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Decades ago, I read an interview with Chris Cornell in which he admitted "I totally have a classic-rock voice." The quote held as much veiled self-righteousness as it did "Aw shucks, Mrs. Cunningham" good ol' boy dimples, but it wasn't short on truth. Many of his contemporaries had damp sacks for pipes, ensuring Soundgarden couldn't later be accused of bearing any responsibility for post-grunge horseshit from the likes of Fuel and Oleander. So whatever influenced the range he's displayed throughout his career, to that I'll wink, nod, and tip my black hat.
Ah, but you're likely still unclear on the parallels I'm drawing between those 90's grunge gods and Calgary burners Chron Goblin. I can simply offer that Backwater, the band's third full-length and their greatest salute to ghosts of Christmas past, may be the perfect companion on a late-night drive. These eight songs present no shortage of surprises, and an accelerated confidence resulting from the successes of 2013's stunning Life for the Living is readily apparent. But the marriage of the classic with the contemporary can't be dismissed. Where some bands cut and paste today's sounds with that of 1970, Chron Goblin fail to ignore those momentary flickers sandwiched in-between, throttling forward with an ever-evolving, thunderous racket.
The band lays a steady canvas of spiny licks on Fuller, choreographing grandiose ducks and dodges in a thick, fuzzy tapestry that serves as a woven backdrop of what will unfold with the remaining seven tracks. That persistent churn funnels into the slow, sweeping draw of Seattle. Good fucking God, the smoky repetition is damn-near tragic as the classic fuzz-glazed punch amps. Drums battle better judgment and take home trophies, but listeners are left with an early spoiler: these dudes are pretty fuckin' good. The forward chug of Give Way challenges with pauses and driven fists, possessing a heavy throwback gait that so many attempt but so few achieve. I'll give one more mention to those pauses... you'll notice them. And you'll swoon.
The album's thorax fractures under the title track, a patient and dirty trudge through the swamp. Rumbling as it escalates, the sounds showcases Chron Goblin's evolution. Guitars absolutely shred and the rhythm section lays a trail of blazing shit that you can't help but gleefully step in. The balance of cascades and eruptions is apparently endless and helps separate these songs from the band's previous efforts. The calculated bass roll of The Wailing Sound is patient and, quite simply, fucking cool. At no point on this album is there a greater haze, a spookier silhouette offering such somber sustain.
But fuck all if End Time isn't the album's most blazing meld of what was and what is. Such rock, much roll! It's undeniably Blackwater's most aggressive and confident track and boasts its best moments. That hollow march, those skyward licks... follow that up with some incredible guitar work and put a tag on my fucking toe, I'm done. Hard Living's Black Tusk/Orange Goblin whispers are a subtle kick to the gut, and the adventurous guitar holds its own against strong influences. By the time The Return plays, I'm too spent to celebrate. Slow, thick, and bass-driven, I'm entirely struck by this band's ability to cover four quarters, eight tracks of swig-n-swill, beerin' 'n rollin' rock that's far more substance than style.
In sum, Backwater appeases both you and the ol' man. As he tinkers with a rusty engine and you do your best to wrest keys from his drunk, crooked fingers, you two assholes may just identify a common interest. No, Chron Goblin can't stomach your mom's casserole, but neither can your dad. What they can do is offer an avenue for you and that dusty topkick to bond over shit-for-beer and brilliant, era-defying guitar-driven rock. I know, I know... he's a prick. He's a drunk. So what? Introduce him to his new favorite band and maybe he'll keep you in the will, you self-righteous little shit.
I'm no fidelity purist. Really, I'm not. As my vinyl stacks expand, I'm regularly comforted by that crackle, the persistent "pop and hiss" vinyl produces. And those assholes that say it's just a myth, that digital actually sounds better than the coziest of sonic vehicles because no sound is lost or interrupted... Who knows, maybe they're right. But I know what I hear. And perhaps the pops and hisses only result from nicks and scratches, dusted from ages of sitting at sixty degrees when your old man decided he was tired of your shit and wanted high school out of his memory. I don't care.
