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.

I need to use the words ‘robotnik’ and ‘refusenik’ together more often, make more records Oren Ambarchi, as if I have to ask ya! - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #108


Step aside Gnod, go home Carlton Melton, take yer Horseback and burn it in a ditch; snap your Truckfighters records and flush ‘em because there’s a new sheriff in town, Oren Ambarchi, and he’s just made a record which is tribally groovy and panoramically heavy, visceral and cerebral and thirty three fucking minutes long. A chokingly thick black-acid freakout, but with a utopian, Fawkesian purity of vision burning in the belly of its big Henkel engine. The empty drone is entirely gone on this, his fifth (count ‘em – five) release of the year so far and electrically energised rhythms replace whatever you expect. So here he is, drummer, guitarist, genius, star of electricity entering a devil’s agreement and distributing a half-hour of oh-so-funky Gnodness. We got an advance copy because foaming over this stuff is exactly the sort of thing we pretend we specialise in, but you can settle down with it on the 29th of August. Well the Edinburgh festival starts drawing to a close here and what plops onto my digital lap? This thing. Another fucking Oren Ambarchi release, to add to the growing pile from that prolific barbarian Buddha; but it’s a whole new trip with whole new rules, as a surfboard on which to ride out yet another wave of pretentious boy’s-boys man’s-mans bullshit nouveau-dull trudge art bands, something cold-water drench unpretentious and metaphysically righteous and meditationally important earns repeated marathon spins, I highly advise you to toke it.

Ascension - Harriet Tubman - LICK MY DECALS OFF, BABY! #63


You might expect that, whenever your band is named after a famous black slave who escaped and helped over 300 other slaves to follow suit, that the music emanating from their fingertips will in some way bear relation to black power or rights. A fair estimate, right? Well in truth Harriet Tubman’s music does reflect the inner desires and passions of said Ms. Tubman, but in a particularly indirect way. “Deeply inspired by the ideals of freedom, Harriet Tubman's music plumbs the soul's depths for liberated musical expression,” says their website. Liberated musical expression. A musical representation of the desire to be free, the ache of release, the soul-crushing struggle one faces to be recognised in a world that doesn’t want to recognise them. Harriet Tubman seek to emulate the vision of their namesake and the visionary thinkers of the 60’s counterculture who dreamed of the “liberation of humanity from restrictive and dated paradigms that had characterized societal interaction and personal ways of being.” Yes folks, here is Harriet Tubman’s ethos, their dogma, their detailed musical manifesto, their raison’ d'être.  And does it matter that their ideals are based on comparatively un-modern events and thinking? Of course the civil rights movement was successful and black people now enjoy (or they should) equal rights and a life free of prejudice, as they should always have. Sixties counterculture is a thing of the past, something we may tend to push to the back of our minds for shame, shame that it only took us until half a century ago to break free of the shackles of prejudice and discrimination. But folks, discrimination and a genuine striving for freedom is as real today as it ever has been; why just this week our very own Steven aptly pointed out the struggle that black metal musicians in the Middle East have to express themselves through fear of death. Across the Arab world many are fighting for freedom of speech and freedom to live their own lives without the watchful eye of the Government intruding their lives like Big Brother. Women in select countries of the world are still fighting for equal rights; homosexuals too. Christians face persecution in Muslim countries, Muslims face persecution in Christian countries. The “ideals of freedom” are ideals that will resonate with much of mankind for a long, long time, and thus Harriet Tubman’s music is now as relevant as it has ever been. Taking musical inspiration from notable funk/R&B artists who also pioneered individuality and freedom of expression, Harriet Tubman’s music is a rich melting pot of jazz, R&B, post-grunge, turntablism, political idealism and spiritual/physical unity.

