to commit to one route, dodging the gradual approach of danger. When paces lift, a blanket of fuzz descends and a strong, ever-increasing groove offers no escape. Our vessels begin to pop.

Perhaps everything has led to the closing title track, offering trademarks and undaunted patience. The patches of enormity drizzled over long, numbing stretches are certainly highlights, but simply MASSIVE doom crashes emerge at the midpoint. The denouement buzzes and swarms upon itself, staying true to form but huffing in a whole new level of buzz. The crashes craft an incredible burn, and these final moments make for a sticky experience.

Sunken's great triumph is their lack of predictability. Listening to Recoil, I can't pinpoint where the sounds are headed, whether I'll be crushed by the weight or lifted from the soil. There's much to sift through, and the largest compliment I can give this release is that it'll require multiple spins. One bass. One drum. Hell, you won't even notice there's no vocal. Each progression is a statement, each shift is another nervous tick you've now developed. The deeper you go, the more you want. Junkie.

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Sunday Silence: Snarf - "Klabat"

The hits just kept coming this week. Some would drum up the ridiculous superstition of death coming in threes, but a fourth hit a bit harder in my narrow, heavy corner of the human experience. Robin Williams caved to depression, Lauren Bacall's rough voice went silent, and the incredibly influential bad-ass that was Jay Adams suffered a quick halt to a fast life. Learning of a band you love hanging it up for good can be a fucking downer, but circumstances rarely match those of Swiss droners Snarf when it comes to sudden, unexpected loss.

Following the loss of their frontman Chris, Snarf have declared themselves to no longer exist. Their final, staggering dose of droning sludge was mixed and mastered just before tragedy struck, effectively rendering Klabat Snarf's swan song, a bittersweet adieu for a under-appreciated trio just hitting their stride. Here's one epic track swelling to thirty-three minutes, twisting and shape-shifting, leveling with hovered sustain despite brisk, bold, and busy delivery.

The sheer volume of emerging layers is numbing, leaving behind sterile static in favor of slugging riffs that meander and teeter. The whole of the track buzzes with eerie reverb, recalling the best droning moments of Snarf's previous triumphs. But the prevalence of nightmarish doom is a heavy-handed pronouncement of mastery. Innumerable slow-burning disturbances under tight drones evoke slight, distant spooks that leave listeners in cold shudder.

We could dissect the track into movements, but I simply don't have the vocabulary to do them justice. Scraped vocals bark with malevolence, entering a sonic cemetery and seamlessly transitioning toward deliberate, haunting chants. Klabat is at times wholly primitive, at others thoroughly disheartening. Snarf are patient, the dominant doom crunches are slow with agony, and the overall unpredictability marries unearthed stratum slabs to raise questions that the band, unfortunately, will never be able to answer.

This record hits so deep. On its own, the track smolders and frightens with incredible scope and character. The broad sweep of soundscapes and nightmarish curveballs set apart both this record and this band. To think this is the last Heavy Planet will hear from Snarf is a drag, sure. But the ardor and care exercised in the crafting of these sounds should be noted above any tragedy. Sit with this and allow Klabat's tides to direct your emotions. You'll get there.

Thank you, Chris. Farewell.

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