I can't argue for or against vinyl or digital. When one sounds mossy and organic, the other sounds crisp and modern. Test convenience versus nostalgia, and it's a matter of preference. But when San Diego's Red Wizard dealt three tracks on seven inches of white wax, I knew digital was getting kicked at its knees. Some tracks, some bands simply can't reach their full scope through a pair of headphones. They need to blast from speakers, beyond greasy beards, between lusterless locks and into your hazy minds. The experience only comes full circle with a velvet sidecar; only vinyl's gonna suffice, brother. So about those seven inches...
On these three tracks o' cock-'n-roll, complete with guitar stutter and thunderous drums cascading under a torrid bass clip, Red Wizard wanna make your panties drip through just a bit more. I've been to San Diego, and the glamorous pussy could inspire any stoner rocker to thrust up a bit. Piledriver is that steadily-driven guitar cruise glazed over with slick plucks. All you need is a barroom drawl and some hard repetition under the guise of throwback, and confidence bulges through tight, beer-soaked denim. Shitbrainz is fuzzier, hastier, shiftier... Guitars sway through decades past as Baucum's pipes let themselves go. Blending classic nods with contemporary middle-finger swagger comes all-too-easily for these dudes, tickling clouds with guitar-tongues and cruising toward a sticky, delicious closing putsch.
But fucking hell, Red Wizard had to pull out their dicks and tackle one of Sabbath's finest. Their slower, more distant homage to Birmingham's pioneers sticks to The Wizard's bare bones, but it also has no problem letting itself drift. There's more space, more expanse, and ultimately more mind-melt. This is just gruff fun, and to do it without losing any edge off the original is no small feat. And oh... that harmonica! Flesh and tendon are all but stripped and draped, but the gaps haven't been merely filled; they've been flattened.
Good luck prying this from your old man's clutches once he gets a taste. In fact, just leave him in the dark for this one. His blood pressure's high enough already. Check out STB Records at noon on March 28th to snag this in red or white.
Earlier we shared our thoughts on what already promises to be one of the year's best releases from America's hardest-working band, Cold Was The Ground by The Midnight Ghost Train. Just two days shy of kicking off a European tour celebrating the album's release, we checked in with frontman Steve Moss. He shares what drives his writing, what drives his band, and what drives him crazy. He's also got plenty to say on why this new album is, somehow, even better than what Heavy Planet felt was 2012's best album.
Heavy Planet: I didn't think anything would top Buffalo. When you promised it would be better, I thought "He has to say that." But it's true. It's true with this album, it's fucking incredible. It's being released in less than in a month. Do you think fans are ready for Buffalo to become their second-favorite album?
Steve Moss: Fuck yeah. Oh God, yeah. We're always focused on just moving forward, pushing more and getting more out of things. We wanna keep pushing to the brink. We wanna get better and better on every album and I would hate to always be remembered for one record we did in 2012. I wanna keep pushing it forward and giving fans the next next new thing. We're changing. This record's a lot different than Buffalo, the next record will be even more different. We just wanna keep using different things to get people more interested in us and see that we're not one-trick ponies. It's heavier, it's faster, it's more fun to play. I think it's more fun to listen to... the new album's just bad-ass.
HP: Buffalo was my favorite record of 2012. I heard the new album in 2014, but I honestly don't see anything trumping this as my favorite of 2015.
SM: Thanks! Another big reason why we're ready to move on to the next album is because the musicianship is a lot better, but the bass is just phenomenal. Working with Mike (Boyne) just totally changed everything.
HP: I've seen him live with you and Brandon (Burghart), but I know he wasn't on Buffalo. How is it working with him as a band member? Not even as a bassist... how does that change the chemistry of you guys as a trio?
SM: It's completely changed. 180 degrees. He's really made the band whole. It shows on the album. He's just a monster on the album. We connect really well on stage. We wrote the whole album together, the three of us. Having him, having his input was a huge part on making this album sound different and better. He's a gigantic part of the progress this band has made. We're very thankful for finding him and being able to hone in with him. He's definitely the right fit, y'know? He believes in this like we do.
HP: He's jumpin' in with both feet just like you and Brandon. You can see it onstage. I thought his presence was perfect for you guys.