I only get my rocks off on the road – Theme to a psychedelic Western – a ‘potted’ history of the Marlboro Men - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #107

So the second record from Australia/Spain/Sweden’s superb Marlboro Men just dropped, did you download it? I did, I’ve been watching intently; I intend to watch intently any band which features an image of a cowboy riding a dinosaur on their debut album. Their first album was the soundtrack to the cover. The gloriously insane and beautifully enjoyable and criminally underrated theme to an imaginary (psychedelic) western. It wasn’t original like Goat, but like that Super Oil 69 loveliness it was so damn right on and righteously motivated y’ couldn’t help but be dragged in and washed ashore in a strangely peaceful haze of psychedelics. It was so bang on I still spin it, but I never wrote about it before because I wanted to keep this little discovery all to myself. I’d judge all humans with opening question “what do you think of the Marlboro Men’s debut album?” and they usually looked lost and confused and I assumed they were not one of the chosen (very) few. The Marlboro Men consistently drop a blues that is so soothing and righteous I’d subscribe it to insomniacs who don’t respond to strong drugs. So when their new album ventured onto the scene I started to get a little worried, there was a lot of talk about how it was different to the first, because the first was a chilled out train ride on a blisteringly hot Aussie afternoon, ZZ Top after three bongloads. It was so laid back it was just lying spread-eagled on the salty desert floor having a staring contest with the midday sun.

Blasphemic burning and black metal revolution - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #106



“[If my identity was discovered] They would kill me, and kill all of my friends, by cutting off our heads”. ‘Anahita’, sole member of Janaza.


“In general, the powerful and the influential in our society shape the laws and have a great influence on the legislature or the Congress. This creates a reluctance to change because the powerful and the influential have carved out for themselves or have inherited a privileged position in society, of wealth or social prominence or higher education or opportunity for the future.” Jimmy Carter, Law Day, University of Texas, 1974. He was the man who said, to a room of judges and lawyers and high-minded low-moral’d square-headed square bald quarterbackers of the worst ideas and excisions of our society deluded into believing they are in some way guardians of the corrupt and vile system they are keeping alive – “the source of my understanding about what’s right and wrong in this society is from a friend of mine; a great poet named Bob Dylan”. There is a great wave of demand, which began in the sixties, for a new kind of politics, a new kind of honesty and acceptance about how the world is and a new direction and a new theory about how the world should be. Our society is not honourable and is not just, it is not even, the vicissitudes of fate still play a great part in the shaping of the life of a person, and those fates twist themselves irreparably very early in a person’s life. Young people born in certain circumstances will experience a single small nation entirely differently from those born into privilege. As much as we like to delude ourselves, skin colour is still a factor in the shaping of a person’s life, as is gender. We live in a nation where sexual orientation is still discriminated against by the powerful, whose position in society is slowly eroding and becoming increasingly untenable by the washing river of time. We continue to allow old men to sit in air conditioned rooms, poring over maps and reports and dreaming up wars for our young men to die in, or become killers in. We have lost the way, we have allowed avarice and machinery to corrupt our spiritual centres. All that is required is a simple change, a difficult change, a person to shake up social structure, and once that simple change was made, nobody would want to return to the world before; just as with civil rights, openly campaigned against, but once they are achieved, even the openly racist would never advocate a return to the dark times before that crucial development in the civilisation of our nation and our world. Shaking up the social structure is something reserved for outlaws, bandits and those who have gone beyond the edge of reasonable action. It lies with them to make the statements we all harbour but cannot express for want or ability. There are rebels all over the world, fighting and dying for rights we take very much for granted. Most of them make music. I bring you, the collected works of the Arabic anti-Islamic league, the bands are Janaza and Seeds of Iblis, from Iraq, تدنيس from Saudi Arabia, supposedly.

