Album Review: Slumber Dust - "Slumber Dust"

Fuzz, beautiful fuzz. It's what rock music these days in the mainstream is missing more than anything, it seems to me. The seeming reckless unleashing of the guitar in wonderful variation makes for beautiful metal musical constructs, vehicles of dank, dusk, and gloom that exhilarate and soar, deftly gliding through gritty, grimy filters of string and skin . We call it stoner, desert, doom, and sludge. It began in earnest as a genre in the 90s and exploded in that first fertile decade of the new century. And so now it forcefully powers through its third decade, hurtling fiercely toward a fourth, as strong as ever, witnessed by the massive number of artists and albums releasing new music almost daily on a worldwide scale. A hallmark of this ever awesome underground reverie is the subject of today's review, Slumber Dust, hailing just a stone throw from Buffalo, across the border in Saint Catharines, Ontario, Canada. Slumber Dust are a three piece faction of foot stomping, ass grinding metal rockers who bring an essential musical, metal deference to their brand of stoner rock and their initial self titled EP release.

At the time of recording, Slumber Dust were comprised of 3 members:

Geoff Graham - Vocals, and Guitar
Mike Manseau - Bass
Chance Watt - Drums

But the early history of the band was that of Geoff writing and playing songs with Kevin King, who can be heard on the underground recording of "Saturn's Basement" that is comprised of two of their songs, and seen in the accompanying video below. Well before Slumber Dust were able to properly record the album in a studio, Kevin passed away. Undaunted, Geoff formed the three piece named above and engineered the EP's recording and release on BandCamp.

Since the release of "Slumber Dust", Chance has been replaced with Eric James, and the new three piece arrangement are hard at work on 8 new monstrous tracks for their second release.

The EP opens with "The Last Starfighter", which quickly establishes the wealth of gifts these three Canadian lads have on offer. Guitar, bass, and drums are all immediately established with a clamor and commotion of fuzz galore. Following not long after are Geoff's vocals, a perfect complement to the underlying undulations. The song is heady, steady, and huge, with a persistent one two punch of rhythm that soon gives way to a mind bending instrumental stretch.

The tempo is tightened on "Angels", crunching and crackling with a blue spark of elecrtricity. "Pryamids" follows with a stoner huzzah, brandishing an engorged feast of melodic fuzz. This song will be on my 2016 mix, and beyond, as one of special quality.

"Samadhi" continues the established trend with huge and hungry guitar leading the way through a fun and original melody, this one with an exquisite haunting quality that flashes into your consciousness immediately, staying long after. "Ksitigarbha" is a sloshing, slogging doomcast of dark and dangerous undertones, leading perfectly into the finale, "Bad Karma", which again establishes Slumber Dust's keenness for melody wrapped in heavy, syrupy blankets of muddy fuzz.

I've been quick to note the guitar work and outstanding vocals of frontman Geoff Graham, but equally gifted and energetic on this album are both Mike Manseau's bass and Chance Watt's drums. Mike makes the bass soar under the reedy landscape of melody with his own expert riffs of low bliss. Chance's drums are simply fun incarnate, never taking a backseat to the renown of riff or lead of vocal, while complementing both.

Slumber Dust are a young band, just getting started on their long, musical assault of stoner riches. We look forward to what they have in store for us in the future.



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EP Review - OH NO by HOMOH

 

Oh no, it's HOMOH and they're back with "OH NO", their second EP which follows last years "DEMOH" and it is as sickeningly sludge laden and deplorably grimy as their debut is but this time there is actual singing going on, but I'll get to that in a bit.

HOMOH are 3 sick bastards from South Wales, UK, home to "nu-metal's" most disgraced rock star and devourer of young souls who is now languishing in gaol forever fearing for what's left of his shitty little life. HOMOH may be sick, but not that kind of sick; just their music is sick, but in a really good way. As individuals, they are personable, straight up geezers who play disgustingly heavy sludge that will leave you heaving small amounts of vomit into your mouth giving you a long lasting pukey taste, but lap it up because you are getting another go at your dinner for free.