SM: He's awesome. We love working with him and it shows on the album. The craftsmanship on it has so much more to it, and a lot of it comes from his push. His technique is so much better. Brandon and I wrote all the basslines for Buffalo, and I don't even fuckin' know how to play bass, y'know? They were just simple. The basslines on this album are just so intricate and so beautiful. He really just plowed through on this album. We're happy with him, we'll keep him around.
HP: I think you should! You guys have toured with some of this stuff. I've heard the studio versions. How's it being received on the road?
SM: That's how we wrote the album, on the road. We would just come up with an idea, we'd play it live, see how it was received and change it accordingly. In the van at at night we'd be like "Eh, this kinda sucks. Let's try and do this tomorrow, something different." We like to road-test the songs. That's how we wrote Buffalo. On that Truckfighters tour you saw us on, we were playing the songs off Buffalo before it came out, before we recorded it. We like honing-in things live and then working it to the studio.
HP: You're not just doing this for you. This is you, this is your life... but at the same time, I know your last record was dedicated to your dad. You also lost a friend in John. Getting heavy on you, what would they say if they heard this new stuff?
SM: John would love it. John was a metalhead. He was into heavy music. Even though that's not what I really listen to, he was really into it. My dad was just so unbelievably proud of me. He's not into this kind of music, but he'd go to every show we'd play when we were in town. He was just proud of the hard work I was doing. I didn't really understand why he was so proud of me playing rock-n-roll. I dropped out of college, I used to be a teacher... I dropped out of college to play rock-n-roll. But he was so fucking proud of me all the time for this. He was always pushing me with the band. Telling me "You can't quit, you have to keep going." When things got really tough and I just wanted to throw in the towel, he had the words of inspiration to keep going and I didn't really understand why. He just saw that hard work and perseverance I had for this. My mom is the same way. She's exactly like my dad, just so supportive of me doing this. They're just really supportive and proud. We might not be making as much money as I would teaching, I might not be the quintessential star child, but what they saw in me is a thousand-times more hard work than I would have put into teaching or anything else. Just based on the love and passion I have for this. That was undeniable for them, just doing what I was meant to do. My whole family's really supportive and proud. Megan's the same way.
HP: She'd have to be!
SM: I'm so lucky to have that, the people that are there for me. Shit gets tough sometimes and gets really draining. To have them, it's really important.
HP: Bless your wife for letting you go on the road and for being cool with you pursuing this. You guys sound like you were born on the road. How do you keep up the energy to flatten everything night after night?
SM: It's all about the time we spend onstage. All the bullshit, all the hell we go through, the physical pain, the tiredness... It's all worth that hour, hour-and-a-half we're onstage. I have arthritis in my back, I have degenerate disc disease. Sometimes I get up before a show in so much fucking pain I can't even move, I can't even hold my guitar right. I get onstage and it goes away. I'm ready to do what we do. Maybe that's not the best thing for me, health-wise. But it wipes everything away, that time onstage. That's the reason we do this. We'll go through some really shitty times, it's really tough, we'll be really stressed out on tour. And then we'll be onstage and have this magic moment and I'll go over to Mike while we're playing and I'll just yell in his ear "This is what we do this for." He'll smile back. Those moments on stage keep pushing us to keep with it.
HP: You pull away from the mic and you guys are both just jamming. It's almost like the two of you are dancing. This'll sound strange, but it's intimate and awesome to watch the chemistry onstage. Brandon right behind you guys, you're all on the same page. I've never seen a live band like you guys...
SM: People ask me in interviews "You seem so crazy and intense onstage. Do you get all your anger our while you're onstage?" No. Nowhere near. I'm not angry at all, I'm happy as can be. That intensity you see onstage is love. All of us, that's the love of doing this. I can never be angry onstage, I love it. I love to perform.
HP: People who wouldn't know you as well, they're probably surprised when they meet you. They're probably stunned by your down-to-Earth, polite disposition. Your stage presence is just massive. I don't wanna call it a duality, but it's night and day for people who don't know you.
SM: I really feel for fans. You've seen us when it's just you and two other dudes. We'll still fuckin' push as hard as we can. I never wanna give the audience less than we should. I wouldn't wanna be treated shitty just because I'm not paying as much for certain service. We don't want people to be cheated. You came to see us play. Even if there aren't a thousand people there, you still deserve to see us play the way we should play. I never wanna disappoint anyone. I love performing, and those moments onstage, connecting with the fans... It's really important to give it our all. I wouldn't feel right if I didn't.
