Pompous as it sounds, I consider myself pretty affected by the atmosphere in whatever given space I’m occupying, and last night the Bowery Ballroom was all douche. There were hipster douches, douchey douches, ladydouches — an entire Baskin Robbins 30-howevermany flavors of douche served as dessert for a sold-out beardo flannel fashion show, and though the place wasn’t full when former Year Long Disaster frontman Daniel Davies took the stage opening for Radio Moscow and Graveyard, it wasn’t long before the whole room was springtime fresh and I was fucking miserable.

Davies earned his stoner rock cred through a multi-album collaboration on vocals with Karma to Burn that, like most things that band touches, seems to have fallen apart. Sorry, and nothing against them, but Karma to Burn has the shittiest luck I’ve ever seen. Anyway, Davies reportedly got Brad Davis from Fu Manchu to play on his new solo record, Hidden Faces, and though I’d hoped Mr. Davis would join him on stage as well, no dice. Instead, it was Davies (who is the son of Dave Davies of The Kinks) joined by drummer Jess Margera and bassist Matt Janaitis, both of CKY. Small world sometimes, and it only occasionally makes sense.

The music was heavily indebted to ’90s-style alt rock, and not bad for what it was — Davies is a more than capable songwriter — but without even the vague notions of heaviness that Year Long Disaster hinted at in their chic way or the involvement of Davis‘ unfuckwithable tone, my attentions wandered elsewhere, and mostly in the direction of beer. I bided my time waiting for Radio Moscow to hit the stage and watched as the room gradually got fuller and fuller of people I was embarrassed to have anything in common with, especially music.

It’s been a hell of a week for Parker Griggs. The Iowan guitarist/vocalist of Radio Moscow was going to replace his rhythm section after this tour anyway, but on the seventh, he took part in an ugly on-stage meltdown that turned violent with drummer Cory Berry, who, after Griggs threw his guitar into his drum set, launched it back at Griggs‘ head, splitting it open and requiring a reported 14 stitches. The resulting video was a big hit Monday and Tuesday. I got two separate press releases about it, and though it doesn’t really make either Griggs or Berry look like they’re in the right, that’s rock and roll, so whatever.

But backed by new bassist Billy Ellsworth and new drummer Lonnie Blanton, neither of whom threw anything nor had anything thrown at them, the stitched up Griggs sounded dead on as he tore through a set of swampy whiteboy blues. I’d never seen Radio Moscow before, but they’ve been one of those names that there’s been no avoiding for a couple years now, and they served as a decent lead-in for Graveyard, with a clear affection for and (to an extent) emulation of ’70s rock. Listening to them jam out on material from their latest offering, The Great Escape of Leslie Magnafuzz, you’d never know they’d only been a band for five days.

The Bowery Ballroom was full by the time they finished. I stood in the back by the door for most of their set and would remain there for the duration, on either side of the open doorway to watch Graveyard (once I was done taking pictures), who, in the interest of understatement, I’ll say were well received. They started out subdued with “Blue Soul” from the self-titled, but the momentum soon picked up with “Buying Truth (Tack och Förlåt)” from last year’s excellent Hisingen Blues, with which the crowd seemed more familiar and more ready to groove on.

Whatever you can say about their fanbase (and given the paragraphs I cut out of the beginning of this review, I could say plenty), Graveyard were killer. Guitarist/vocalist Joakim Nilsson seems to still be in the process of coming into his own as a frontman, but the band was charismatic and the songs sounded excellent. Rawer than on record, particularly the Hisingen Blues material, but “Ungrateful are the Dead” might have been the high point of the night. I know it was for me, and although for many bands, there’s no way in hell I’d have put up with staying in a place that packed, Graveyard kept me there the whole time. I even tried to leave once and couldn’t bring myself to do it.

And I’m not interested in holding being popular against them — hell, that’s how a band like Graveyard gets to afford to come do a North American stint in the first place — but god damn. This tour’s in Philly tomorrow (Saturday, 01/14), and I just know that the demographic down that way would be totally different if I decided to get in my car and truck it south. I’d probably hit less traffic too. Rest assured, lesson not learned.

They finished after midnight, which was a surprise given Manhattan‘s curfewed norms, and sent the crowd out into the cold. By the time I got back to meiner bescheidenen flußtal, the rain that had been falling for the better part of the last 48 hours was thinking about turning to snow. I took out the garbage, ate some leftovers and crashed out with “Ain’t Fit to Live Here” stuck in my head, where it remains still.

Extra pics after the jump.

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Sunday inevitably rolled around after seeing Kyuss Lives! on Saturday and Cortez/Mighty High on Friday, and where one tour was ending, another was just getting started. This time it was Black Cobra, emerged from under the Kyuss banner’s black sunbow/bird color scheme, taking on the role of headliner on a bill that teamed them with two of modern doom’s most formidable names: Zoroaster and The Body. I was exhausted, and had the show been just about anywhere else in Brooklyn but the Saint Vitus bar, which is unbelievably easy for me to drive to in non-rush-hours, I probably would’ve sat it out.

But I’d never seen The Body, and between last year’s All the Waters of the Earth Turn to Blood and this year’s Nothing Passes collaboration with Braveyoung, I’d been inundated enough with their fucked up sonics that I thought it worth my time and further wear and tear to show up and catch it in-person. Plus, I hadn’t seen Zoroaster since Mike Morris joined on bass in replacement for Brent Anderson and it had been nearly 24 hours since Black Cobra made my eyes bleed with the sheer force of their thrashing righteousness, so I had to go! I DVR’ed the Boardwalk Empire season finale (haven’t watched it yet, don’t tell me what happened) and hit the road.

Gang Signs opened, and I missed all but the last 30 seconds — literally — of their set. I barely had time to look up at the stage to see who it was before they said “thank you, good night.” Some you win, some you lose. There was a break while The Body positioned their strange tube-like drums and wall of bass cabinets, so I had plenty of time to stand there and obsessively check my email on my phone, send The Patient Mrs. text messages about how tired I was, check the forum for spambots and run through all the usual crap people do while pretending to look busy. When The Body, their sampler set and ready to roll, finally got going, they would be probably the loudest band of the night.

If it’s any indication of the kind of volume I’m talking about, guitarist/vocalist Chip King plays out of two sideways-stacked Ampeg 8x12s. The only other person I’ve ever seen pull that off is Dickie Peterson of Blue Cheer, who, of course, was playing bass. King ran his line through a Peavey combo amp and a bass head that had “Bastard Noise” on a plaque on the front, either in reference to the band or the sound it made. In combination with the distorted noise and samples from drummer Lee Buford, The Body‘s sound was huge low-end malevolence. King‘s screams rested far back in the mix as he stood away from the mic, and it was heavy enough that I was glad I left the house to see it. Their atmosphere is as pummeling as anything they actually do on stage.