Blackgrass, a recommendation under duress - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #105


“So why don’t you write about metal anymore?” came the dumbly phrased question. I didn’t feel like taking all day explaining the multitude of ingredients in the root beer float of why I don’t talk about heavy metal, or the fact it was topped off with a hefty scoop of Ben and Jerries’ new Carrot Be Arsed; my answer was to the point: “for the same reason I wouldn’t spend a thousand words a week describing the colour of a banana”, metal is in the main dull, tedious pandering to misogynistic juvenile fantasies of indecisive twelve year olds (or those for whom repeated mosh-pit head stompings and heavy meth use have rendered them on an equal intellectual plane with aforementioned indecisive twelve year olds) who buy Cannibal Corpse albums with the foolish notion that shocking one’s parents is an worthy reason to listen to terribly derivative, over(or under)produced music chiefly vocally concerned with death and veins and blood and abortions and other such unmentionables. Now, I’m all for pissing off your parents, I’m taking my motorbike test next week in an continued effort to piss off mine, and I only got into heavy music the same way indecisive twelve year old et cetera gets into it. But I fell out of it again because nobody I knew of in metal was making the records I want to hear anymore – ‘boo, you doddering clapped-out over-the-hill old scrotum face, your mind is too clogged with tumorous growths and your joints seized with arthritis to keep up with heavy metal’ yell the indecisive twelve year olds, and y’know what? You’re almost certainly right. But every once in a while an album comes along that doesn’t pander right to adolescent twelve year old twats’ Arnie-scented ideas of masculinity and actually does something interesting. This decade’s contender is the new Panopticon album, Kentucky. It won’t come as much of a surprise, seeing as everyone who cares already knows this album is good, but I’m going to say it anyway, it is even of utmost spiritual usefulness to those for whom black metal isn’t an interest.


Punk prayer, punk revolution - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #104


Pussy Riot's accused awaiting sentencing earlier today. Photo - Misha Japaridze/AP
In a world of frightened dullards, there is always a sorry shortage of outlaws. Pussy Riot are our outlaws, the first true punk band since 1976, and the first non-British punk band. They are true outlaws, soliciting support from intellectuals, cheered on by rebels and freaks and geeks from every corner of the world. They have rallied a revolutionary cry behind them louder than any in the civilised world in my lifetime. They have just been found guilty of hooliganism motivated by religious hatred, for indulging in a punk prayer against Vladimir Putin, the gangster leader of Russia. Like anyone who insists on telling the painful truth and standing up to bullies of every size, Pussy Riot have been cheered on by the converted, but among those whose doors are locked and minds are closed their punishment has been severe; they have been mocked, vilified and ignored as part of a curious outlaw-mania that rides on the shoulder of poor journalism like some cheering, jeering, masturbating id. Pussy Riot, by their martyrdom, have lit a fire of rock and roll revolution, and it could burn out, or flare, or it could scorch the earth clean of everything we despise. The choice is yours.

Mark Hollis - Mark Hollis - LICK MY DECALS OFF, BABY! #62


I’ve noticed something of a theme in music recently: loudness. Loudness is the way to go it seems, from heavy music to overproduced pop music to bass-heavy club music to the remixed version of Raw Power where the audio levels frequently peak. I don’t know what it is: maybe loud music is more ballsy, perhaps it grabs our attention more. Maybe it’s just an attempt to give us the full package, making sure we don’t miss the little minutiae of the recording process: a tiny guitar lick here, a tinkle of piano there. Who knows? I’m not condemning it by any means, it’s just a little something I happen to have noticed. The reason I have noticed it is because I’ve found an album that does away with it all. (It’s like when an obese man loses a few stone: you only realize how much of what was there when it’s all gone) There aren’t any swelling guitar crescendos, singalong choruses, dissonant barrages of a musical invasion; no. Mark Hollis’ solo debut strips away the volume and frenzy of pop music, replacing it with a quiet reflectiveness and minimalist arrangements. In a world where music is loud, loud, LOUD, where every release seems to up the decibel average by another few notches, it’s unusual to find an album so quiet. It even begins with 18 seconds of silence: talk about starting as you mean to go on.