HP: When I saw you guys at Abbey Pub (Chicago), I think there were five of us in the audience. I compared it to the Truckfighters show at Ultra Lounge, which was just packed. You guys brought in people from the next room, they're walking in asking "Who are these guys?" They were blown away, buddies of mine at the show are saying "Holy shit, man."
SM: You didn't know us then, right?
HP: No! I bought that ticket thinking I'd see Karma To Burn. They had to pull out and I thought "Well, fuck." The Truckfighters' merch guy was like "You gotta check out this band." God, I was leveled, and we all were. That's what brought you guys to Heavy Planet.
SM: And if my back was hurting that night, or all the other tour bullshit... If I let it affect us that night and we didn't give it our all, we would never have had that effect on you. That, to me, is a tragedy. We always make sure to give everything. You never know who's watching! We've made really amazing fans. We played Des Moines, Iowa for one person. That one person drove two hours to come see us. That was literally the only person there and we still did what we do. He bought all of our merch and loved us and he's always in touch with us. If we had been like "Yeah, there's one person here, let's take it easy," we wouldn't have been able to give him what he came for.
HP: And you made his night.
SM: Yeah. We have a duty. They come to see us or another band. They pay to get in, it's our job to give 'em our all every time.
HP: You never talk about Sabbath or Deep Purple or the heavy bands. It's Muddy Waters, it's gospel. Jesus, your dogs are named after Muddy Waters and Junior Wells. It's so cool to hear such a different take on inspiration and influence instead of Sabbath, Kyuss, St. Vitus...
SM: I haven't even heard St. Vitus. A lot of times at shows people will come to me and ask "Do you guys listen to Mastodon?" I'm like "Yeah, dude!" I have NO idea what the fuck they're talking about. I've never heard a Sleep record. But every show we play, there's a Sleep t-shirt. St. Vitus and... I don't know anything about them, I'm clueless. I don't wanna get wrapped into a discussion with people about it because I wouldn't know a thing.
HP: Part of that comes from people being into a label or genre, a tag that doesn't universally apply. But you guys transcend those labels...
SM: I'm just happy for people to love our music. I don't care what label they apply. If we're stoner-rock or metal or whatever. We just love to play. When we first started out, I just wanted us to be a straight-up blues band. We started touring and I wanted to give the crowd more, more, more. I wanted them to have the best show I could possibly give them. Organically and naturally, it became heavier and faster, more intense. I became more intense onstage. But everything we do is based off blues, it just has an overdrive pedal on it. We just play it really fast.
HP: And it sounds incredible. You guys have an energy that's unmatched and that's what people are starting to recognize.
SM: I completely respect metal and stoner-rock. I totally respect the people doing it. Anyone doing this and putting their heart into it, I really respect it. I don't wanna sound like I write that shit off. It's just not what I'm into, it's not what I listen to. But it's so much fun to play heavy. I've heard the Sky Valley record and I think it's cool. It's not like a Bible that other people make it out to be, for me. A Muddy Waters record is something I go to. Or jazz albums. I don't even know what they're doing on that kind o' stuff. I've listened and don't even know the guitar stuff they're doing. To me, the blues makes sense. Metal never makes sense to me. Those crazy, insane thrash solos that are a million miles a minute... I have no idea how to do that shit! I listen to the blues. BB King is a huge influence for me and for the way I solo. I like to use the space, I like to breathe, take breaths in solos, use dynamics and things like that. That's what sounds good to me and what fits with me. But I don't wanna sound like I don't respect all of them, though. Because I do.
HP: Any tour hijinks? You guys are on the road so much. Fans may not know about Fish Time and stealing from Wal-Mart...
SM: [laughs] We go to movies on our days off. I'm a movie addict. We're always super-busy. We do go fishing a lot, we bring our poles and tackle boxes on tour with us. On days off we'll fish and go to movies. On this U.S. tour we're about to do after the European tour, we've got tickets to a few baseball games. I'm a gigantic baseball fan. Just different cities... We'll have a day off in San Francisco, we're gonna go to a Giants game. We have a day off in Cincinnati, we'll go to a Reds game. Another in Minnesota.