I suppose that holds true for Zoroaster as well, though the Atlanta natives are a better stage act and were greatly aided at St. Vitus as always by an extensive light show — now with lasers! Their songs themselves came across in an overwhelming wash of noise through which drummer Dan Scanlan was charged with crashing, and as their progression over the course of their three-to-date full-lengths has taken them ever further into the psychedelic reaches, so too has their live show followed suit. I can’t remember if it was for 2010′s Matador or 2009′s Voice of Saturn that I last saw them (it was downstairs at Webster Hall in Manhattan), but there’s been a marked change in their dynamic since then, and undoubtedly the addition of Morris in the bassist role is a part of that.

Could be that Zoroaster are maturing and are more assured in their aesthetic, or it could just be the new trio lineup works well together and I caught them on a good night, but either way, Zoroaster looked to be exactly where they wanted to be in terms of sound and presentation. The crowd was a Brooklyn crowd, and it was Sunday, but the room heated up quickly with the energy spent — though that could also have been the tubes driving guitarist/vocalist Will Fiore‘s Green and Orange amps. With Morris putting a Sunn head through another of the evening’s several Ampeg 8x12s, I was starting to feel like I was at a trade convention for doom suppliers. Sounded cool, either way.

The danger as I see it for Zoroaster now is not losing themselves in it. They have this massively sensory experience happening, where the sound and the light envelops you and the band really seems to be going somewhere and taking you along, but I can’t help but also feel like they’re skirting a line between engaging and indulgence. If they are, they haven’t crossed it yet, and the crowd was certainly on board for what they brought to St. Vitus. It was Sunday night, and the crowd was meh, and I was meh, but they killed it anyway, and I’m excited to see where the follow-up to Matador takes them stylistically. It’s been quite a ride so far.

As each act played and then removed their equipment to make room for the next band, whose stuff was backlined behind, the size of the stage seemed to grow, so that by the time Jason Landrian and Rafa Martinez of Black Cobra were ready to start up, there was space on either side of them and they seemed clustered together in the middle, huddled almost. Behind them, a large banner bearing the cover of their new album, Invernal, draped down to the floor and scrunched up there like poorly-measured curtains, and when they launched their set, they did so entirely without ceremony. No intro, no samples, nothing. Just the ambient sound of the crowd and then that noise eaten in an instant by the start of “Avalanche.”

Headliners, they obviously had more time than they had the night before supporting The Sword (who they blew off the stage) and Kyuss Lives!, and they put it to good use, playing every song off of Invernal with highlights from 2007′s Feather and Stone and 2009′s Chronomega mixed in. The only cut from 2006′s Bestial to make it in was “Omniscient” (can’t fault the choice), so the focus was clearly on newer material, and though “Negative Reversal” and Feather and Stone closer “Swords for Teeth” were high points, they paled in comparison to the power Landrian and Martinez showed on “Abyss” and “Erebus Dawn,” their handling of which was so precise and careful as to be awe-inspiring.

Where Landrian‘s voice, presented cavernously in parts of Invernal, had been naturally bolstered by the high ceiling of the Wellmont, in Brooklyn, in the considerably smaller room, he sounded more compressed, albeit clearer in the live mix. It did nothing to lessen the force of the material, and so wasn’t a problem. And if Martinez was at all spent by the month solid he’d just spend touring in bigger venues, he didn’t show it. Rather, Black Cobra made it perfectly clear why they were at the top of the bill (the fact that they’re the ones with the newest record and neither band wanting to follow them might also have something to do with it) and ripped through a round with their most potent material yet.

I was ready to go after “Obliteration” — how could I not be, after that? — but as Landrian and Martinez stood on stage with their backs to the crowd, waiting to start the encore, it was clear they weren’t done. “Red Tide” and “Chronosphere” wrapped the night and I was quick out the door, the wall long since hit and my eyes halfway closed before I was on the other side of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. It’d be another hour before I got back to the valley, and I’d wind up exhausted all week from the three nights out and with a cold to boot, but screw it. If 2011′s taught me anything, it’s taught me that you’re either there or you’re not there, and I have no regrets on this one.

Extra pics after the jump.

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Friday night, man. Traditionally you’re supposed to go out after work, get fucked up, party your ass off and all the rest of it. All I want to do on a Friday night is sleep. And usually, that’s how it goes. But when Cortez is making the trip down from Boston and hooking up with Mighty High for a show in Brooklyn that’s not even in the middle of hang-yourself Williamsburg, well, showing up is the thing to do. So it’s the thing I did.

Last time I was at Hank’s Saloon was just over a year ago, to see Black Thai (which boasts two members of Cortez in its ranks) hit up a gig with Thinning the Herd, and as low key as that was, I knew that with Mighty High on the bill, good times were bound to be had. When I rolled in, there was what had previously been described to me as an “alt country” act on the stage. It was a little white girl, soul-singing like little white girls do, accompanied by some dude who seems to have found Les Claypool‘s tailor on guitar. Striped pants, silly hat, and — inevitably, predictably, excruciatingly — a kazoo. Hell, it was bound to happen, but they were about half done when I got there, so it could’ve been worse. They covered Spinal Tap‘s “Gimme Some Money,” and that was a fun reference.

They’d been put on the bill by the venue, which as I understand it, is for sale. Bar-ownership being something of a long-term fantasy of mine, as Cortez set up their gear on the small stage, I looked up at the ceiling beams, down at the dirty floor, over at the walls full of pictures and stickers and post-its with cabbie phone numbers. I inhaled the smell of mold and thought to myself, “Yeah, I could do this.” The Patient Mrs., joining me for the night on the town, seemed less thrilled at the notion.

Cortez frontman Matt Harrington would soon blow out the Hank’s P.A., but as soon as they got going, they were on the ball. They hit up a few songs from their forthcoming self-titled (vinyl master is on the way, reportedly), including highlights “Monolith,” “Johnny” and the catchy “Until We Die,” with bassist Jay Furlo adding backups to Harrington‘s melodies while Scott O’Dowd, aka Scotty Fuse, let fly carefully constructed riffs and drummer Jeremy Hemond (also of Roadsaw and Black Thai) managed to do some equipment damage of his own. I can’t remember ever seeing him play that he didn’t require a new snare at some point in the set, and Hank’s was no exception.

They rocked in spite of any and all technical difficulties, and much as I’d hoped, the night played out as sans-bullshit as possible. All I wanted was a rock show with some good bands, good people, decently-priced beer and no Friday night fashion show, and that’s basically what I got. Mighty High‘s boogiethrash blend of Slayer, Black Flag, Motörhead, Sabbath and any number of ’70s obscurities I’m not qualified to name was the perfect finale. Decked out in a Foghat Live t-shirt, guitarist/vocalist Chris “Woody High” MacDermott introduced the native Brooklynite act by saying, “We’re The James Gang from Ohio,” and it only got better from there.

