Album Review-Wolves Carry My Name: Black Earth Tongue

It's about 6:00 am.  Pitch shit black, and I've been up since 3:15, on the road since 4:00.  Drank enough coffee to kill a horse and only about 50% sure I'm on the right road.  I'm in no mood for the horrible atrocities and audible crimes perpetrated by this so-called "morning radio".  Bieber, Bieber, country, church service, talk show, church service....  I think my soul wants to vomit.  With miles of some of NY's most boring highway ahead, I decided this was the perfect opportunity to blast the new Wolves Carry My Name album, "Black Earth Tongue".  Released on Oct 14, 2016, I got my copy the day it came out, but this was my first opportunity to listen to it straight through, uninterrupted.  Their previous release "Among the Ashes and Ruins", instantly became one of my favorite albums and I have been not so patiently waiting for a follow up ever since.  I had high hopes and was not disappointed.  This was exactly the kind of kick in the teeth I needed to get through this dismal ride. 

Only seconds in and I'm feeling rejuvenated, rocking down the highway speed limits be damned.  I've heard listening to good music is a legal defense. Legitimate in any court for speeding.  But don't quote me on that.  At only about 29 minutes long this isn't an exceptionally long album.  But it doesn't need to be.  There is no fluff, no filler, no fucking around here.  They get in, get the job done and get out!  Like a precision bank robbery.  In and out before you know what hit you, leaving you holding your ass looking for you wallet and all the killer cat food coupons contained within. 

Their Bandcamp page describes their sound as "a bastard of 90's sludge metal and ruthless hardcore fused into sonic waves of blackness".  That description works for me as they fall under no conventional label.  A tempo faster than your typical sludge but with vocals just a vicious.  Guitar hooks and stoner rock moments with a more ambient doomy feel other times.  All the different elements are woven together seamlessly.  I am guilty of never paying much attention to listening to an album in order, but one thing that struck me about the first album was how it flowed,this album is no different.  Teeth Black as Coffin Nails serves as an introduction and Tamam Shud is a fitting conclusion.  The thought about every aspect is evident throughout.  From the arrangements to the track layout.  No wasted time.  Hard hitting and straight to the point.  Do yourself a favor and check out their Bandcamp and pick up a copy. 

Bandcamp || Facebook

EP Review: Wizard Bloody Wizard by Wizard Bloody Wizard

Heavy fuzzed doom metal spews forth from Iowa’s Sleep/Sabbath worshipping Wizard Bloody Wizard on their three-track self-titled EP, with a dark mix of horror film sound-bites, slow chugging deep riffs, and enough bass riffs to knock you off your feet.

The EP is woven with themes of the occult, witchcraft, horror films, and cannabis that sees the short record showcase three quite different tracks. Opener ‘In The Depths…’ is a slow doom-heavy track that menaces along with muffled vocals stalking its prey, sending shivers down your spine. ‘Children of the Night’ steps up the tempo, and volume, as the riffs come in crushing and heavily, and the vocals become more audible with a more worn-out approach to their sound. Wizard Bloody Wizard like to keep their riffs heavy on the fuzz, but still cutting like a knife to your core, a sound akin to their peers in Electric Wizard and Sleep alike. Closing track ‘Nocturnus Sainturnus’ is an instrumental sludging metal track which is littered with film sound-bites echoing desperation and haunting overtones, the perfect way to end this statement EP.

Wizard Bloody Wizard’s self-titled EP is a dark, heavy warning of things to come, so prepare 

Bandcamp

LP Review: 'Terminal' by Limb

If you're not into bands that leave you feeling like you've been elbowed in the face with a barrage of heavy riffage, then look away now... Coz that's Limb's special move and they'll get you every time, over and over again.

Born and bred in London, Limb are like the bastard son of Clutch and Electric Wizard with a cockney swagger through a Louisiana swamp, which when combined makes their sound their own. It’s hard to pin down the four-piece as purely purveyors of sludge, as there's more going on with their latest long-player 'Terminal'. And it's goooood.

