Come on baby, light my pyre - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #109

(Or:- Pastor of muppets)

There he sits, in a pile of mattresses with burned melted blackened screaming mouths scorched into them, under a carpet of cigarette butts and Red Stripe cans, behind an impenetrable and perpetual fug of smoke. There he sits, majestic barbarian megalithic cosmic Buddha, lotus position be damned! How else could five unassuming guys from the Athens of the North be releasing such resplendent sonic mung as part of a long history of Edinburgh-birthed doom atrocity, there’s gotta be someone behind it all, there’s something in the water, there’s something in the grass, don’t take the brown acid. Something must be going down in this city to keep these noise makers crawling out of the Cowgate bars night after night and into my stereo, perhaps the presence of high priest Tommy Concrete who can acquire all matter of extramedicinal mind-expanders as easily as the rest of us order pizza (so I’m told). Sleep is clearly at the top of the sonic agenda with their holified Sabbathian groove sacralised in an hour-long mode, but Sleep is played out, Ramesses, Reverend Bizarre are the sonic shiiit righ’tabout’naw and Born Too Late ain’t a song, it’s an affirmation of a whole lifestyle they helped create; and natch they’re an Edinburgh doom band suckling the slime from between the cobbles of the most Gothic haunts we’ve got to offer. Natch they’re influenced by all the Ed doom thundering before them, IX, Of Spire and Throne and the thunderous Cthulhu stomp of Jackal-Headed Guard of the Dead, at the Lovecraftian feet of whom we dutifully worship, are all back in the genetics of this newest noise-purveryor (there’s a book to be written with an agonising re-appraisal of the whole scene, I reserve the rights). Releasing a demo of two songs both rivalling the pantheistic intensity of Reverend Bizarre’s Strange Horizon right up there with the Psalm by Monkeypriest from last year. Hoo-ee baby this is one to acquire pronto and keep careful eyes on, they might release more great stuff, or they might do something very dangerous.

You’re doomed, you’re doomed, you’re doomed! Doom is not death, doom is judgement. Doom not for us, but for the Scando-germanic tribes of the dark ages. That’s why the high law seat of the Orkney Isles is situated slap-bang in the geographic middle of Loch Doomy. Not to die, but to judge. To pass judgement and suck us down into a deep world of gloom, despair, realisation. An eternal evening in a dank cavern companied by the tribespeople and the woolly hillmen and wretched peat hags and the tentacled prophets from the sub-basement (if ya’kno’whadda’mean) and in a cavernous throne-room emptied of throne and flooded with inky black octopus ink mung to the ceiling and then some, turned up somewhere north of eleven by some hash-addled speed-freak of a system engineer who spent pre-gig in a jittery hyperactive state taken over by waves of paranoia and taping down every dial on eleven. The only thing louder than the record is my bovine lowing, like a lost cow curled in the foetal position and screaming in the only way appropriate to the tectonic mountain-forming crashing heaviness all around. A cloven-hoofed iron-coated war horse running in the national; thudding electric hooves of bass and drums and guitar disperse an electric fuzz through the sodden grass (do you remember a national where it rained so hard? Me neither) and there it is, across the finish line in record time and on fire, even in the rain. The rider? Who is he? Some coughing wheezing cousin to the horseman Pestilence, black robed and appropriately voiced with a nasally sickened whine cough disguising what was a suitably warlike bellow.

And they bring only doom. Photo unverifiable.
Now weez accused on this internet arsewipe of talking up bands too much on the strength of a single twenty minute EP or a moment of transcendental brilliance, and this is one of these cases. All these observations about the sheer religious barbaric genius of these clean-cut lookin’ boys come from a single two-track EP just dropped outta bandcamp fer nuthin’. Y’know why I love ‘em even more? They are still clean cut, fresh tats if any. I love seeing these startup dudes still with the office reg haircut having abandoned life and given in to the music with in the year. In twenty years they’ll be ornery dudes be-bearded and thoroughly motherfucking and this band could well be a footnote on a prestigious back-bar career of fucking shit up, but this is a canonical entry in the ongoing Edinburgh doom saga, and a righteous and spiritually useful entry at that; and at the price of free, the only reason you got to refuse them is cuz you’re just too scared to embrace doom. You’re doomed, you’re doomed, you’re doomed. Rite on!
Yooz can avail yersels of this fine EP for freeeeeee at their Bandcamp, but be sure and tell 'em you're listening, if someone passes you quality vibes, vibe them back.

Written under duress by Steven.

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