Freak power in Norrbotten - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #103


Stop reading this you cunt, stop doing anything that you’ve deluded yourself into thinking is important and go out and debase yourself until you have enough money to buy World Music, the debut album by Goat. Sell your sex for money, make a fool of yourself in the street so people throw money in your hat, work thanklessly for a multinational corporation, anything that means you have disposable income enough to go straight to one of the fine digital or corporeal retailers currently kicking this metaphysically explosive piece of fuzz, walk defiantly in and demand a single copy of the new album by Goat. Seriously, fuck you for reading this and go do it. If you haven’t yet, you better damn well hope your flatmate/spouse/parents/gimp has because if I find out you read another word without at least ordering the sucker, I’m going to find you and punch you so hard…

Worlds collide - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #102

Looks like we’re back again. Anubis god-damn shit Gnod drop another record and I feel compelled to pen another little ditty about how these cats are a one-stop shop for every reason that even in the violent surge of characterless humourless sexless fauxpop seemingly made from scum skimmed from the top level of an alternate dimension where Marty McFly never invented rock and roll, unqualified supersadistic mung worship is still worth defending. Discerning heads can point to a line of Gnod masterstrokes, and their crowning Chaudelande two-part achievement and use it as evidence of the sustaining power of rock and roll to transport us and the fundamental wrongheadedness of goons and geeks and greedheads and sycophants who seek to suck the soul out of music along with all the money. Gnod are a reason to carry on, a blueprint for how potent music can be. Alas the atmosphere in this wretched piss-stained nation is so utterly cloying and unaccepting of genius that they’ve gotta to the much more chilled climes of Europe to pedal their live sound, a source of extreme frustration to cats such as myself really rather rooted to Scotland. Nevertheless their records still slither north of the border from time to time, black-bagged in a van and exchanged at the Checkpoint Charlie border station at midnight. This time it’s a split, a format I’ve never been that square with, a Rocket Recordings Collision (which as a name for a series of splits, I like, because it pretty much sums up what I don’t like about them, two caterwauling road-warrior Peterbilts coming together in a grotesque twisted fusion of metal that doesn’t ever really square). So another Rocket Recordings record has made it into this blog, and another Gnod record has made it into this blog. Why? Well nobody else does it quite as well as those guys. My Goat World Music album is in the post also, and it’s the only thing on the horizon like the orange ball of the sun which threatens to topple that Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell record from the top-of-the-year list.
 

Here's to the Future Primitives - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #101


(Or:- Thank god for the Future Primitives)

As much as I loathe descriptions of bands in this vein, usually written by publisher approved journalists trying to whisper between the lines kill me, please, please stop releasing records so I can do something else but in the case of the Future Primitives it kinda rings true. High Rise go surfing, the Electric Eels wash up on the beach, Detroit by the sea. I don’t know what to do with their music, dance like I’m with the Hell’s Angels at the Human Be-In in Golden Gate Park high on Nick Sands’ DOM tablets, all wavy arms and Vishnuations, or should I be kicking out the jams? Is it surf rock? Like Satan’s Pilgrims? The whole thing feels very Japaneesey if you ask me, very very protesty. They call it surf garage… which I can’t square because you can’t surf in any garage I’ve ever seen. You can hear they’ve been shooting up Gun Club. I dunno what to call it, but I sure like it.

In search of space - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #100

Heliotropes, keep rolling!
Well we’re drawing in on one hundred of these lysergic rock and roll essay freakouts so I thought I’d do a little helpful article (maybe 99 articles too late) on exactly what is going through my booze-addled skull each time I sit down to pound out one of this pointless self-depricating pieces of crap. For once, In Search of Space will not be roughly about a band, it’ll instead be about itself, because all good writers inevitably turn the pen on themselves when there’s nothing else left to do. So, why do I write In Search of Space, is it because I think my particular brand of rock and roll poetry is exactly the kind of barrow striding backwoods misunderstood genius stuff the world of rock criticism just can’t do without? Am I such a unique firebrand that the world without me cannot do; I don’t flatter myself. It all started with the mid-2010 demise of Julian Cope’s beautiful (and now included in a bad-ass hardback released this month) Album of the Month. The first decade of the 21st century could sleep well knowing out there someone was journeying the sonic plains night and day and keeping a diary. But the demise happened, and very suddenly we found ourselves in a world where nobody was writing about music the way we were talking about it. Nobody else seemed to be stepping up to the plate, and someone else might screw it up. So humbly we volunteered our services. Weekly long-form freakouts followed, and they were good, and then something incredible happened. Heliotropes happened, and the blog was never the same. It became clear to me that writing about long-dead heroes slaying dragons was all well and good but there’s a wealth of genius out there just flowering who never had the luxury of long-form freakouts and they damn well deserve them as much as anyone else. You’ll still find the occasional piece on Randy Holden, or Sleep, or Blue Cheer, but I’m more dedicated to bringing you the best of recent music, and bringing deserving heads the attention.