An almost perfect concoction of groove-infused heavy sludge rock, 'Terminal’ sounds like a big step forward in the band’s evolution, and evidence they have picked up a few tricks from previous tour buddies Black Moth. Also evident is the influence of producer Russ Russell, known for his extreme metal work with Napalm Death, Dimmu Borgir, Evile etc. Through Russell’s knob-tinkering and ear for production, you get a real sense of how BIG the band would sound live... and Limb have never sounded better.  

There’s very little respite to the pounding maelstrom of riffs and guttural growls of vocalist Rob Hoey throughout the record - the perfect soundtrack to sinking a beer or ten, cranking up the stereo to ear-splitting volume, and throwing a house party till the police show up. Stand-out tracks here include ‘Dawn Raiders’ a straight-up shot of pure stoner groove with a menacing bluesy bass riff, ‘Micromegas’ a fist-pumping anthemic stomp, and ‘Cocytus’ which concludes the record with an 9 min epic 3-part track of hypnotic and relentless rhythms.

It’s obvious Limb take their craft seriously, evident with both the lyrics and awesome artwork by Cur3es (you may be familiar with his art on Fu Manchu’s ‘Gigantoid’), portraying a dystopian near-future and the response of humanity. Worthy of owning the limited vinyl version on its own. 

With ‘Terminal’, Limb have upped their game, defined their sound and delivered some cracking tracks in the process. With any luck they’ll continue to do so, though you get the feeling these guys make their own luck.

Follow Limb - Website | Facebook | Bandcamp

Song of the Day-Bevar Sea-"Where There's Smoke (There is a Pyre)"

"Where There's Smoke (There is a Pyre)" is taken off of the upcoming sophomore release "Invoke the Bizarre" due out September 25, 2015. This song is a testament in taking on the challenge of the sophomore slump. While still having doomy bits here and there, the song sees a more mature side of the band with well-executed song structure and melody without sacrificing the heavy. For more information, please check out the following links: Facebook | Bandcamp

Song of the Day"-Funeral Horse-"Underneath All That Ever Was"

"Underneath All That Ever Was" is the first track taken from the upcoming release "Divinity For the Wicked" due out September 22, 2015. Pre-orders are now being taken for what is sure to be a ground-breaking release. For more information please check out the following links: Facebook | Bandcamp

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 Smoke:Doctor Smoke-"The Witching Hour"

I've grown into this, you could say. When I took this gig, it was all sandy descriptors, Sabbath nods, riff worship, and clouds of smoke that should've gotten me evicted. The journey's been littered with thorns, the expanded consciousness clouded by genre tags and limitations I've placed upon myself. Fuck. Tonight my wife tried dissecting my anxiety. She's no mental health professional, but she's also no stranger to my perks. These limitations, these rules... they're all self-imposed. They're all also quite fucking meaningless. You may have noticed these Sundays are lately more than just sludge. Today's feature is a perfect example of why I can't limit myself.

When Heavy Planet featured Ohio's Doctor Smoke last October, we met a quartet of stoner occultists going thick on soiled riffs and channeling an inner Bobby Liebling. Just a year later, the band offers not only an expanded tracklist, but an overall improved approach to the craft. The Witching Hour's nine tracks (six of them entirely new) illustrate Doctor Smoke's stomp into their own skin, shedding their reliance on doomy fuzz and trusting themselves more as songwriters and musicians.

We know three of these tracks. And rather than serving to fluff the run-time, they actually create a broader scope when sidled next to the newer tracks. Relentless and baleful, The Willow kicks off the immediately punchy, rollicking backwoods descent. Blood and Whiskey is still a smoker, sweat-soaked and groove-smacked. And those rhythms still flirt with evil and never get old. When The Seeker pops through before the album's final push, it's of course slow, dirt-caked, and the album's rawest offering.

