Sunday Sludge: Sioux - "The One and The Many"

One collateral consequence of featuring new, untapped acts is never hearing from them again. I've got a library of albums from bands who will never see a sophomore effort. But perhaps even more disappointing are those bands who bring a wild rumpus on their debut, only to follow-up glimmers of brilliance with an avalanche of horseshit. Few bands manage to improve, many try to maintain, and most simply should have hung it up to fuckin' begin with.

Not even ten months ago Heavy Planet featured Portland's Sioux, a psyched-out sludge quartet whose self-titled EP is still buzzing somewhere at the base of my skull. March 8th marks the release of The One and The Many, a six-track full-length that separates Sioux from their influences and themselves. Demonstrating both an improved range and an expansion of prowess, this release is more than a step forward. It's a glazed, cosmic bootprint on an already leathered sludge metal landscape.

No time is wasted in administering spoonfuls of sludge-doom porridge on Let In The Night, the somber, dejected opener. Breaking into a chuggy plod is nothing new for Sioux, but the sonic smack of timber as if it were a cloud of pesky gnats is daunting and impressive. The vocal scratches free and echoes through caverns until listeners enjoy a break of apocalyptic calm before the shit storm. Plucks lull your senses on a mislead, and when the stomp returns, it's brought along scorches and splits atop an avalanche of mire. Shrieks lead into a scrape toward violent heaves of stuttered tempos on Faithless, a track that cleans up, shaves, and promises calculated vengeance. Trotting uneven ground, the sound manages to hold its structure through staggers, and blitzing licks ascend to draw your eyes due North.  

The midsection's duality is a notable highlight, with Ad Astra's cosmic sludge dragging us across a bed of broken glass and following with torrid crank turns. It's trippy, chippy, and scorches through riffs until hollow plucks provide a reprieve, though the breaths are chilled and lonesome. Imagine a slowed tumble down a steep staircase with a trickle of blood leaving your ear as you greet bottom. And you can't even just lay there for a minute, as the epic warp of the album's title track is star-gazed and mud-kissed. Sioux fail to trip over their own ambition and nail the album's purpose on its planetary head. Here these sluggers cut through senses using instruments as precision tools. Quite simply, the dudes honed their shit.

Ascension offers a return to down-tuned lament, pounding and splicing via tempo shifts and intermittent thrash peppers. Gruff pipes and rusty guitar barbs are gonna leave you scythed. Abrasions can only spread as the track presses into flaming thickets and napalm-coated bass threads. Sticky malevolence points our attention toward Scapegoat, an effective bookend to the album's sullen opening moments.  Swaying, drawing ever-closer, and blanketing with a numbness laced over every note, this flame catches and burns exponentially. The cracks spread and the closing swell of all-encompassing sludge denouement imposes nothing short of rattled awe.

Sioux no longer benefit from tags like "promising" and "inspired." Fortunately, scene-swiping psycho-slag achievement accompanies the lumbered strides. The One and The Many showcases Sioux's pugnacious approach to early praise. The album clubs the senseless and denounces doubters via six stumps of accomplished, assured psychedelic sludge. Sorry Sioux, you fuckers just upped your own ante. Turns out mediocrity just wasn't your thing. But we knew that. Stand stout with greatness, strut a strong chin, and grind it home. Thumbs the fuck up, fellas. This one resonates!

For fans of: Melvins, Red Fang, Mastodon
Pair with: Satin Solstice Imperial Stout, Central Waters Brewing Co.

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Sunday Sludge: Sioux

Growing up, I'd cringe when my mother would say "Seth, you look so much like your grandfather." Maybe I wondered how it made my dad feel. Or maybe I couldn't appreciate the genetic link between myself and an abusive drunk who abandoned thirteen kids in favor of pissing away the family business at local bars. On a slightly different but slightly similar note, I don't like saying bands sound like other bands. Many do. Most do, in fact. But I try to reach for what sets them apart from either their influences or their contemporaries.

We're products of our environment, which doesn't help explain how Portland's Sioux squeezes snugly between bands from more than 2,000 miles away. Where many acts rehash ideas or steal riffs from their predecessors, Sioux manage to spread their swampy toes and sink into the mire with a sticky nod that would make John Baizley proud. You'll detect whispers of Georgia (or Voices of Omens), but you won't be distracted. On their four-track self-titled EP, Sioux showcase their musicianship and jump in with both feet, doing more to expand on metal's finest niche rather than put a cap on it.

From the onset of Bezoar, of course, the rhythms are thick and the guitars are jagged screeches dodging between Bald Cypress moss factories. Churning and scorching, intermittent with buzz and wail, the sound moves on all fours, never willing to fully pull away from the soggy filth. Kirk Evans growls with the seasoned dissonance toward cheerful tones and buries himself between low-slung bass plucks. All the while, guitars bake in the heat, never escaping the light slivered among the timber.

Countering with a slow-motion plod is Rheap, where you can leave the bog but the bog can't leave you. Ryan McPhaill's drums are just plain fucking nasty here, despite pacing a rhythm that finds a shamed melodic cadence. Dusty plucks and layered vocals hardly keep the grind from poking back. You'll start to notice the awesome electricity dancing off the strings as Sioux trail into skyshots toward fading constellations. Is night falling or are they just happy to see us?

Following suit, Aegeless bounces with fuzz coating, swinging a rusty stoner pendulum via the steadiest of churns. Matt Pike must've snuck up from behind and bitten these dudes, but the poison is more inoculative than toxic. Oh, the soft rain breaking the furry storm of mud and shit is a perfect reprieve, brief as it is. These dudes work perfectly together (two-thirds of them played in Salvador, bro!) on every thump and every skullsplit as the track unravels and expectations are tossed at concrete walls.

Sioux find a gentler, cleaner moment on In Tongues. Wait, nevermind. Somber tones give in to a flurry of drums and the rhythm knocks you on your sweaty ass. Evans' vocal here steps into a distant fog, demonstrating a range we hadn't previously heard. When Juan Carlos Caceres spits fire and the track shakes its head, the ritualistic deception is unmasked, crafting a delicious and captivating sound. The plateaus of sullen musings, with no foothold to stop the sinking, set apart this closer. Whew.

What traps many bands is derivation, being so enmeshed in the sounds crafted by fore-bearers that it's inescapable. Sioux shed a new skin and crash a party that's unforgiving and relentless. Add to this the accomplished musicianship soaking these sounds and you've got a prescription of promise. While boxing ears and shredding speakers isn't enough these days, it's also annoying to find bands attempting something they don't understand. Luckily, Sioux know a thing or two about crafting heavy stumps of sticky sludge with a straightforward, varied approach. Trust me, you'll dig it.

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