Tales From the Darkside Vol.5: B-Music Records

If you are like me, most holidays hold nothing but the annoyance of consumer companies constantly throwing annoying reminders and vapid icons in your face. However, there are a few exceptions, one of them being the xmas for music nerds that is Record Store Day. Not a real holiday you say? Well I’d beg to differ, but that’s a different topic for a different time. What is important here is to note that each year there are special releases to coincide with this day. And this year’s Record Store Day held one, and only one, precious jewel for me: the Radio Galaxia compilation put out by B-Music.

Allow me to believe the fantasy that every music nerd evolved the way I did. In the mid to late nineties, we stumbled across Capital Record’s genius idea to re-release damn near their entire back catalogue as the “Ultra Lounge” series. After being eternally hypnotized by everything from the rat pack to Louis Prima (before that horrific, swing revival/long winded Levi’s commercial), to swinging French pop, and finally off to the islands of Martin Denny and Yma Sumac. We rode the waves until we washed up on those same said latter shores, and our eyes were finally open. We were deep in the jungles of Exotica, joining in anglo-faux tribal rituals with Les Baxter, Arthur Lyman, Eden Ahbez, and a whole quiet village more.

Then, somewhere in the middle of the last decade, (and by that I mean 2000-2009), we tried to dig deeper and deeper until we found the hidden cave of Library Music. After plundering treasure coves of bizarre BBC background sounds and the similar like, around the globe, all bets were off. We could not tear ourselves away from the generically quaint, obscure, bizarre, and forgotten sounds from disparate nooks and crannies.

I’d like to imagine that Andy Votel tread the same path, but I’m willing to bet that this may not be the case for the UK DJ veteran. As well as being a Dj and a producer, Votel has also had a hand in large retrospective events that have included the music of Serge Gainsbourg and Jean-Claude Vannier and included guests such as Jarvis Cocker and Badly Drawn Boy.

But it is his shared interest with obscure and outsider music fans, under the B-Music collective and record label, that follows in tandem with Finder’s Keepers, Twisted Nerve, Bird, Battered Ornaments, and a host of other sub/labels, that interests me the most.

I stumbled across B-Music when I was blown away by what easily made my best records of the year for ’09, Vampires of Dartmoore, “Dracula’s Musical Cabinet. It was an amazing slab of bizarre, lounge, Krautrock, muzak, that turned out to be a fake soundtrack for a vampire movie that never existed, but was, in reality, the 1969 mutant offspring of German studio musicians, Horst Ackermann and Heribert Thusek. After discovering an entire label dedicated to finding these sounds and either giving them a fitting re-release, or reimagining them in mixtapes,I felt as though I’d re-connect with lost family members.

I must admit that B-Music/Finder’s Keepers is light years ahead of me in their depth of knowledge and understanding of these yetis of sound. A quick perusal through their discography reveals Pakistani, Lollywood albums, a London based, singer songwriter album by Emma Tricca, compilations of the 9 plus identities of 60’s-today French music genius, Jean-Pierre Massiera, Turkish Anadolu Pop albums, the soundtrack to the Czech New Wave film Daisies, and this is just scratching the surface in a mesmerizing world that literally looks as though it were created by spinning one wheel with every country on the globe, another wheel with every genre ever conceived, and then putting the results out on an LP. Beyond all of this, are the mixtapes that take all of these sounds, and craft the most beautiful aural frankensteins that the recent world has known.

B-Music, beyond re-earthing forgotten classics, has their finger in similarly gened, contemporary artist such as Twinkranes, Jane Weaver, or even the Faust-esque, Samandtheplants. Really, it just proves they are master curators of everything they touch, and they know their subjects like a surgeon.

Beyond the Deep house, ghettoteck, Baltimore house, and Euro-inspired dance jams of Mad Decent, and iheartcomix, the mad wizards of the B-Music DJ mixes run gleefully in the opposite direction, melding together quirky, funky analogue beats, with strange exploitation guitar rhythms, hypnotic Turkish bass lines, celestial library synth chords, and a host of b-rated film and tv samples. It’s a deeper more primitive dimension that Dj’s and producers like The Gaslamp Killer, Dom Thomas, Anagram Jam, and even Andy Votel himself are grappling with here. And while I love the average DJ night in the DMV as much as anyone else who has their hands up yet thumbs down, I would take a double jump for an opportunity to float off into an evening of these deeps and odd grooves.