HP: I'm a big Braves fan...
SM: We're goin' to a Braves game, yeah! It's kinda hard, though. In Europe, there's a lot to see there that we haven't. Our first tour, we went and saw a lot of stuff. But for the most part, we're so busy all the damn time, we don't have time for anything. This is gonna be Mike's third tour with us in Europe. He's played Paris each time and never even seen the Eiffel Tower. We go to the venue, we do what we do, we leave, we go to the next place. There's not a lot of sightseeing. But we try to keep sane, we watch movies.
HP: You guys ever wanna strangle each other?
SM: Oh, fuck yeah! All the time. I can be a real asshole, I can be really pushy. I always want things to go perfect, to do well, everyone to be pushing as hard as possible. I can be a workaholic and be a real asshole to people.
HP: Which is hard to believe.
SM: I'll be the first to admit it. At the same time, it's things we need and I just don't know how to voice things the correct way. We're all on the same mission and believe in the same thing. We're all trying to get to the same spot, we're fighting for it. We're in a battle. We've got a long way to go, though. It's a long way to the top if you wanna rock-n-roll, y'know? [laughs] We've got a lot more we wanna do. We don't wanna be just an underground band forever. We wanna spread our music to as many people as possible.
HP: My dad's nearly 61 and retired, a big Allman Brothers fan. I played some of your stuff for him and he digs it. If you can get his ear, you guys can get anyone.
SM: The absolute best thing we can hear at a show is someone who comes up to us and says "I'm not into this music at all. My boyfriend drags me to these shows and I hate this kind of music. But you guys fuckin' rule." That's the greatest thing we can hear. People who aren't into heavy music fall in love with what we're doing because they can see the difference, the intensity on the stage... We wanna affect as many as people as possible. I don't wanna just have the stoner rock fans like our music. I want everyone to fuckin' listen to our music! I wanna put an artistic impression on as many people as we can. We're not just tryin' to do one certain thing. I think this record is completely different than Buffalo and the next album's gonna be even more different. I mean, I wanna come out with a fuckin' JAZZ album. We don't wanna have just one thing. A lot bands nowadays, especially in this style of music, every album is the exact same thing. We play with a lot of bands on tour and it seems so regurgitated, the exact same thing everyone else is doing. We're trying to do something different, do things a different way.
HP: You guys are doing a damn-fine job of it.
SM: We're just regular dudes, doing what we do. We're so appreciative of fans. We struggle so Goddamn hard, but it'll pay off in the end. That's what I keep telling myself. And when we do get to that point where we experience more success, we'll know how to handle it. We've been there, we know how to work our asses off. But there are so many fads. We're just trying to keep evolving. I'm sure we'll get to a plateau at some point, but then we'll just have to push again. I can't stand still, I gotta keep evolving, I gotta keep working, I gotta keep doing it.
HP: Cold Was The Ground is more aggressive, the musicianship is better. I thought Buffalo captured you guys live in a great way. And now I'm like "No, THIS. This is it."
SM: We're just gonna keep workin' our asses off until we can be more successful. I feel we deserve it. We work ridiculously hard and we kick ass live, our new album kicks ass. We've earned it. We've fought tooth-and-nail for every single bit of it. We'll keep at it. We ain't stoppin'!
August 1st, 2013 marked a turning point in how I approach expectation. A year prior, I had declared The Midnight Ghost Train's Buffalo to be the greatest thing since burnt cheese. I'd met and gotten to know the band, shifting between roles of writer and fan, filled with warmth from the belief that I didn't have to listen to anything else; I'd heard the gospel. Frontman Steve Moss had promised new material would see some light this evening, but my only hope was to hear Buffalo played straight-through, fattened up with extended, jammy passages.
"And I will be true to my love... if my love will be true to me," a bellow from the stage announced. What immediately followed flattened the crowd and damn-near toppled Reggie's Music Joint under the weight of itself, shaken to its brick foundation. I hadn't heard this. I hadn't heard anything like it, in fact. The Canfield offered more than The Midnight Ghost Train's heaviest brand of its own trademark. It offered an introduction to Mike Boyne, the band's new bassist. It offered more focused, proficient musicianship than the band had ever delivered. And it offered a finger wag, suggesting I should never believe this band has any intention of resting on its accolades.