Sex Style - Kool Keith - LICK MY DECALS OFF, BABY! #61

Gosh, I almost feel dirty even writing about this album, never mind listening to it… now frankly I’m no expert on making the beast with two backs, but I’m pretty certain that some of the things Kool Keith raps about on this album are really not normal. Heck, I know the guy’s crazy and everything, but I don’t even think he really means what he’s rapping about. Kool Keith has always been about taking some commonplace rap material and sending it in a completely warped direction; his preceding album Dr. Octagonecologyst featured Keith taking on the persona of an incompetent, extraterrestrial Doctor who pretended to be a female and seduced his nurses and patients. It’s all done in such a tongue and cheek style and in no way does anyone take it seriously; if anything one could take it as Keith making a deeper commentary on the genre’s obsession with these things and using this ridiculous persona to mock them. (Kind of precedes Eminem’s Slim Shady persona in that regard)  So Sex Style, an album self-described as “pornocore,” isn’t really a surprising move for the guy I guess. Having said that, it’s still shockingly ridiculous and even more hilarious, from the incredibly distasteful album cover that I’ve polluted this blog with (although for a Kool Keith album not bad; see the similarly bad and equally distastefully named Spankmaster) to Kool Keith’s mercurial, sleazy lyrics.
 

"Without'cha good livin', Doc, well'ah believe that ahh'd be dead!" - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #99

"it's hard to read psychedelic lettering with my bi-focals"
Great visionaries are never appreciated in their time. Jesus wasn’t appreciated properly ‘till long after his death (if he ever existed at all), and it is my sincere belief that Blue Cheer will come to be regarded as the greatest purveyors of proto-metal at the height of the love generation when everyone should have been manufacturing Airplane knock-offs. They were churning out some of the most viscerally pleasing mung ever to grace the ear-holes of those overburdened with good taste. Sometime, hopefully in the near future, when people start actually listening to all rock and roll has to teach us, we’ll have a revolution and drag out all the dopers and greed-heads and land-rapers and creeps from their offices of power into the street and have them shot. We’ll dance in the streets that day to, to some ungodly awesome rock and roll no doubt. The new society, forged on the rock and roll teachings of peace, love, acceptance, joy above work, noise above anything and amplifier worship, will enlist scholars to look back through rock and roll, to categorise it and they will ask “from whence sprang our current wah obsession? Who were these instrumentally important Melvins cats digging off of? All that Sabbath riffery must have some illegitimate father.” Let me save you all the legwork boys (although the amount of great music you’ll hear on the way, you might not want me to) Blue Cheer. Blue Cheer have already featured here and I can’t really praise them enough. Accurately described at the time as “sub sub sub sub Hendrix”, Lester Bangs intended that compliment as an insult, didn’t realise that the whole of the next fifty years of heavy metal is taking Hendrix and melting him down for use as whatever you might want. Really though the essential Blue Cheer all emerged between July and October 1968, in the San Fran acid wave, there are awesome aftershocks, some even featuring Randy Holden, but once you’ve heard Vincebus Eruptum and the first side of Outsideinside you’ve bought the ticket and taken the ride.