The thing about Mighty High, though, is that as much as songs like “Chemical Warpigs” (a highlight) “I Don’t Wanna Listen to Yes” (another highlight) and “Breakin’ Shit” (always a highlight) are about getting high and having fun, they’re also maddeningly good. Mighty High hit like a megaphone yelling at stoner rock to get its head out of its ass, but they have the chops musically to back it up. I’m not going to say they were perfect up there, but even where they stumbled, they did it right, guitarist Kevin Overdose, drummer Jesse D’Stills and bassist Labatts Santoro seeming to take the instruction to heart as Woody led the way through the opening cover of “Kick out the Jams.”

When they were done, I walked out with the “Hands Up!” chorus still in my head, where it stayed for much of the weekend, and — now that I’m thinking about it again — remains. The Patient Mrs. had already filled her rock quota for the evening and retired to the car, so I said some quick goodnights and we headed back to Jersey, where I happily checked off the first of three shows in a row and fulfilled my Friday destiny by crashing out as quickly as possible. Good fun.

Extra pics after the jump.

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Less than 24 hours after Michael Bloomberg gave an unceremonious middle-of-the-night boot to the protestors at Occupy Wall Street, I parked just blocks away from where the tumult had taken place (by all reports, the Occupiers were back in Zuccotti Park by then) and made my way around the corner to Santos Party House to catch Fu Manchu playing their In Search Of… record in its entirety. It was my third time at the NYC venue this year – see Orange Goblin, see Weedeater — and like at those two shows, I was surprised immediately at how crowded it was. There was a line outside before the doors opened.

I don’t know if that means Santos generally pulls people in, or if there’s something happening around heavy rock that no one told me about — always the last to know — but people milled about early waiting for SoCal trio The Shrine to open he night, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say it looked like a happening scene. Pretty sure it wasn’t sold out, but the room was certainly full for both Honky and even more so for Fu Manchu, and what’s more, people knew the songs. The crowd wasn’t just hipsters, though some of that element was there, and young and old, everyone seemed to be there for the music. I don’t remember the last time I left a show in New York feeling that way.

There was something liberating in flying blind into The Shrine‘s set. I didn’t even know they were from California until I heard them tell someone else on line outside as they stood in front of their van — I had somehow just figured they were local, and perhaps on the bill as a last-minute Brooklynite replacement for Naam, who were too busy preparing for their European tour with Black Rainbows to make it down. That’s what I get for assuming.

Watching them play was like seeing the future of Volcom. They were the youngest act of the night and played like it — the three-piece of guitarist/vocalist Josh Landau, bassist Courtland Murphy and drummer Jeff Murray — were excited and excitable. There was enough punkish energy and immediacy in their songs to offset the riffy ’70s swagger, and one of their songs started out so charmingly Sabbathian that I thought of fellow Californians Orchid, who seem to be the reigning American champs for that type of thing. I don’t know if I’d check it out every week, but I wanted to buy their 7″, didn’t, and was disappointed later for not.

In a fantastic bout of self-bargaining, I’d decided to allow myself three beers on the night. I’m on a self-imposed, much-needed dry-out, and anyway, had to drive home when the show was over. So three beers. Three beers for three bands. I’d already had two by the time Honky went on.

Somehow though, in the midst of all Honky‘s Texan charm — two out of the three of them in cowboy hats, they said they were from, “London, Eng-land” and bemoaned the cost of beer — I managed to keep to my limit. And Honky, who haven’t had a record out since 2005′s Balls Out Inn, killed. They served as an excellent transition into the good-times but still ultra-heavy sounds Fu Manchu would elicit, and by the time they were through the first song, I don’t think there was a head there who wasn’t aboard for what they were doing.

Bassist J.D. Pinkus and guitarist Bobby Ed led the charge on vocals, and drummer Justin Collins made sure that as out of hand as things got, they never actually were. Hats were tipped, drinks were sipped: It was boozy, Southern and heavy, and stoic as New Yorker crowds are, Honky was a lot of fun. Last time I saw them was in their native Austin, Texas, and they weren’t in their element at Santos like they were then, but they weren’t far off. Pinkus‘ Butthole Surfers bandmate Gibby Haynes stood on the side of the stage and watched them play, bobbing and smiling with glee as they tore their setlist a new asshole.

These things happened: They sent “Plugs, Mugs, Jugs” out to “Handsome” Joel Svatek, who worked the door at Emo’s in Austin until he was struck by a drunk driver in 2003 (Arclight Records released a tribute in his honor that Honky was featured on along with Mastodon, Amplified Heat, SuperHeavyGoatAss and two discs’ worth of others), covered Pat Travers‘ “Snortin’ Whiskey,” and brought out Fu Manchu guitarist Bob Balch to close out a solo during “Love to Smoke Your Weed,” Bobby Ed‘s slide guitar putting in some good work beforehand. They were like ZZ Top without any of that pesky class. It was lots — and I mean lots — of fun.

Ditto that for the Fu, who ran through some swift foreplay with “Hell on Wheels,” “Open Your Eyes,” “Boogie Van” and “Evil Eye” before getting down to business with In Search Of… front to back. They were tight, just about all the stops dead on, and it was excellent to hear the songs run into each other differently on stage than on the record, big rock finishes and so forth. “Regal Begal” got things under way, and they went onward to glory. I thought my head would explode halfway through “Neptune’s Convoy.” It was fucking awesome.

The hazard, though, of the complete-album gig is that sometimes there’s some filler, and Fu Manchu have had their share over the years. Some of those songs toward the end of In Search Of... are cool and all, but there’s a reason they’re back there and “Asphalt Risin’” is up front. Still, they kept the crowd with them. Scott Hill was pretty much shouting his vocals by the end, which ruled and underscored his Cali-punk roots, and I don’t know how he did it, but bassist Brad Davis looked like he barely broke a sweat. Dude’s riding some of the fattest grooves ever — period — and to look at him, he could be folding laundry. It’s like he lives in the pocket. It was a sight to behold.

And a sound to hear. Fu Manchu have had some serious players in their lineup over the years. Brant Bjork on drums comes to mind, and guitarist Eddie Glass and drummer Ruben Romano who both played on In Search Of… went on to form Nebula. But Bob Balch nailed those solos and added his own flavor to both them and each one of those landmark riffs, and on the purported occasion of his birthday (or so Hill said when telling everyone in the room to buy him shots; he wound up with eight), drummer Scott Reeder was smooth where he needed to be and pushed those older songs further than I thought they could go.