Every bastard needs a bastardess, and HOMOH bring theirs in the form of, well, "Bastardess" which opens "OH NO" with a slack bottomed stoner-ish twang and screechy ominous feedback leading to a balls kicking bendy riff that lurches forward violently and pushes buildings over as it goes. Ghastly vocals are bawled out, asking "What is this inside of me?" and then comes the singing part. The juxtaposition of almost creepy melodic singing against the wall of filthy chugging sludge gives the sensation of repeatedly banging your head against said wall whilst a gaggle of extremely scary nurses sing you a lullaby. Your sanity doesn't last for long though, as HOMOH then drive the point home with a repetitive riff that bores into your head bone like a malicious trepanning tool that serves to increase pressure on your brain rather than release it.
 
An evil twin appears with "Hell Bent" picking up the pace in a gust of urgent, nervous excitement and large twanged bendy riffs that slam and roll along with tightly tumbling drums and with plenty of guttural howls added to the quickly sickening porridge. A marching riff has the track slow its pace to a stomp and sludge later on that feels like taking hefty weighted full body slams from persons of enormous stature leaving you quite breathless and worried.

And so you should be when "Ugly Baby" completes the triplets that make up HOMOH's "OH NO" family. It is delivered from split open feedback and comes to life with a pummel of punching riffs and lurching, teetering and toppling drums. Throat shredding howls and grunts make this one fugly kid but almost serene singing appears again at near mid-way point that lies underneath the throaty barks and which could be heard as a very terrifying midwife there to deliver "Ugly Baby" and the singing is an attempt to quell its black sludge temper. Ultimately all attempts fail however as the sludge turns blacker and "Ugly Baby" triumphs and morphs into a doomed beastly form that hulks along, sickeningly dishevelled but with a hard focused purpose nonetheless.

HOMOH are to be supporting Church of Misery towards the end of April. A most fitting support band if ever there was one. Wild madness is sure to ensue.

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Sunday Sludge: Grime - "Deteriorate"

Spells of sobbing and flickering tics of anxiety weren't on the menu this morning. I awoke to discover a developing tandem of nausea and disorientation while a dullness masked the grim reality of what's really happening. I hit the showers thinking I'd feel better after scraping and scrubbing at the awful, scabbed memory of torment and violation. Nothing seems to be helping. I suppose I'll just disassociate, crawl into poor health, and fantasize on some form of violent vengeance. But let's be serious; you don't just move on from something that just crushed your faith in humanity.

We first featured Trieste, Italy's Grime more than fifteen months ago, caking our flesh with their self-titled bouillabaisse of filth, fire, and sickness. Well, things have only gotten worse, and the end result is devastating and delicious. Welcome back their unsettling audio plucks and screeching track transitions, but try not to gape as you witness Grime's depravity as a swollen, snarling beast. Torturous riffs, barbed rhythms, and more than a soul's share of induced vomiting mark Deteriorate as a gigantic sophomore stride.

Damn, this feels so dirty. The skull-splitting hatred of Burning Down The Cross is heavy, lumbering, and organ-piercing. The guitar squeals may as well be the cries of the masses, damned by fate and blackened with fire. Marco's vocals operate as both victim and offender, throwing a gurgle that can't be fixed with green tea and honey. The churn and the chortle dig through graves, all the while grinning through Chris' black-toothed drum stomp. Relentless and heavy-handed, Grime are as vile a band as you'll find.

Down By The River Of Dreg fills a room with thick smoke, a slow suffocation of the world you've known. The repetition is coated in tar, caked with blood, and by now you've realized there's no reprieve here. You're knee-deep in shit, and shifting to a slow-motion catapult pointed at the killing fields is met with the last hope that your neck snaps on the way out. There's more rhythmic movement on Deep Cut, hinting at blues until the mallet makes another crack. It's unbearably slow, demonstrating Grime's patience with their own death rattle.

For all their crushing, Grime also maintain plenty of control. Restless Man and Pills craft a zero-hour dual descent into depravity. Imagine being lifted from your feet and dangled above gnashing hounds. Riffs boil your bones and the vocal sets fire to dirty panties. Hazy and violently meditative, the album's second half is surprisingly just as unsettling as its first. Plunging deeper and chopping at your senses, Idiot God closes the album as a complete amalgam of all the band offers. Thick, malevolent, abrasive... sure. But more importantly, Grime seem to reject all that is mainstream and embrace what's utterly distasteful.