Most notable on the new tracks are the self-realized, perfectly-structured lyrics. Evil Man is mossy doom, swaying and split with chafed licks, ultimately exploding into revved groove and guitar-pissing in all directions. But the plunge of the slow, murky vocal veil traps every-Goddamn-thing beneath it. The Toll emerges from soggy earth to find a torrid clip, pacing unpredictably and matching the erratic lyrical accusations. The whole of the album's thorax is a trip through a thorny, overgrown pass. Choppy, jostled, and pushing ever-deeper, these spilt-swill snags hardly heel the quick-twisted, punchy cruises. Doctor Smoke now have a hook in your lip.

Where the band's amped proficiency is most notable, however, is on the closing tandem of This Final Hour and Permanent Night. The former boasts as a heavy-hearted trench throttle, rattling you back to clarity with tempo shifts and sweaty rock-n-roll. The track progressively expands under a rueful mood, gently wheeling the track into pensive plucks. And by the time Permanent Night's bleak subject combines with the collection's deepest, grainiest groove, you won't know which elemental showcase takes the blue ribbon. The licks are more than just a sidecar, the throwback is more than just creepy, and the balance is more than you could ever want.

And The Witching Hour as a whole is so much more than a steel-toed stride. Eerie, distant malaise has never had such a pull. These songs creep among a thick timber until rhythmic deviations introduce a gleeful, punch-drunk vertigo. Guitars, vocals, lyrics, those low rhythms... ALL have their moment of showboated flexing. But where posturing would murder lesser bands, Doctor Smoke manage to make one another sound better. Collectively, the sounds never stumble. We're not sure exactly what corner of the woods we'll end up in. More importantly, we don't care. Hit me with another, drag me where you will... "My masters, pull my strings."

Bandcamp | Facebook

Sunday Split: Goya / Wounded Giant

Enough of the leftovers. I've gorged myself into a turkey-hash and cranberry coma over the course of three days, placing me in perfect position to try something new, fresh, and (as luck would have it) fucking sinister. I don't feature many splits on these Sundays, primarily because so many end up featuring (heads:) one band's best effort and (tails:) another's obligatory toss-off. But pair two left coast stoner-doom titans and you've piqued my interest.

"In ancient Rome, there was a poem... About a dog who had two bones. He picked at one, he licked the other... He went in circles 'til he dropped dead." 

Come 2015, STB Records will release a split LP tandem featuring Phoenix's Goya and Seattle's Wounded Giant, certifiably cementing both acts as forces in a riffed landscape of dust and sand. After one spin, you'll struggle to decide which act deserves the first nod toward another listen. It really doesn't matter, so long as you make no haste. I do my best to be cerebral and offer poignant, insightful perspectives on the sounds sent my way. But these three tracks kicked in my teeth and made my hands shake, rendering me damn-near unable to even grip a knob to elevate the decibels.

First consider Goya's fourteen-tick No Place In The Sky, shelling their own weed-doom blitz while staying true to the form evident on last year's crushing 777. This opener immediately drips with hovering fuzz, masking a patient riff-mist and snagging reluctant drums for the ride-along. In hindsight, it's deceptive considering the full-brunt drop of doom ushered in by the succession of relentless blows. As riffs manipulate a canopy of smoke, Jeff Owens' vocal is haunted by its own shadow and stalked by his fractured fret licks. Beyond the midpoint, his guitar cracks what's disheartening and desolate by imposing blisters you'll never let heal. The rhythmic churn never loses steam behind Nick Lose and Chad Moline, slow-rolling toward an acceptance of fate. Short of a few brief, sporadic firings, the ungodly stagger leaves us peeling at our own hot skin, barely seeking sense in this teeming pool. Fourteen minutes? I'd let this one glaze me for fourteen days.

Flip the wax and you'll find Wounded Giant's one-two, led by The Room Of The Torch. Juxtaposing side one as more than a shade quicker, the track is no less imposing. Bathed in hot shit but looking toward a fading sun, these sludge rhythms give way to doom sensibilities. As a ritualistic gathering appears imminent, listeners are quickly pulled back into dragged-knuckle cruises and coated with skin-tingling sustain. Strap in and hold on as we quickly convert to unhinged stoner acceleration. Psychedelia saturates as we dig into a steamy swamp escape that's as deceptive as it is delicious.