Only bummer was that as “Supershooter” capped the regular set and the band came back out for a two-song encore of “Weird Beard” and “Godzilla,” they didn’t play any material less than a decade old. I know a lot of bands I only wish would do that, but it might have been cool to have one song from either Signs of Infinite Power or We Must Obey. No time, I guess.

Nevertheless, Honky came back out for the rousing take on “Godzilla” that served as just one more reminder of how killer the show had actually been. The melee finished right around midnight, which I can only assume was curfew for Santos, and Fu Manchu sent us poor, hapless souls out into the NYC rain; a long, long way from the Californian sunshine that seems to emanate from their stalwart fuzz pedals.

Good people, classic tunes, good times. I popped open my laptop in my car to get the pictures off my camera on my trip back to the valley, in some misguided effort to save some time for today. It didn’t work out, but whatever. Extra pics are after the jump, as always. Special thanks to SabbathJeff for reviewing the show on the forum.

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Now here’s an ethic I can get behind. In their ultra-gnarly cover of Pentagram‘s classic “All Your Sins” from the new A Painful Pattern EP, revived NYC doomers Agnosis joined forces with Earthride vocalist Dave Sherman, slowed the song down, and made everything sound as nasty as possible. And they succeeded. What was already a legendary song is turned into an inhuman meatgrinder of doomed agony. Each riff cycle feels like punishment.

And Sherman, whose name has become synonymous over the years with Maryland doom — you simply can’t have one without the other – does total justice to madman Bobby Liebling in his guest vocals. He sounds like he’s in pain, and the utter hopelessness of the song is reconfirmed in each line. When he says, “You’re gonna burn now,” I believe it.

I’ll always have a soft spot for Agnosis, whose Hecate EP was released more than a half-decade ago. I remember well seeing them lay waste on many occasions to the middle room of the old Knitting Factory in Manhattan (as opposed to the new one in Brooklyn) and other venues around the city. For bassist Andrew Jude — who’s since gone on to contribute to projects like Archon, Tides Within, Queen Elephantine and others — starting the band up again must feel like coming home.

Joined in Agnosis by guitarist/vocalist Austin Lunn and drummer A.L. Lunn, Jude was kind enough to let me host “All Your Sins” for streaming, which you’ll find on the player below. Enjoy:

“All Your Sins” comes from the new Agnosis EP, A Painful Pattern, which is set for digital release Nov. 15 (more info to come) with a CD issue to follow in December. The tracklisting is as follows:

1. The Weight of Distrust (4:35)
2. The Path of Repeated Failures (6:47)
3. Writing by Candlelight (13:27)
4. All Your Sins (feat. Dave Sherman) (7:41)

I’m a big fan of the idea of black metal in Manhattan. Yeah, I know there’s no shortage of it in Brooklyn, where it’s all art-school kids and whatever, but I think the city proper needs some action. Let the black metallers go Occupy Wall Street in corpsepaint. Let their blown-out howls and lo-fi buzzsaw distortion echo through the skyscraper canyons downtown. I can’t claim to be any huge fan or expert on the genre, but if it ever had a purpose other than comedy, civil disobedience would seem to be it.

Close as we can come to that scenario (for now) is this show that got sent down the PR wire for Inquisition, Mortuary Drape and Negative Plane. BBQ Booking shot over the the following info and bitchin’ handmade flier for what seems like it will be a pretty magickal evening:

For our fourth volume, we are extremely proud to announce the return of Washington-via-Colombia‘s black magick leaders Inquisition to New York City. The band—drummer Incubus and vocalist/guitarist Dagon—have been relentlessly creating their unique brand of black metal for over two decades and have been consistently evolving from Anxious Death, the band’s debut EP from 1990, to their latest opus, last year’s Ominous Doctrines of the Perpetual Mystical Macrocosm.  The duo have been very active live during the past few years, with appearances at the Kings of Black Metal festival in Germany, Maryland Deathfest in the US and tours in Europe. This December will see the band’s first-ever tour of the States and will sure be the first of many.

Joining Inquisition will be none other than legendary Italian cult Mortuary Drape (!), which will be the band’s first-ever appearance on North American soil. The band’s 1994 debut LP, All the Witches Dance, and 1997′s sophomore release, Secret Sudaria, are not only some of our personal favorite records ever, but they pioneered the sound and aesthetics of modern-day black metal. Finally, rounding out this already-impressive bill, is the one and only Negative Plane! Though the hometown four-piece (now with Lord Thammuz of Agrath on bass, making D.G. second guitarist) rarely makes live appearances, their inclusion on this show perfectly completes the circle of the best in black metal today. You haven’t experienced death and unholy magick unless you have experienced Negative Plane live.

More info on the show at BBQ Booking‘s website.

It’s one of the least Googleable band names I’ve ever come across, but if the intensity of Fashion Week‘s nine-minute demo are anything to go by, they probably don’t mind. With song titles that play into the concept like “Fabulous,” “Heidi Klum,” “Bryant Park” and “Fierce,” one could just as easily speculate that not being found on YouTube is half the point. The other half is blasting out viciously angry tunes.

Making the most of scene interbreeding, the NYC trio brings together members of Inswarm, Man’s Gin and Clutter for a kind of thoughtful avant grind with hints of ’90s dissonance. Guitarist/vocalist Josh Lozano, bassist Brett Zweiman and drummer Carl Eklof waste no time in any of the material — even the sample that opens “Heidi Klum” feels necessary — and though the bounce-ready main riff of “Bryant Park” (which almost reaches three minutes in length) comes dangerously close to nü-metal, it’s much more Helmet than Stereomud, and that’s a huge difference. In any case, Lozano‘s freakout screaming sets it apart, and “Fierce” sounds like it could’ve come off a Napalm Death record, so it’s more curveball than misstep.

They don’t seem to have the demo tracks posted anywhere (at least that I could find), but Fashion Week are on Thee Facebooks here, and I managed to find this video through their page, so score one for research. Kind of off-kilter from what I usually cover, but I dig it.

They’ve been kicking around the miserable, destitute slum known as the Manhattan heavy underground for a couple years now, throwing their post-metallic indulgences in the face of unsuspecting rockers, headbangers and those who just happen to be wherever they are for whatever reason. I’ve seen Brooklyn‘s Alkahest test the endurance of audiences at Ace of Clubs, the Cake Shop and Lit Lounge over the course of their tenure together, and with their self-released debut full-length, Milk and Morphine, the five-piece bring that balance of ethereality and the aurally caustic to bear. An Isis influence in the guitar work of Nikhil Kamineni and Jonathan Powell is impossible to ignore, as the kind of lumbering angularity of many of Milk and Morphine’s riffs can be traced to mid-period albums from that (ultimately) Californian act like Panopticon or its landmark 2002 predecessor, Oceanic. As that album approaches a decade since its release and critics online and in print distance themselves from the hyperbole with which they once lauded post-metal’s crushing ethic (myself included – shit just got tired), it’s worth noting that although Alkahest are well in line with the classification, their aesthetic isn’t wholly dependent on it.