B-Music/Finder’s Keepers show no sign of slowing down, and will certainly never be at a loss for content to put out. Their imprints continue to multiply like untended rabbits, from the Krautrock, Germanic Miner, to the Pakistani, Sounds of Wonder, to the library, Disposable Music, to the Parisian, No No Years, or even the Arabesque, Anatolian Invasion series. Beyond being one of the most interesting record conglomerates/labels, B-Music is also one of the more important, and they definitely have the market cornered in their chosen subject matter. With one foot resting firmly in both the UK and the US, this vanguard label is even closer to our French fry grease covered fingers. As their bizarre empire grows I, for one, plan on being there every step of the way.

Tales From the Darkside Vol.4: Black Witchery/ Conqueror Re-release LP

The first wave of black metal left an eternal mark of the beast on the world. However, as influential as bands like Venom, Celtic Frost, Possessed, and Sarcofago were, the true infamy that blazes the black sword into today comes from the much more sinister second wave. Yes, it’s true, the second wave of black metal carries an entire litany of historical footnotes: satanic cults, church burnings, blast beats, corpse paint, and murder, just to name a few.

However, as with any movement, while the beginning saw legends, (infamous and disputed, none-the-less), such as Mayhem, Darkthrone, Burzum, and Beherit, once the trend set in, inferior copies popped up. Amongst these black wave riders were bands such as Satyricon, Dimmu Borgir, and the absolutely unlistenable bullshit of Cradle of Filth. By this time, even the unfortunate trend starters had begun to fold under their own bloated weight, and were circling back around to find out what was economically viable to put on new releases.

The hateful souls that burned in the sincerity of the movement found themselves lost and disenfranchised, scattering in all directions for survival. One such Canadian horde decided that, since the harshness of the second wave of black metal could be packaged and commodified so easily, then obviously a wilder, harsher sound was the violent antidote. Calling itself Blasphemy, the group became the first to carry the moniker, “War Metal,” a much-contested sub-genre of black metal. And while its existence may be mocked and questioned in certain circles, it does have a very real sound, and, albeit small, following. The music is chaotic and primitive beyond belief. The growled vocals are almost incomprehensible, and the instrumentation is a non-stop beratement. It’s like the most amazing pure noise, being serenaded by a chainsaw from hell.

Recently, the best metal record label in America, period, Nuclear War Now, unleashed a beautiful re-release of an early, influential war metal album.

The split LP between Conqueror and Black Witchery is once again seeing the damning light of day, with full picture disk treatment.

Before the brilliance of the brutal and dubious two-man militia, that is Revenge, joined the world of the damned, brainchild James Read had another, equally famous war metal duo, Conqueror. Steeped in the tradition of Beherit and Blasphemy, and carrying proudly the severed head of the second wave of black metal in its hand, Conqueror was all the fury and hate a black metal band was supposed to be. After releasing only two demos, one full length, a split, and a best of compilation, the band would become an underground legend in their own right.

On the Hellstorm of Evil Vengeance split, originally released in 2000, on Dark Horizon Records, the sound is as sadistic and guttural as ever. With songs like, “Hammer of Anti-Christ,” and, “Chaos Domination (Conquer the Enslaver),” Ryan Forster and James Read fire off rounds of never ending blast beats, wrapped in a razor wire of cyclical guitars, all the while Read’s vocals harken a deep, unimaginable, beast’s call to war.

The flipside carries the genocidal hymns of one of my favorite black metal bands of all time, Black Witchery. Originally a Bathory cover band called Irreverent, that formed in 1991, then a black metal band named Witchery, by 1996, (that, sadly was forced to change their name by one of those same sad copycat BM bands), finally, by 1999 their current configuration as one of the most sinister war metal bands, Black Witchery, came to pass. With a sizable list of releases, including two DVD’s, they are one of the hardest working underground groups today.

Reinventing the raw power of black metal comes as no surprise, as Black Witchery hails from the heavily metal laden state of Florida, (the home of Deicide, just to name one band). Their sound is just as sadistic and primitive as Conqueror’s, but Black Witchery carry a battering ram of drive and intensity. The guitar and bass tend to lean more in the direction of traditional black metal, as do the vocals. But each one steers off in its own, over the top, original direction. The form is tighter here, but you are just as likely to lose a finger.