The Canfield, as a song, stands as the midpoint of Cold Was The Ground, The Midnight Ghost Train's gritty, aggressive studio follow-up to Buffalo. But this album is hardly a collection of songs. In fact, it's less an album than a vengeful campaign draped in fuzz and strewn with vigorous bass threads, serpentine guitar routes, and the skin thumpings of a Navajo. The album puts its predecessor in an abrupt, dusty cloud via augmented songwriting and musicianship. Thick with coiled tension and peppered with jarring bursts of release, Cold Was The Ground is just the latest stop on this band's weathered, hand-wrought pilgrimage toward greatness.
The steady, hovering fuzz of Along The Chasm clashes with greasy bayou subversion, introducing the relentless Gladstone. Sticky, tasty, unforgiving... take your pick. Tempos shift nearly as much as blame, harnessing and later releasing an energy that absolutely cannot be contained. And when BC Trucker cakes sod and threads through a wheat field, it evolves into the band's best advertisement of newfound chemistry. The riffs are too hot to chew on and the dust hasn't a moment to settle.
The album's continuity is incredible, easing between tracks that could number anywhere from one to eleven. Arvonia breathes a spacey springboard before knocking down walls and punching through the ceiling. The buzz of southern payback spins the tale of an everyman simply pushed too far, unfurling toward One Last Shelter's collapse into a faded, soiled recliner. But of course, we're jolted from our stupor after guitars stutter, ever the deceptive element from a band bringing surprises seemingly out of nowhere.
An all-out stoner fuzz fest hardly defines all that is Straight To The North, a downshift slowing toward a gaping-mouth stop. The pauses amid the stop/start dynamics effectively and repeatedly captivate us, building trepidation and dancing among the thick, lurid embrace of interwoven drums and bass. Licks are driven like nails into knotted trees, but the album's rock triumph has yet to reach any pinnacle. The quick, unhinged No. 227 gets lost in blind consequence and lyrics take a step forward beneath the torrid clip of calculated disregard. A familiar riff returns full-circle, as if to suggest we can't simply speed away to escape unpleasant truths.
A sobering reflection on The Little Sparrow is harrowing for as gently as it's delivered. The pensive poetry chronicles submission to what the road has inflicted. What was once promising and cathartic has nearly squashed one man's previously undaunted spirit. Luckily, the band has reserved its finest return to monstrous, matted stoner-blues for the closing tandem of Twin Souls and Mantis. The former's steady push toward fate can't mask the brilliance of Moss's distant guitar, which is here as superb as it's ever been. Death-rattle assertions funnel into a flurry of fuzz, broken by an unmatched solo. Mantis threads and uncorks, pointing fingers to expose the imps. Timbers swing, promising the ultimate collapse as licks blast in every direction. Stomping into a stagger, staggering into swirls, this coup has exorcised all demons.
Cold Was The Ground finds America's greatest live band again pushing their studio sound to its furthest and its fastest. There's nothing left on the table but stains from sweat's salt and brothers' blood. The Midnight Ghost Train rip out their heart and steam through any expectation of a letdown by honing their chops without smoothing the edges. Blisters, back pain, scar tissue... You can hear all of those. What you won't hear is anyone denying this is one of 2015's best releases.
The devil's in the details, they say. I'd argue the devil IS the details. What else could explain how Goddamn delicious things can turn out when mass production is given the middle finger and boutique labels craft a product this enticing? I don't know who sold their soul, but the attention STB records devotes to its DIY ethos is incredible. The label has already proven they're no underdog, taking mere minutes to sell out of nearly every album they've released. But how has it remained sustainable? Especially considering the dearth of vinyl pressing plants paired with increased demand (not to mention all that Record Store Day bullshit).
Vinyl's warmth augments King Buffalo's brand of spray-painted fur, blasting a blues crunch on New Time. A distant vocal float chases the steady stoner bass-roll, while guitars flaunt a late, fixated solo. Whew, thickness abounds! Alternatively, Like A Cadillac maintains the riff-'n-roll atop a more upbeat, beer-spilt bar jam. Guitars rolls downhill and storm back, breaking strummy passages with dust storm spirals, shimmying with furry comfort and smiling at every oncoming bump in the road. This is just too fun.