As someone who has watched the band mature over the course of the past couple years (and who, in the interest of full disclosure, considers drummer Rajah Marcelo a personal friend), I’m glad to see that the elements outside the post-metal norm that Alkahest has proffered on stage made it onto disc as well. There is a Euro-doom sense of drama to the later moments of a track like “Gaius” and a blatantly emotional woefulness to the earlier title cut that post-metal largely eschewed in its peak, favoring instead a pseudo-intellectual or psychological commentary. If that’s the avenue that vocalist Chris Dialogue has taken here, he’s done a good job of burying that fact. There are no printed lyrics to Milk and Morphine, and as he trades off between low growling and high-pitched, close-to-the-mic blackened screams, it’s damn near impossible to know what he’s saying. Where Dialogue really separates himself is in the presentation of his vocals. The music behind him is clean, and at times his voice seems like he’s about to be swallowed in it, but he nonetheless is able to do what few screamers in metal can, and that’s convey an emotional range through his vocalizations, however searing they might be. On the five extended songs of the album, he doesn’t once veer into clean singing, and yet anyone not outright prejudiced against screams will be able to sense the passion conveyed on the opener “Sixtus.”

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It’s a tricky proposition, playing in NYC on a Friday night. On the one hand, it’s pretty much the ideal, right? Get a bunch of people trapped in a small room on a small island — there’s really nowhere to go but to a show. On the other hand, there’s at least three shows for each of the eight million people on that small island, so it’s easy for a band to get lost in the mix. Truckfighters, on their first American run, made a landmark out of the Cake Shop on Ludlow St. Though I’ll certainly have other associations with it as well, it’s going to be a while before something comes to my mind when I think of the venue faster than, “Oh yeah, that’s the place Truckfighters played.”

A full 41 people took advantage of the “say The Obelisk and get in free” thing by the last tally I heard — which was about 38 more than I expected — and the vibe was insane. Like YOB/Dark Castle earlier in the week, it seemed like the people who were there were really glad to be there. And there were a lot of them. By the time Borracho were done, I turned around and the room was packed out. Weirdos, button-down yuppies and in-between-types came and went, but for most of the night, it was consistently hard to get to the bar for all the people standing around.

That has its ups and downs, which I probably don’t need to explain, but good for all the bands having heads to play to. The running order was Borracho, Blue Aside, Kings Destroy and Truckfighters headlining, and the show got going a bit before 9PM, allowing extra time for a crowd to arrive for Borracho, who were up from Washington D.C. solely for this one gig. Seemed like a haul, but if the bonus is you get to play with Truckfighters, I can’t imagine it wasn’t worth their time. They got a good response from the crowd too, played (unless I’m mistaken) four songs from their recently-reviewed Splitting Sky album, and were a fitting start to the evening.

I stand by the critiques I made of Borracho in that review, but it’s worth noting that as each song in their set began, I recognized it immediately. Sure, the record’s still relatively fresh in my mind, but I found myself anticipating the chorus of “Grab the Reins” and looking forward to what was coming next — even hoping for “Never Get it Right” — which I took as evidence of a certain level of quality in their songwriting. They have some growing to do yet, some smoothing out of their processes, but there’s something there. It’s not hollow stoner repetition, and while some of their parts wander, their potential as a unit is plain to see in the live setting. I bought a copy of Splitting Sky, and I think it’s going to be really interesting to hear how they develop with their next batch of material.

Their energy was infectious, in the meantime, which actually wound up not doing any favors for Blue Aside, who were decidedly more laid back and stoic in their on-stage presence. The Boston space doom trio started late following some technical problems with their bass head (an Ampeg SVT that they then put front and center on the stage), and shared vocal duties with an incongruence of atmosphere. Drummer Matt Netto had an almost frantic anxiousness in his playing that was contrasted by guitarist Adam Abrams and sandal’ed bassist Joe Twomey, both calmer and more methodical. Nonetheless, they gave a decent showing of material from their The Orange Tree EP, even if they were the odd men out on the bill.

Blue Aside also managed to separate the yuppie chaff, which was fine by me. It’s not that the band was bad, just out of place, and most of the crowd, which was anticipating a rock show, probably wasn’t ready for the spaced-out excursions they had on offer. That, combined with the conflict between energies as noted, didn’t do them any favors. Still, taken on their own level, they did well with what they had. Would be hard for anyone to play those songs bouncing off the walls.

At this point, I don’t even know how many times I’ve seen Kings Destroy, but it was awesome to catch them as a part of this lineup. I missed them with Sourvein in Brooklyn, so this was my follow-up to their Santos Party House gig with Orange Goblin, and as ever, they did not disappoint. They locked in a groove with “The Whittler” from …And the Rest Will Surely Perish and held it down across their whole set. “The Mountie” was especially tight, and the same new song they played last time around — now graced with the title “Holy Dice” — fit right in with the rest of the selections: “Planet XXY,” “Medusa,” “Dusty Mummy” and “Old Yeller” to close out. Good times.

And I mean that. In talking to guitarist Chris Skowronski after they were done, he said he didn’t think they’d ever felt so on point, and having attended as many of their shows as I have, I can’t help but agree. Each time I see them, they’re better than the last, and whether it’s the raised stage of Santos or the declining floor in the Cake Shop basement, they bring it, plain and simple. They’ve reportedly got more new stuff in the works, so here’s looking forward.

It had already been a good night before Truckfighters took the stage. If it had been just Borracho, Blue Aside and Kings Destroy for the show, it would have more than justified the search for SoHo parking. But Truckfighters made it something different entirely. There was no irony to what they did, no cheeky self-awareness masking insecurity. They took the stage, the crowd and the whole damn place. It was theirs. No worries. They gave it back after an hour or so.

I can’t remember the last time I saw people dance at a show. Not even just rocking out — legitimately dancing. Of course, it might have helped that guitarist Niklas “Dango” Källgren only stopped jumping up and down to take the occasional stroll through the crowd. It might have been the best use of a wireless rig I’ve ever seen. As he made his way toward the back of the venue, soloing all the while, the fuzz in his tone was epic, and the set played out like the stoner rock ideal. You could have filmed it and used it as a promo video, people were so excited.