Though, ironically, “Hellstorm of Evil Vengeance,” is not on this album, plenty of other blistering calls for murder, such as, “Unholy Vengeance of War,” and, “Summoning of Infernal Legions,” are. They even throw in an excellent cover of Blasphemy’s, “Demoniac,” just to remind you what army they fight for.

The re-release features a quality picture disc with an equally quality cover and insert, the likes of which Nuclear War Now is known for. While the good news is that over 200 of these have already gone out, and the bad news is that, I know that since I didn’t receive a limited addition, ten-year anniversary patch, the best news is that releases like this are still being released. Beyond that, bands like this, that used to live in outskirts of the underground are now, finally have their day of triumph.

It is well worth your time to check out both the bands Conqueror, and Black Witchery, as well as the NWN! label. Then gear up to go to war for Satan……

Malcolm McLaren…or is that Lou Pearlman…Tales of Punk, Tales of Pop, and Questions of Importance and Permanence

Somewhere in my radicalizing college years, I stumbled across the life-changing tome of Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the 20th Century. In it, music culturalist Greil Marcus cut and pastes a deep collage, (much like so many records of our underground youth), of a stream-of-consciousness explanation of the modern era through the outsider events of the past. While sewing together the actions of the Dadists, the Situationists, Insane monks, folk songs, historical epochs, and absolute non sequiturs in a wholly post-modern way, Marcus centers his sphere around a romanticized belief in the world shifting affects of the
Sex Pistols.

While on the one hand, I would have to admit that, were there a cult for this book, I would certainly be a card-carrying member, not to mention my firm standing by the absolute truth and paradigm shifting of the reality Greil crafted, on the other, as much as Lipstick Traces is his ode to the conviction that the Sex Pistols were the hands that ripped apart the constricting powers of domination, through the medium of punk music, it was the very words he wrote that began to make me re-think the entire equation.

Last week saw the loss of Malcom McLaren, the manager, and founder of The Sex Pistols. The lamentations ran deep about the loss of the godfather of punk and king of underground rebellion. I was shocked at the number of people deeply enmeshed in these scenes that cried the very same tears.

Yes, it’s obviously true that McLaren is the entire reason we have the Sex Pistols, and the reason why so many people have heard of punk rock. And it’s also most certainly true that he was similarly inspired by movements like the Situationists. (He even tried to travel to Paris for the ’68 demonstrations) But what does that mean? What were his actual motivations and intentions? For that matter, what does “punk” mean”?

Let’s chart the history of McLaren and the Sex Pistols. Picking up where things become relevant, in 1971 McLaren opened a clothing store in London with his at the time girlfriend. What’s most interesting to note here is that the girlfriend in question was none other than, now legendary, fashion designer Vivienne Westwood. The shop, Let It Rock, specialized in reviving the ultra-dapper, Edwardian, Teddy Boy look of the 1950’s. But this all changed after McLaren met the proto-punk group the New York Dolls. It was at this point he changed the name of his shop to Too Fast To Live Too Young To Die, and began to craft what would become “punk fashion.” By 1975, after an unsuccessful attempt at managing the New York Dolls, McLaren returned to Britain, and changed the name of his shop again, to SEX.

The next year would see him managing a group called The Strand whose ambition was to sound like The Who. After coming across a green haired John Lydon, wearing an “I Hate” Pink Floyd shirt, McLaren invited him to audition for the group by lip-syncing to an Alice Cooper song. Their new singer found, the group’s name was changed to the Sex Pistols and Lydon’s name was changed to “Johnny Rotten.” The group rose to fame through McLaren’s careful crafting of publicity stunts and shock value attitude. Not to mention the constant quaffing of the Sex Pistols “edgy” fashion.

But such a shallow foundation certainly could not hold, and by 1978 the group had disbanded due to chaotic internal dynamics. McLaren was constantly accused of stealing money from the group, and ultimately, Lydon won unpaid revenues and complete rights to the Sex Pistols, in court.

The Sex Pistols might have left a lasting impression on the world, (their legendary performance at Lesser Free Trade Hall in 1976 was attended by an audience that would later go on to form Joy Division, The Smiths, The Fall, and The Buzzcocks), but the themes that seem to run through their saga have less to do with anti-systemic rebellion, and more to do with fame, money, and fashion. Malcolm McLaren appears, in this light, less like a purveyor of radical vanguard, and more the 70’s equivalent to Lou Pearlman in the 90’s.

