Sunday Sludge: Swarm Of Spheres - "Invest In Your Death"

The dude who just moved in next door is a cop. The previous owner never bothered to notice the smoke cloud on my back porch and he certainly never needed me to "turn it down." That asshole couldn't hear a damn thing anyway. But now what? I'm regularly poking an eye into his driveway to see if he's gonna get squirrelly and investigate why Sunday mornings are so fuckin' loud over at 902.

I'm not gonna go all "'Sup, Brah?" on the guy, but a friendly introduction might save me some headaches. But the moment he hears Ottawa's Swarm Of Spheres, he's gonna have exactly two options: spark up or bolt. Following up their self-titled 2012 EP with seven dusty shards on Invest In Your Death, the band has steadied their hand and delivered a stoner-sludge clinic glazed with sharp solos and cracked sneers.

We knew that the band had a sense of humor, but it doesn't result from not taking the job seriously. Shoot First, Ask Christian Slater throws a solid drum lead and blasts through uptempo stoner rips. There's a gyrating, controlled chaos to this more-than-introductory opener. If you haven't been immediately shaken awake, check your pulse and rub your eyes. Something's wrong with you.

Leading directly into Get Some Or Run Some, the album finds a repetitive tick-tocking sway until lifted rhythms churn and leave a burning trail through dead grass. The dynamic comes full circle as guitar licks barb the chewy center. Regardless of tempo, every note is hard-hitting and earnestly crafted. Warbled solos normally don't appear within the confines of Sunday Sludge, but Jay Chapman's escapism melts away any accusations of indulgence. His disenchantment on Crust Punk With A Weekly Allowance augments the clouded dust and caked mud. Jesus, these guys are good.

The album offers thematic, recurring elements. The title track may serve as a prelude, buzzing instrumentation spreading like hot riff butter and fleeing at a slow sludge lumber. It's pensive, pacing alongside echoes of smoke and rattled realities. What follows is Rest In Pieces, Sir, a juxtaposed offering of abrupt, tense angst. Spitting through sweaty hair dangling hair dangling in your face, SoS slug without relent. Mark McGee's skinlab doesn't know the meaning of cruise control, while the shift of rhythms is seamless. Fever breaks, the song staggers to its now rusted knees, and listeners are immersed.

When the band asks you to "Invest In Your Death," they later demonstrate sincerity on Seriously, Invest In Your Death. It's a return to the warm, fuzzy reprieve, an almost intermissionary position prepping for the closer, Fuck You And The Fixed Gear You Rode In On. No breaths are wasted here, mate. Imagine an unexpected slap with a cold, dead fish before the balance of stoner and sludge staples allows your nerves to calm. Repetition rides the landscape, led by the roll of Andrew Rashotte's basslines. Every gear is visited here, but look behind you and see that every bush is burned and every beard is manged.

Regardless of your background or interest, Swarm Of Spheres here thrust themselves into any conversation on the subject of "heavy." Invest In Your Death is not only a bound forward from the band's previous offering, but it's also a brilliant set that'll make an instant fan of anyone. The craft is focused and the delivery is absolutely flooring. The only one who may not share in the passion is that cop next door. But I guess we'll find out soon enough. And no, I won't turn it down.

For fans of: Paw, Floor, Big Business
Pair with: Copperhead Red, Ghost River Brewing

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Sunday Sludge: Swarm of Spheres

Americans have managed to get along pretty well with Canadians.  I'm not sure how many canucks are enjoying a three-day weekend in remembrance of fallen heroes, but it's safe for me to say my holiday will be more pleasant because three chuds from Ottawa, Ontario have released a six-track EP that transcends genres and snaps necks with seemingly little effort.  Swarm of Spheres have crafted thirty minutes of psychedelic stoner-sludge mist that may end up on more than a few "Best Of" lists by year's end.

Sounds and atmospheres bend and shift throughout the EP.  Guitars sail and soar in every direction while rhythm moves from coiled humming to buried thickness.  Fuzz and grime merge perfectly on the opener, Thunder Chunky, a sweet and sticky excuse to be late for work.  The up-tempo rollick buzzes between hills, riding the back of stoner-sludge mastery until guitars catch fire and rhythm slows and slugs toward exhaustion.

Blistering pace shrouds Brokeass Mountain through screeches and waivers as Mark McGee's drums kick in your door and dent your head.  The romp hovers, the licks become unchecked lasers, and caked steel-toed boots can't hold down this sound.  Guitar is provided some space as the track progresses; rhythms slow, Andrew Rashotte's bass gets low and loose, and listeners are spurred on a slow burn toward a swollen hive.  And speaking of a swollen hive, HIV for Vendetta drops a hornets' nest as your feet with choppy swells of fuzz.  A hazy path is carved at breakneck speed on this mossy stoner slab.

All elements combine to kick up dust on the EP's best track, Ham Smuggler Vs. The Vegan.  Grooves are low and thick, rattling skulls with no chance for listeners to keep up.  The punishment relents, however, and Jay Chapman's guitar takes a prophetic journey toward psychedelia.  The track peeks into quicksand before entering its awesome, sludgy plod.  This is one to savor.

Swarm of Spheres are most accomplished where they manipulate their sounds to seamlessly transition, evident on every single track.  Thestor Basutus glues itself together with brick and mortar until the brakes are tapped and the cosmos is embraced.  Growing dirtier and sludgier as it plays out, Chapman explains "your message was lost, so nothin's different."  Well, everything's different about this sound, cheesy as that statement is.

The dirge roll-out gives way to the psychedelic bounce of Fear Is The Killer, thick with mist.  Reckless and thunderous, sounds move from slick and clean to shrouded and collapsed.  Guitars sputter as the track goes to its knees with churning rhythms spewing incredibly dense jams.  A sticky slugfest ensues, staying low to the earth and clobbering earholes with a gravity not even your uncle's fat-assed wife can boast.  These seven and a half minutes deliver everything promised by the first five tracks.

Swarm of Spheres have quite a sense of humor about themselves, but there's no denying they take a serious approach to their craft.  You won't find six songs so concise and diverse all at once; this trio has released a rock-solid effort that can't be shelved.  Their transitions are smooth, their influences aren't dishonored, and their amalgam of styles is refreshing and far-reaching enough to make a fan out of anyone.  So give this one a shot, eh?

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