It was kind of odd timing for Truckfighters to come to the States, since their last album, Mania, was released in 2009, but if this is just how the timing worked out and this was when they could all do it, fine. They killed. They managed to keep their intensity up for nearly the entire set, and it was easy to understand what prompted Josh Homme to say they’re the greatest band he’s ever seen, since they showed much of the same fluidity in their songs as does the Queens of the Stone Age guitarist/vocalist when playing live.

That is, though the songs had their given structures, there was an element of freedom in the trio’s handling of them. Bassist/vocalist Oskar “Ozo” Cedermalm had his parts to sing and obviously he, Dango and drummer Oscar “Pezo” Johansson weren’t getting up there and improvising for an hour, but each stop was held out longer for crowd interplay, and where most bands set a clear divide between themselves and their audience — “I’m here and you’re there” — Truckfighters engaged completely. You wanted to be a part of it, to go along with it, and they wanted to bring you. And in the case of Dango and someone’s girlfriend in the audience, they also wanted to make out a little bit toward the end of the set.

They had fun. It seems like such an easy thing, but it wasn’t about mocking something, or being rockstar assholes, or performing in some theatrical sense. They delivered a slew of material and closed with “Desert Cruiser” from 2005′s Gravity X debut, and they sounded like desert rock kings doing it. It was dangerous, out of control and completely fucking awesome. Motion was constant. For the second time in a week, I feel like everything I have to say about a show is hyperbole, but it’s absolutely true. Truckfighters paid off in full every bit of the anticipation I’d had to see them, and I have no idea when I’ll see a rock show that’s that good again.

I was handed a tray of drinks as their set wound down from the bar next to which I was standing, and I placed them on the stage next to Dango, like an offering. Of course, they got off stage preceding an encore and in that time some spoiled yuppie scumbag girls stoke their beers, but the sentiment of appreciation was there, anyway. The room cleared out on the quick after that encore, and I too was splittsville, not imagining any way the evening could possibly get better.

Who knows when they’ll have another album out, and who knows when and if they’ll ever come back. While they played, none of it mattered. All there was was fuzz and glory.

More pics after the jump.

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The much-awaited Truckfighters American tour kicked off last night in Providence (Anyone go? How were they?), and though I’m dying for tomorrow night to get here so I can head down to the Cake Shop in NYC, I’m also a little nervous that I’m going to be the only one who goes, “Uh, The Obelisk…?” at the door and gets in without paying. If you’re coming out for it, don’t forget! And if you could post this on Thee Facebooks or spread it around, tell two friends, etc., that would be greatly appreciated.

Here’s the flier for the show again:

It’s a great night, front to back. Thanks again to Steve Murphy and Kings Destroy, to Truckfighters, Blue Aside, Borracho and the Cake Shop.

If you want to prove it, you can print the flier below, but I think pretty much all you have to say at the door is “I read The Obelisk,” and you get in for free.

The show is July 15 at the Cake Shop in Manhattan, and hands down, it’s going to be one of the year’s best gigs, with Swedish fuzz mavens Truckfighters making their Stateside debut, and receiving welcome from Maple Forum alums Kings Destroy, Massachusetts space doomers Blue Aside and Doom Capitol-ists Borracho (whose new and soon-to-be-reviewed album, Splitting Sky, is available now). My temptation here is to launch into hyperbole about how these bands are saving rock or this or that, but the simple truth is it’s going to be a really special night and I’m thrilled to be able to take part in it in this small way.

So yeah, say “The Obelisk” at the door and you won’t have to pay to get in. Here’s the flier for the show:

Special thanks to Steve Murphy and Kings Destroy, to Truckfighters, Blue Aside, Borracho and the Cake Shop.

Got back a bit ago from watching Deep Purple and a 38-piece orchestra rock the Baby Boomer pants off a woefully sparse PNC Bank Arts Center here in Jersey. The lawn was empty, save for a few stragglers who decided to sit there I guess on principle or somesuch, and there were a few sections that had more vacant seats than full ones. Kind of a bummer to see, but the band was good and the people who were there seemed appreciative.

It probably would have been fitting, then, to close out this week with Deep Purple, maybe “Space Truckin’,” which was especially enjoyable at the show, but hell, I’ve done that before, and the White Hills clip above seems worthy of attention. Even before David D’Andrea mentioned them in the interview posted yesterday, I’ve been seeing their name dropped increasingly in advance of their new record H-p1 (a title I can get behind), which is out June 21 on Thrill Jockey.

Before I wrap the week, I want to say a special thanks to everyone who grabbed the podcast over the last couple days. Downloaded 151 times in less than a week is huge and much appreciated. I hope you’ve been digging it. I’ve gone through it a couple times, and it’s really long, but I’m happy with how it turned out and I hope if you’re one of those 151 downloading parties, or even if you just streamed it or whathaveyou, that you are too.

Tomorrow night you’ll find me sloshed and gone mad watching a Black Sabbath cover band at my local townie, the Boonton Ave. Grille, and Sunday there’s a bastard lot of work to be done, so I’m on that. Monday should provide suitable relief when it shows up. And by relief, I mean more work. Nonetheless, next week, we’ll have an interview posted with Witch Mountain, whose album you can stream here, and reviews of Elvis Deluxe and three or four others I can’t remember at the moment. I look forward to The Obelisk being what gets me through these long summer afternoons.

Hope you have a safe, enjoyable weekend. See you back here Monday, or on the forum in the meantime.

Working late (which seems to be the crux of my existence lately) meant missing upstart act Natur, whose name I’m seeing/hearing increasingly in worlds both virtual and real as one might expect for a heavy band from Brooklyn these days. I almost bought their 7″ on the principle of it being $5 and coming with a download card, but folded last second, feeling cool enough neither to do that nor grab a beer from the Webster Hall bar. The show, which was Ghost‘s night, clearly — their first time in New York — was sold out and in the basement of the venue. They call it “The Studio.” I called it “hot as balls.” It was a packed, sweaty, smelly mess. Like a locker room with a P.A.

Nonetheless, although I’ve been woefully show-up-and-drink early to the last three or four shows I’ve been to, I missed Natur, so apologies to them (and no, Google, I did not mean “nature”). I entered the fray as the Jex Thoth (of Jex Thoth)-fronted Sabbath Assembly were getting ready to roll out their set of alternately Christian and Satanic hymns. Ms. Thoth herself did not take the stage until the set actually started, so her vocal level was a little off at the very beginning, but it was quickly righted, and the crowd was soon enamored.

I missed them at Roadburn, and having enjoyed the Restored to One album I bought there, wanted very much to catch the songs live. From the many harmonized vocal layers on the record, I almost expected there to be two singers, but Thoth, backed mostly by singularly-named guitarist Mike — though also occasionally by bassist Dan Shuman — held it down on her own with an impressive range and no shortage of sexualized occult lure. Whatever works. As their set of songs about gods and devils and usually both (you might say they’re “restoring them to one”) wore on, audience conversation gradually got louder until toward the end, in a particularly quiet section, even with drummer Dave “Xtian” Nuss backing, Thoth could barely be heard above the din.