A, no joke, blimp tycoon in the early 90’s, Pearlman became fascinated with the success of the pioneering modern boy band, the New Kids on the Block. He eventually went so far as to found his own label, Trans Continental Records, with the idea of repeating the NKOTB equation. His first hand crafted group was The Backstreet Boys. The five unknowns were brought together by a massive talent search, but went on to sell 100 million albums. He followed this success up with the equally effective repetition of NSync, and later the ABC-MTV reality group, O-Town.

Several years after his heyday, nearly all of the major artists on Lou Pearlman’s Trans Continental Records sued him, and won, for “fraud and misrepresentation.” Though most of the lawsuits held a confidentiality agreement, it is known that both the Backstreet Boys and NSync suits involved unpaid revenues.

Obviously, the aesthetic of the Sex Pistols could be no further from that of NSync, but the through-line of fame, money, and fashion remains the same. Both sagas involved calculating masterminds who were able to foresee economically viable trends, and then act on them for their own benefit. What was laudable about both Pearlman and McLaren, in the talent world they inhabited, was the fact that they were both shrewd businessmen. (Though I’d say just as much stock could be put into simply being in the right place at the right time.)

Getting back to the question of what exactly punk is, on a very simple level, it is an audacious sneer at the accepted paradigm. And while it’s obvious that, since the Sex Pistols, this posture has been commodified into a safe copy, for economic gain, there has always been its sincere original living just below the surface. If there ever was a sincere original to the photocopy of the Sex Pistols, it was surely Crass.

Formed in 1977, when Penny Rimbaud and Steve Ignorant met in the same open house community, Dial House, near Epping Essex, and began playing music together, the two managed to hammer out the classic tracks, “So What?” and, “Do They Owe Us a Living?,” before deciding to call the project, “Crass,” after a line from the song, “Ziggy Stardust.” Shock, fame, and fashion had little to do Rimbaud and Ignorant’s intentions. Instead, these shallow shackles were replaced by the actual socio-political theories of a sustainable world through anarchism, (no, not the same pseudo-nihilistic,“anarchy” intoned for dramatic effect by the Pistols, but the very serious foundation laid by people such as Emma Goldman and Peter Kropotkin). Beyond this, the group also preached environmentalism, animal rights, feminism, and anti-racism.

Eventually, the duo was joined by Joy De Vivre, Pete Wright, N. A. Palmer, Eve Libertine, and Phil Free, and many early shows were only attended by billmates, the UK Subs. After an unfortunate show at legendary club, the Roxy, Crass decided to increase the seriousness of their attitude towards the band (though this was the event that led to the famous punk anthem, “Banned From the Roxy.”) From then on, Crass chose to only play shows sober, and adorned all black mility-surplus outfits, at all times. In diametric opposition to Vivienne Westwood’s careful creation of the Sex Pistols iconic look, Crass’ attire was a statement against the, “cult of personality,” and towards a band without “rockstars.” They heralded this new era with their logo, which contained the juxtaposed, “icons of authority,” the cross, the swastika, and the union flag, surrounded by a two headed snake eating itself, (as, surely, in Crass’ eyes, would be the ultimate fate unchecked power).

Instead of being courted by Virgin Records, EMI, and A&M records, Crass was set to release their world-shifting album, “The Feeding of 5,000,” on independent label, Small Wonder. But even then, the anit-christian sentiment was too much, and plant refused to press the album. The band became some of the originators of the DIY punk ethic, and eventually put the album out themselves on their own label.

Even by the late 70’s Crass had become disillusioned with the sincerity of the punk movement. That very first album, in fact, contained a scathing attack against the status of punk, called, “Punk is Dead”:

Yes that’s right, punk is dead,
It’s just another cheap product for the consumers head.
Bubblegum rock on plastic transistors,
Schoolboy sedition backed by big time promoters.
CBS promote the Clash,
But it ain’t for revolution, it’s just for cash.
Punk became a fashion just like hippy used to be
And it ain’t got a thing to do with you or me.

Movements are systems and systems kill.
Movements are expressions of the public will.
Punk became a movement cos we all felt lost,
But the leaders sold out and now we all pay the cost.
Punk narcissism was social napalm,
Steve Jones started doing real harm.
Preaching revolution, anarchy and change
As he sucked from the system that had given him his name.