Cancer 4 Cure - EL-P - LICK MY DECALS OFF, BABY! #60

Given my penchant for constantly bemoaning the state of modern day hip hop and its deviation from almost every element that made it good in the first place, it may come as a shock to know that I’m about to champion an album from this year. I guess my constant dislike for the way the genre has gone stems only from the typical, mainstream, even critically acclaimed albums that I hear from recent times, and not from the layers of the hip hop underground or avant-garde or the unsung, unknown heroes. El-P was always REALLY out there. He was challenging way back in 1997 with Company Flow as one of the first serious white rappers out there, as one of the most uncompromising and intelligent lyricists in the game, as one of the most inventive producers of sonically militant beats. Co-Flo STILL sound ahead of their time today. But they weren’t exactly representative of the hip hop scene back then and today, in 2012, El-P still isn’t. Sure, it’s exciting that this album is new but it’s not enough for me to proclaim him as the savior of the genre and religiously follow the latest releases. El-P is and always was independent of time and current trends, but familiar with them just enough to he could defy them. Cancer 4 Cure is a futuristic, (and I’m pretty sure it’ll sound futuristic in the future, too) metallic archetype, a landmark of a style of music pioneered and made by one man and one man only.
 

Tribal beats to break the disquiet of the streets - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #98

I need this, this is what I need. I ain’t got no freakouts for you today (aaaah ain’t gat no money chaald, but ahh been he-a be-fo!), it’ll just be cool chillin’ rhythm bringing us to the dawn. Because the album hot off the record presses from Wakinyan. If the Dead Skeletons were spooky, and Goat were a native riot in a commune at 500 miles an hour, then Wakinyan is less than both of them, and at the same time spiritually more. The closest comparison could well be with Goat, those astral shamans whose second tape helped us get t’ the west coast in quite a bit of style and really quite fucking fast, in that these are shamanistic rattlings and grumblings and weepings and moanings and singing and drumming and not particularly allied to rock and roll; natural, I think their amplification could be called, using bowl ravines to enhance the volume, singing to the stars, using glass, botanics, hollow tree trunks each with a drummer to turn the forest into a percussive instrument for their own mysterious rituals… wicca, perhaps, Stregheria? Much more likely. Part of a whole new wave of ritualistic and not entirely comprehendable motherfuckers coming out of Deutchland and surrounding areas, there was that album of recordings made in a monastery, the Pharoah Chromium that blew us away a while back, an entire album made of field recordings of the B2 Spirit, an album literally as heavy as the US military. I didn’t write about these in general because while fascinating and deeply spiritually unsettling, I’m not sure they’re of utmost use to the heads, firstly because they are simply too rare and obtuse to honestly recommend to you, and second because they just aren’t useful in a day-to-day capacity enough to warrant mention. This album is much more conventional (it’ll still make yer Little Women sound like Michael Jackson but whatevs) and available as infinite digital download, so dig in and dig it y’all.

That ghost isn't holy anymore - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #97

Hoo-ee, hoo-ee baby! There be some true rural motherfuckery weather going on in this bong berg and no mistake. Dark clouds, sunshine, it’s raining and sunshining right now simul-fucking-taneously. There are dark clouds on the horizon black as the ace of spades and slices of full-blown summer blue right inbetwixt them too. I can’t call it mothas, I don’t even wanna try. Mebbe it’s the Edinburgh Festival, that annual parade of nasty vibes and thoroughly insufferable dead career-minded twats yell at passing cars, find a bar and pick a fight with the biggest motherfucker in that place like yer the fucking Terminator because it’s rage time. The fucking Edinburgh Festival is starting and life here is going to get pretty fucked for the whole of August so there’s little to do except batten down the hatches, scarf down a load of pills and wait for the inevitable upper downer screamer laugher to fully take effect then lean out of yer window taking potshots at passing tourists with a faithful replica airsoft M4 and listening to something grinding. Thumping powerful guttural music rooted in the here and now and resolutely where it’s at with grinding guitars and vocals howled by someone who swallows mountains whole. Sure you can try going ‘bout your biz-nezz as-normal but it just ain’t happening. Mebbe the weather is the great magnet telling us she never allowed this festival shit, or maybe it’s the Very Wicked giving away their EP for free… because shit like this oughta cost a million pounds and take years to learn. The storm is a comin’, like Prometheus, they’ve given us their rock and roll fire and now it’s time for liver.


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