It’s hard for me to imagine that’s just a New York thing. I mean, “asshole” is universal, right? My ethic has always been that if someone is on stage — especially if they’re quiet — you shut the fuck up. Nothing you have to say is so important that it can’t wait, and if it is, fucking whisper. You’ve got your fancy-ass phone out anyway, send a text! I wasn’t exactly blown away by Sabbath Assembly‘s stage show (there wasn’t one), but is 40 minutes of solid attention really too much to ask from an audience of adults? Shit, you came to the show. Watch the fucking show. It must be really hard to be so much of a somebody that you have to talk through someone else’s performance.

When Sabbath Assembly were done, Ghost made us all wait. And we waited. Impatiently. There were some amp troubles on stage (an Orange was switched out for a Marshall), and the dude next to me, who I did not know, kept announcing in my ear how hot it was — correct in everything but his volume — and the guy in front was Mr. I’m-Gonna-Toss-My-Hair-To-Get-It-Off-My-Neck-Because-It’s-Hot-And-It’s-Gonna-Be-All-Over-You-Because-That’s-How-Tight-The-Room-Is-And-I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck-Because-I’m-An-Inconsiderate-Dick, which only made matters less pleasant. Everyone there had a camera. I didn’t even have to use my flash to take pictures of Evil Pope Guy when Ghost finally took the stage from the side door of the venue — all the others lit the room up just fine.

They played just about all of their Opus Eponymous album, and though the vocals were a little off-key, it was 150 degrees in there and the dude was decked out in plastic prosthetic face makeup and a full robe, so it’s understandable. The backing tracks covered most of it, anyway, and the crowd’s singing along held up a lot of the bargain. Ghost‘s songs are catchy and memorable — “Elizabeth” was a highlight, as were “Stand by Him” and “Death Knell” — and the audience was fervent in their appreciation. Hands raised in Satanic testimony, a crowd surfer, a general rush toward the stage from the start, and I backed out. Too old and too tired by then to deal with any of that shit, I stood off to the side (where I could actually see!) and knew I was in the right spot when Brian “I signed Mercyful Fate” Slagel of Metal Blade came and planted himself nearby. I did my best not to gush.

The Opus Eponymous material alone wasn’t enough to fill out an hour of Ghost‘s time, so they threw in a cover of The Beatles‘ George Harrison-penned Abbey Road classic “Here Comes the Sun,” changing the line “…And it’s alright” to “…And he’s alright” to fit with their devil-worshiping modus operandi. It was clever and they knew it, but that didn’t lessen the enjoyment any. Closing out the night with an anthemic rendition of “Ritual,” Evil Pope Guy (sorry, but when you wear the hat and don’t have a name, you take what you get) proceeded to hold communion at the front of the stage after the song, feeding the crowd what he called, “The cadaver of Christ.” Good fun.

I was beat when I walked in and only more so at the end, so I shuffled with the masses out of Webster Hall, walked over to the next block where I’d parked and made my way into and out of traffic en route to the Holland Tunnel and back home, the strains of “Elizabeth” and Sabbath Assembly‘s “We Give Our Lives” duking it out for which was most stuck in my head. Two days later, the battle rages on.

More pics after the jump.

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I didn’t know what to expect in terms of the crowd this past Friday at Santos Party House, knowing that a few of NYC‘s usual suspect-type show-goers had made their way down to Maryland Deathfest, which was also running this weekend, but by the time Orange Goblin went on, the place was packed, and even for Kings Destroy, who opened the night up at around 7:45PM, there was a good, eager crowd happy to soak up as much doom as possible.

In that regard, Kings Destroy completely delivered. I know I’m nowhere near impartial when it comes to these guys, having released their (fucking excellent) And the Rest Will Surely Perish album on The Maple Forum (the band still has copies for sale here), but they just keep getting better. Their new bassist was right in the pocket, and of all the times I’ve seen them, I don’t think drummer Rob Sefcik has ever sounded better. He kept the pacing of the songs down and gave Chris Skowronski and Carl Porcaro‘s guitars plenty of room to breathe, but still hit heavy and clean on the toms, adding no shortage of thunder to the proceedings. You could feel the air move.

They had one yet-unnamed new song on offer, which was their closer, and though vocalist Steve Murphy later told me they played it too fast, the track had a cool, later-Sabbath vibe that sat well next to album cuts like “XXY” and “The Mountie.” I dug it, anyway, but I guess that was bound to happen. Kings Destroy groove like few are bold enough to do in New York, and I’m even gladder to call them friends than I am to plug the hell out of their record every chance I get. They’re only getting better.

It was kind of a funny circumstance, but I’ve only been to Santos Party House twice now (this show and when Weedeater came through in February), and Brooklyn psych outfit Naam played both shows. The trio — who are on most if not all of the tour with Orange Goblin and The Gates of Slumber — had a synth organist on stage with them, and it really filled out their sound. They said he was doing a couple shows as part of the band, and Naam are a force on stage anyway, but this put them in a different league altogether, with guitarist/vocalist Ryan Lugar‘s tone being excellently complemented and filled out by the sustained organ sounds.

And as regards Naam, I can’t think of another way to say it: bassist John Preston Bundy has one of the best doombeards in NYC. That thing is good, and he clearly knows it. As Naam wound down their set with the epic title-track from their Kingdom EP, his vocals complemented Lugar‘s and the resultant swirl was even more visceral for the organ sounds. Naam was probably the odd band out among the three doomier acts on the bill, but if it bothered them, they never let on, and the hometown crowd — which unless I’m mistaken included a few family members who gathered around for pictures after their set — ate it up. I don’t think there was anyone there who needed convincing, but if there was, they were duly convinced.

I had been looking forward to seeing The Gates of Slumber since picking up their newest installment, The Wretch, at Roadburn and reveling in its doomly snail’s pacing. When last I saw them, it was in the small room under Webster Hall, and they were good then, but there’s no denying guitarist/vocalist Karl Simon is completely in his element rocking out mournful total-doom songs about drinking and losing at life. They were killer. Hard not to hoist a claw or two to such rampant musical misery.

The material from The Wretch was some of the strongest they played — that’s not to discount the impact of “The Ice Worm’s Lair” — and new drummer “Cool Clyde” Paradis has a clearly natural ability to play slow and still make it sound heavy. Between him and bassist Jason McCash, Simon had formidable backup, although maybe that’s underplaying their roles in the band a bit, since each third of the trio brings so much to the whole. Either way, their songs managed to sound empty and minimalist and still without actually being boring or inaccessible, and they showed that their latest lineup is their strongest yet.