Well I’m tired of staring through shit stained glass,
Tired of staring up a superstars arse,
I’ve got an arse and crap and a name,
I’m just waiting for my fifteen minutes fame.
Steve Jones you’re napalm,
If you’re so pretty (vacant) why do you swarm?
Patti Smith you’re napalm,
You write with your hand but it’s Rimbaud’s arm.

And me, yes I, do I want to burn?
Is there something I can learn?
Do I need a business man to promote my angle?
Can I resist the carrots that fame and fortune dangle?
I see the velvet zippies in their bondage gear,
The social elite with safety-pins in their ear,
I watch and understand that it don’t mean a thing,
The scorpions might attack, but the systems stole the sting.

PUNK IS DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD.
PUNK IS DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD.
PUNK IS DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD.

Even years later, the revolution of punk and the creation of hardcore in the DC area came not from an eccentric businessman like McLaren, but instead, a kid who dared to suggest that the youth of America should stay sober, and, instead of spend their time idly, release that new found focus against the injustices of the world. Again, the space where fashion and destruction met were replaced by vehicles for social change such as Positive Force.

McLaren is only the beginning of a long lineage of parallels between punk as a movement, and punk as an archetype with a pricetag. For every Sex Pistols, there is a Crass. For every Casualties, there is a Bill Narcotic politely voicing regret for helping launch their career. For every Greenday there is a Gather. For every Warped Tour there is Positive Youth Fest. For every Epitaph there is a Profane Existence. What it boils down to is that for every Malcolm McLaren, there is an Ian MacKaye.

Should McLaren be hailed as a hero to the underground? Maybe, but in my mind then so should Karl Lagerfeld. And as for the development of punk itself, that uncomfortable underground that still holds a chance for danger and change simply asks:

“Would you die for what you believe in, or just dye your hair?”

Tales From the Darkside Vol. 3: Aderlating

Mories is held by most in the underground as a modern maverick of sound. Hailing from the Netherlands, and flying leather-winged onto the scene at the height of the third wave of black metal, this bleak pioneer grabbed the reigns and began to pull the carriage in new directions. Black noise, electronic, and solo BM projects were nothing new (to say the very least of the that last mention), but Mories took things in a much more orchestrated, and boundary pushing direction. Shaking off the typical lo-fi machingunning of tin metaled guitar and drums, or the slow and echoing cacophony of ambient suicidal BM, the equation here orbits around abstract re-appropriation of sounds and instruments, as though one were constructing a lovecraftian soundtrack from the depths of R’lyeh.

Mories is most know for the continued onslaught of horror soundtrack inspired black industrial noise project, Gnaw Their Tongues. And while this audio perversity certainly continues to emblazon my brain, it’s another curiosity from the same depths that piques my interest today.

As a vinyl collector I am not known to pick up CD’s, so I can’t exactly put my finger on what made me pick up, “The nectar of perversity springs from the well of repression,” by Aderlating (though, since it came from Aquarius Records, I could place some bets….) Regardless of the, “why,” I’m certainly thankful for the, “what.”

Beyond the blitzkrieg of his amazing industrial chaos project (that for years I did not know was Mories), De Magia Veterum, Mories explores the opposite side of the spectrum with the eerie darkness of Aderlating. If Gnaw their tongues is a 45rpm LP playing on surround sound, then Aderlating is that same LP on 33rpm’s with random speakers cutting out.

“The nectar of perversity springs from the well of repression,” is a sinister and hypnotic album indeed. Murky walls wrapped in rotting wallpaper and stucco hide tales of horrific deeds that include the conjuration of hellspawn creatures and human mutilation.

The listener is ushered out of an electronic thunderstorm, and into this unspeakable house with the opening track, “Death Knell.” The weight of the track unfolds as the entrapped fate becomes apparent. I don’t know what the lengthy sample used in the second track, “A Circle Drawn With Chalk on Wood,” comes from, but it has to be my favorite piece, hands down, on “The nectar of perversity.” The drone of noise and the skittering of sound rises as a male voice commands a female voice through a series of ritual actions. At some point she reaches a place where she can go no further, but is pushed to enter a space where she is afraid of “the dark one.” As the male voice becomes more violently emphatic, the female voice pleads until she snaps into a scream, and we are left with sober tunnel of noise.

While it is drone to be sure, every once in a while, we are treated to something much more traditionally black metal, (with emphasis on the, “much more.”) The track, “Rope, Pig’s Blood, Dead Flesh And Two Candles,” is a thick pummeling of noise, but underneath comes the harsh snarls of piercing black metal vocals. It makes a perfect juxtaposition against the unnerving deep space of the rest of the album.

