Quick Hit: ATRAGON - "I, NECROMANCER."

Yesterday's post was from the far south reaches of the UK in Bournemouth. Today we fly with the raven due north for over 400 miles, shedding the robe of grunge garage fuzz along the way in order to don a cloak of dingy, heavy, black molasses soaked doom, alighting in Edinburgh, Scotland where the smoldering heat of Atragon envelope us in thick elixirs of darkness and portent.

The sophomore album from this Scottish quartet is quite simply massive. It's ambitious and fearless, delving deeply into murky and primal psychic veins of ebon metal ore. It's an all enveloping assault on the psyche of devotees of doom, borne of the dark sonic distortions of amplified axes and black batteries of bass drum, the jagged, frenetic chanting of shadow art practitioners, and the evil genius of psychic melody makers deeply entrenched into oily, obsidian enchantments.

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