On the eleven-minute Providence Eye, KB build repetitive blues progressions toward a spacey dust-roll, an extended jam of deliberate assertions. Structuring steadily, one brick after another, this closer escalates heavenward on the gradual foundations formed. Thunderous roll-outs swell and contract to craft a sound that's immersive and captivating. Guitars flex for their marquee just before pacing gives a second wind. These cats know what they're doing, hitting the brakes and plugging holes with chugging riffs. Lacing their trademarks through a steady dousing of sandy, spicy deliciousness, this trio's punching their ticket.
Experiencing these sounds on any format other than vinyl is certainly better than a kick in the neck with a golf shoe, but why reach for ground beef with prime rib on the grill? The precision and care put into the craft reach their pinnacle on this split, offering the warmest and truest delivery of an already incredible sound. Whatever's coursing through the veins of STB Records is adept at sniffing out chops, and everyone involved with this split gets today's nod.
Check out the links below at 12:00 Noon EST on February 21st. Trust us, they'll go fast.
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.
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.
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.
You remember that kid in school who never quite fit? He wasn't necessarily weird, he didn't lack friends, and he was almost off-puttingly cool. He spoke like a transplant from another time, but you couldn't tell if his dialect was from the past or the future. He had a presence that you couldn't quite explain and his confidence bled through clothes you wouldn't find at the mall. And when the bell offered the day's first taste of freedom, you knew he was gonna be truer to himself than you were.
Whoa, who's this? Blue Snaggletooth's retooled lineup is that swayed aura from an alternate dimension, thrust through our speakers on Beyond Thule, a nine-track sophomore push that's meatier, more cosmic, and more honed than the band's 2011 debut, Dimension Thule. That's hardly aimed at diminishing what that lineup secured in their thrown-back, precocious and delicious fuzz tuber. Instead, our intent here this morning is highlighting an act that remains true to the ethereal fuzz, its pioneering forebearers, and expanding on an already dynamic presence.
Blue Snaggletooth make no haste in immediately showcasing their classic stoner backslide via dripping, sky-shot licks on Reptiles. Elements are driven to their groovy peaks and the band's foot never leaves the gas, firmly announcing these guys are not of this era. Sleeping Mountain is a slow juxtaposition, illustrating ever-evolving scope riding on pensive psychedelia seeking deeper, distant truths. Thick, lumbering riffs sway toward a torrid groove, spiraling upward in what is, for now, the album's finest moment. If nothing else, these guys can craft a fucking escape.
Stops and starts are prevalent throughout the disc's midsection, and tempos range from itchy jumping bean clips to dirty signature shifts, breaking every rule and coming out ahead as a result. Moods deviate nearly as much as gears, and shaking off the caked mud is every bit as important as returning to oozy tones. Gawkers drops back in its seat and fills us with a blend of wonder and dread just before we're jolted from our creature comforts and thrust into bristled hedges. And later, Nameless Cults is executed with such confidence and precision that we're nearly lost under the sludge-stained stoner stomp. It's as sticky as these guys get, but that guitar just can't help but gush.
If Beyond Thule offers a signature track, stamp Ahamkara as the album's comprehensive crowning achievement. Steady lopes and an evaporation of all that viscous warble hardly encapsulates all you'll hear on this track. The thorax is highlighted by a lonesome drone, peppered with plucks that promise nothing but further spacey unknowns. It's celestial and boundless, breathing and swelling and ultimately spilling over, into and onto damn-near everything. The familiar channels return for a roll in the hay, but Blue Snaggletooth's most genuine flash comes when they conclude "transcend out of all time." Right on.
Whether tightening only to later explode or tripping out as the sound unravels, Beyond Thule is an album offering nothing you can't love. Get lost with this. Bouncing between trees but never fully coming to a stop, Blue Snaggletooth chop and warp their way into your mind and expand your world. Your dad might like this as much as you do. Come to think of it, maybe your grandkids'll be into it. This sound is vast, timeless, and soaked in transcendence. Dig it.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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."
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