Both Dimmu Borgir and Old Man’s Child have sounded “better,” but there’s a charm to hearing quickly thrown together material with less-than-huge production.
There’s a haunting, thick sludge of melody that makes them something other than just another tuneless, lo-fi band pounding noisily away hoping it’s art.
Techie-fuzz feeds back over nymphic girl voices, sighing major key fantasies over syncopated heartbeats. For so much buzzy noise, this is very gentle stuff.
One minute it’s feedback and synthesizers, the next (by way of awkward transitions, most of the time) it’s Huntington Beach circa ’83, spiked mohawks and all.