Ashen-faced lovers who equate death with the soul-sapping pain of passion fill this minimalist recording while maintaining meaning for the crushed velvet Goth.
Armchair Martian convey a sorrow, a loneliness, and a human warmth that’s made country affect a larger number of Americans than any other genre, hands down.
Few others can wallow in worm-infested dirt, offer somber hymns to the moon-drenched night, and chainsaw trees with such teeth, and also implement breakbeats.
With guitar string-buzzy vocals like a tongue out-of-focus, McCarron edges hair metal with falsetto, restrained ballast yells, a ballad, and elemental guitars.
Stacks upon high influences from black to death to thrash to classic ’80s metal, emerging from the tunnel as one enigmatic tactical unit of metal might.
The intellectual content of their compositions lives up to its literary counterpart, never conforming to pop-punk standards and always trying something new.
Every song’s a fresh new trip, every second song an infection, every third a raging holler-out ecstatic anthem. I’m reminded of the underrated Handsome record.