As the atmosphere grows darker, the noise grows harsher. Picking up with what has to be the most amazing song title ever, “Cut Off My Penis in Praise of Black Satari,” “The Nectar of Perversity,” churns its thick cocoon of sound into razorwire, and lacerates the listener until their final tortured breath. The last track, “Bleak Bliss,” is a 2:33 pure white HNW (harsh noise wall for the uninitiated).

Those of us in the BM scene have reached a saturation point with the genre, and so, outside of not picking up many new black horde odes, we look to new places for refuge, (unless we live in Brooklyn, in which case we just listen to Liturgy, and do coke).

For me, Gnaw Their Tongues, De Magia Veterum, and, specifically here, Aderlating, (who, when performing live is a combination of Mories and Erik Mowlawner, by the way), are the continuation of that unspeakable place and ancient fury.Fortunately, with three releases already under their belt this year alone, Aderlating do not look like they’re going to slow down anytime soon. For the curious and brave/dark of heart, Mories has been kind enough to stream the entire new, “Devotional Hymns,” album, here.

Listen in ill health………

Tales From the Darkside Vol. 1: Blessure Grave

I was recently asked, by the one and only Marcus Dowling, to write a weekly piece to give readers an idea of what I was intrigued by in a given moment. A bit of balance from the negative periphery of the music void, if you will.

I have more than happily complied, and so, that would make this my first entry. Here is the current inspiration for my murmured incantations.

For those outside of the DMV, it’s a given that there is a steep peak in the rising popularity of “dark” music. Yes, in many ways bands inspired by the likes of the fragile and sincere, though aped and overused legacy of Joy Division. But, unlike their painful, insincere calculators of several years ago (take the travesty of Interpol, for instance), these new bands are coming up from the underground. Joy Division would be simply one reference on a line of many, as these persons live in those off beaten folds of the music world. Beyond The Cure and The Smiths, I’m sure names like Kas Product, Gary Numan, Killing Joke, or even Christian Death would be intoned.

My attention, as of late, has been caught dead on by one band in particular. San Diego’s Blessure Grave craft papyral sheets of minimal, angular tracks for the downtrodden of heart. After seeing what was a phenomenal performance at SXSW, I picked up their
“Learn to Love the Rope” LP, and it has been on my turntable ever since.

The sounds here are sparse and jagged, and they don’t rely heavily on the techniques of lo-fi, or layers of synthesizers. Instead, Blessure Grave leans on well placed, post-punk guitar riffs, and driving toms. It’s interesting to see them perform as a full live band, and know how thin a sound they weave.

The vocals could have a minor Ian Curtis comparison, but I think that would be a detractive cop out. Instead, on their own merit, they come across as rough and simple, usually coupled with two-part dis-harmony. Likewise, the words they are stressing are simple diatribes that speak volumes to those who understand.

“Learn to Love the Rope, ” starts off with a bang, and the self-same song. It’s the catchiest piece on the album, for whatever that’s worth. A few strummed chords give way to war-like drums, and, instantly, Toby Grave’s vocals drop in. A certain sadness drives the song until it lands at the chorus, where Toby is joined by Reyna Kay to shakily lament:

“She said hold her words close to my heart. But my hands are broken, so the words just fall apart.”

After the first track thunders out, the second track, “Mirror,” slides in a little slower, but still maintains the through line of regret:

“There’s times where I know, the reasons I live for aren’t worth my time, or part of my life.”

On the flipside of the album, drums hail the introduction of, “Hindsight,” as they are met by more male/female vocals, leading up to the emphatic refrain of:

“In hindsight, I should have tucked myself into dirt. It’s the only place I have free from all the hurt,”

before dropping out to a quiet rhythem being followed by a rich bassline. Cat call-like guitars stitch the song together, and help put it down in the end.

“Stop Breathing” is a very polished sounding track, but it still utilizes the definitive sound of Blessure Grave to its fullest extent. And, finally, “City Lights,” pulls the tempo down to an eerie place where “Learn to Love the Rope” can finally rest in peace.

All in all, it’s a very solid record, by a band ever rising in prominence. It’s interesting to see this resurgence, spreading from the most “fashionable” areas of the country down. But, however, you may feel on the subject, it’s worthwhile to keep up with bands like Blessure Grave, to see where this all ends up.

Until next time…..