And then, after three already killer sets, there came Orange Goblin. The foursome had been wandering through the crowd for most of the night, back and forth between backstage and the bar, the can, etc., and they came out introduced by AC/DC‘s “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘n’ Roll).” Santos was long since packed out, and it was more of a party (as the name of the venue would suggest) than a show by the time they were a few songs in. The songs from Orange Goblin‘s last album, 2007′s Healing Through Fire, went over especially well — “They Come Back” and “Harvest of Skulls” being high points — but even through classics like “Cozmo Bozo” and “Aquatic Fanatic,” frontman Ben Ward had the crowd eating from his hand.

There was a mosh pit, if a friendly, old-school-metal, “let’s all bump into each other and not throw punches,” one, and a single diver took the stage no less than four times, singing along with Ward and even once trying to grab the vocalist’s beer, which was where the line seemed to be drawn. As it’s become my motto for existence, “Some You Win, Some You Lose” was a special boon, guitarist Joe Hoare putting the song’s awesome main riff to good use for the crowd singing along to Ward. There was a three-song encore of “Time Traveling Blues,” “Quincy the Pigboy” and “Scorpionica,” all of which sent the audience apeshit, though maybe a little less so for the former, which is a slower cut. Nonetheless, Orange Goblin were amazing the whole way through.

It had me thinking back to the last time they were in town, in 2006 with Scissorfight at the now-showless Continental, and how even though they’ve only been back to the US once since then (for the Planet Caravan fest in North Carolina in 2009), their reputation has grown enormously. I recall the Continental being crowded, but nothing like this. Santos is a much bigger room, and it was full, so there’s no doubt the last couple years have brought well-spread word on their unique and boozy brand of mayhem. All the more exciting, then, to think what they’ll be able to accomplish with their next album. Ben Ward called the NYC show a “life-changing moment,” and maybe it was.

Orange Goblin was nonetheless headed south to Maryland Deathfest and then out for more shows with Naam and The Gates of Slumber, so once it was over, it was over. Someone suckerpunched Tommy Southard from Solace outside the venue, perhaps out of jealousy of Solace‘s last album, A.D. (which was my pick of the year in 2010), but I didn’t stick around to watch the drama unfold if there was any. With a long-enough drive back to Jersey, some late-night empanadas and subsequently my humble river valley ahead, I split out for the car, rife with the kind of energy only a really, really good night can provide.

I know this was a long one, but if you’re still reading, thanks for that. More pics after the jump.

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The hype surrounding Aesthethica, the second full-length from young Brooklyn black metal outfit Liturgy, has been near-suffocating. The album, released via the chic and diverse Thrill Jockey Records, traces through 12 tracks and varying levels of self-indulgence, concocting a brew of brightly-toned black metal with a post-rock influence, at times feeling like the four-piece took the most memorable aspects of what Wolves in the Throne Room have done over the course of their several records and injected it with a sub-tech progressive edge and youthful vigor. Album opener “High Gold” sets the tone for much of what’s to come with an abrasive intro followed by driving blastbeats, tremolo picking, largely indecipherable screams, and a brightness in the guitars of Bernard Gann and central creative figure/vocalist Hunter Hunt-Hendrix, responsible for both the lyrics and music on the album, which was recorded and mixed by Colin Marston at his Thousand Caves of Menegroth studio. Drummer Greg Fox consistently provides technical highlights throughout Aesthethica, and that begins as soon as “High Gold” gets underway and continues well through “True Will” and the more prog-feeling “Returner.”

Those abhorrent of musical pretentiousness can pretty much stop reading this review right now. Liturgy more or less carve their name in a style of black metal that’s more geared on artistic exploration than the sheer anti-accessibility of the genre’s roots, and they know it. They’re young despite having been together as a band for six years now, and there’s a young player’s arrogance about Aesthethica, which mostly serves the album well in achieving its lofty stylistic goals. You can do it if you know you’re already doing it, and so forth. Hunt-Hendrix’s innovation, if it is one, is in adding the relentless prog feel to black metal’s given genre elements, but it’s innovation that comes at the price of meandering and sometimes over-thought songwriting. “High Gold” and “True Will” both start with an intro that has next to nothing to do with the actual song. “High Gold” begins with a kind of ringing click fed through effects, and “True Will” with vocal droning from Hunt-Hendrix that also shows up toward the end of Aesthethica for the full three and a half minutes of “Glass Earth.” Listening, I thought that was going to be the pattern for the whole album, but “Returner” begins almost in medias res with its turning, stopping/starting guitar riff and impressive runs from Fox.

Oddly, the two instrumentals on Aesthethica provide some of the album’s most interesting material. “Generation,” which follows “Returner,” is seven-plus minutes of insistent progressive riffing that, unlike much of what’s come on the three tracks prior, feels like it wants to bring the listener along with it. Not very black metal, but Liturgy seem only concerned with stylistic confines only insomuch as they can toy with them to provoke a reaction. “Generation” chugs, twists and displays a tightness between the four players in the band – bassist Tyler Dusenbury will get his high point performance later – through its repeating riff cycle that feels lost in the morass at other points on Aesthethica, the lack of vocals allowing the instruments to both breathe and make the most of a structure that, were it not so intricate and obviously thought out, one might be tempted to call a jam. Again, it’s Fox making the song. His snare hits have a consistent sound that makes me wonder if they’re triggered or replaced, but even if they are, it’s done remarkably well and doesn’t detract from his actual playing.

“Tragic Laurel” doesn’t offer much that “Returner” didn’t already give, and with “Sun of Light” right after, Aesthethica seems to dip where it really should be hitting its stride, leading to the conclusion that at 12 tracks and 68 minutes, the album is simply too long and that Liturgy, for all their creative will and clearly-expressed drive, are still lacking an editorial voice in terms of realizing the ground they’ve already tread and when pulling back might be the more effective move. If Aesthethica is taken in three-song movements (as the back cover art seems to suggest, splitting the track-listing as though onto the four sides of a double-LP), then that beginning with “Generation,” which seems like it’s going to be the most fascinating and engaging, is ultimately the most redundant. The last minute of the “Sun of Light” is silence, as though to allow the audience time to process what they’re heard, but with “Helix Skull” essentially serving as an intro to the second half of the album, they’d have that time anyway before going into “Glory Bronze,” which instead of capitalizing on any momentum that might have been built previously, has the task of renewing the fascination of the opening few tracks. “Glory Bronze” might be a highlight of Aesthethica for its contemplative yet riotous feel, but again, the album has basically had to reset itself before getting to it, and much of the forward movement has been lost.

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