Swaying and swinging with concrete fists is Dystheist, the split's epic closing coup. If this giant's wounded, he's hardly fucking bothered by it. Distant hover is merely a harbinger of the settling spook and ethereal pipes brought by Bobby James. Riff tarps wrap and suffocate atop a sticky, malevolent tempo led by Alex Bytnar's punchy charges. This track, boiled down to terms your haze can understand, is an embrace of the negative. Wounded Giant's unmistakable 70's salute remains in their back pocket, but the swirls toward an epic closing storm of exploding light marks a stomp apart from their brilliant Lightning Medicine.

You're wasting your time in search of another split this complete. Goya and Wounded Giant each bark their case as the marquee act. But clearly, both trios commit to embrace the other and peer downhill at the devastation they've collectively scattered behind them. Perhaps these three tracks can finally provide your mom with enough worry to simply leave you alone in the basement rather than investigate that skunky waft. If you've made it this far, she knows she's lost you. STB is only churning 430 of these on wax. I know you're weary, but try acting fast.

Specs:

Released January 3rd, 2015

Limited vinyl pressing of 430

Die Hard Edition - 80 pieces
Band Only - 100 pieces
OBI Series - 100 pieces
Not-So Standard Edition - 150 pieces

Mastered specifically for vinyl

Exclusive artwork done by David Paul Seymour

STB Records | Facebook | STB Bandcamp

And in the meantime...

Bandcamp | Facebook

Bandcamp | Facebook

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.

Bandcamp | Facebook

Sunday Smoke: Leather Lung - "Reap What You Sow"

Some things need to be experienced without distraction. Isn't that what Kyuss instructed? If you're gonna smoke yourself stupid, the perfect sidecar is the grimiest, steadiest stoner-sludge within arm's reach. But more important is to isolate the experience with decent headphones. After all, do you really want your mom coming downstairs, interrupting your session to complain about that racket?

Speaking of your mom, she looks great on the cover of Leather Lung's Reap What You Sow. Four New Englanders, five smokey cruisers, and twenty-seven minutes are all you need to make today lazy, hazy, and stickier than your stepdad's backseat. And it's okay if you don't wanna share.

A familiar stoner fuzz permeates the album, immediately evident on Burning Out. The opener rips with riffs and heavy hits, repeatedly parting the basement haze with fuzz licks that lift us into another atmosphere. Mike's vocal is little else but shards and splinters, spit hot and angry. But these rueful reflections can hardly pull you away from a Sunday sit down with your shadiest pals. The quick follow-up Green Bitch is stoner-punk sneer with a staggering gait, set off by Ben's potholed path. As we struggle for balance, Zach's blistering licks steady our hand. But these lungs are filling up and these eyes have grown heavy, bro.

An all-out embrace of loser-dom follows on the album's back end. Stone by Stone bruises behind heady buzz and riffs accumulate upon themselves. In short, the thickness is gonna coat your throat before lulling you with a cool, indian-circle sense of comfort. Don't get too cozy, though... "Third eye opens, two eyes close"? We're smoked silly and burnt into oblivion. Jesse's bass plucks introduce Moth to the Flame, offering a complete vocal tandem that juxtaposes itself. As a sandstorm develops, Leather Lung lift the tempo and swallow everything in sight. The slow to a sludgy stumble is as sticky as it is heavy. The transition to the closing Repack/Relight is swampy and strangely cathartic, snagging spacey elements to aggravate the swell. Screeches offer a bit of unease, but a slow strip of excess counters buzz-backed thumps as we ultimately, finally fall to a knee.

Leather Lung see no need to justify the fog. The bake is why you wake, so fuck the nickel and dime façade. Start to finish, Reap What You Sow sifts for stems and seeds, enveloping listeners with a viscous hybrid of low-slung, low-freuqency Acapulco Gold. Heshers generally have no shortage of free time. But rarely do they make such good use of it as with these five nugs.

Bandcamp | Instagram

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.

Bandcamp | Facebook