Deteriorate is one slow, steady drill to the skull as you choke on your own blood. Make no mistake, you're gonna feel degraded, sore, and ashamed of yourself for enjoying this one. Grime's rusty blade punctures your chest at a snail's pace, recognizing that the slow and dull is far more painful than the sharp and frantic. Take a shot o' whiskey and bite down on a twig. And good luck pretending this never happened.

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Sunday Sludge - Grime

I never figured on "sludge" serving as an understatement. Sometimes the "Sunday Sludge" tag can be a stretch, yes. I'll admit it. Nothing is absolute, and if I weren't able to pair sludge with stoner and doom, musings could grow sparse. Stumbling upon Trieste, Italy's Grime, however, resulted in a complete overhaul in what I thought I knew about music's darkest, dirtiest corner. This is miles past sludge.

I hate issuing warnings to accompany a sound I believe you need to hear, so I won't. Grime's songs are slow, feculent, and deeply unsettling. If you love your family, keep this to yourself. Listening to this band effectively stomped every adjective from my vernacular, and I can only hope today's feature doesn't suffer for it. The band's self-titled debut is six servings of the dirtiest sludge metal you'll ever hear. Simple enough.

Impossible to ignore are the film samples included on the album. Cape Fear was the kind of movie my parents never wanted me watching, so reflecting on Illeana Douglas as she pleads for Bobby DeNiro's mercy could fool me into liking a shitty band. But the album's opener, Self-Contempt, leads listeners through a fiery thump of crusty sludge/doom that's heavily distorted, relentlessly grinding, and absolutely vile. As the rhythm chugs, vocals arrive to impale your body and berate your thoughts. Burning your skin, drying out your eyes, and dragging you under a rusty Chevy pick-up, the sound is huge and exhausting. Just to drive home its disgust, this lead-in slows to a smoldering fadeout. You're already drained.

The Journey fades in, rolls in pig shit, and rises and falls with Lorenzo's licks. Marco's vocals are screamed but somehow subdued, oozing belligerence. The track's rhythm is more accessible than you'd expect, but troubling themes are sure to frighten off poseurs. The song breaks and tries to crawl from its lashing. Come on. The sound coils, as if its waiting to unload. Paulo's bass reverb becomes so impatiently heavy that listeners may fail to notice the fuzzy sludge immersing itself.

If Cape Fear was a staple of my formative years, then The Devil's Rejects is the kind of film someone with my preoccupations should never watch. Charon kicks off with one of the film's more unlistenable clips and moves right into a swinging doom pendulum until sludge and fuzz poke their fingers into open wounds. Marco's pipes roll perfectly with the slow, gloomy tempos. This track grinds and chops its way into listeners' hearts, rife with contempt and malice.

I've never caught a butcher off-guard, and who would? If I had, however, the result would be Chasm's axe-grind atmosphere. Crawling to a slow, steady buzz of distortion and agony, these eight minutes serve as the album's most emotional and tortured moments. Tempos lift just after a quick fizzle and pop, but there's no filth left behind. Slow doom never leaves the track, and you'll be left buzzed from the ear-boxing.

Born Sick holds the record's quickest tempo, complete with clouded confidence and a middle finger you can hear. There's a stoner rhythm under the layers of shit, and the song's bottom-out is the perfect precursor to Wife-Beater, our endcap. The distant, crusty fade-in essentially exclaims "fuck it, I ain't goin' to class" and the stoner-sludge embers teetotal into a crunchy, rollicking grind. Perhaps Grime are easing up a bit. Or perhaps the awesome drum-stomp makes me feel like an asshole for suggesting this band will ever relent.

It's hard for most people to grasp the appeal of sludge metal. Some bands try to clean it up, give it a nice shine. It ain't gonna happen, son. So long as bands like Grime are on the bill, the filth and the fury will forever have their place, their nook, their cranny. I can't say I'd want these guys showing up at my house and rubbing all over my furniture. My wife would fucking kill me. But give the band a fair shake and discover that evil still has its place. Like it or not, you can't dismiss a band this sick.



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