FLOORED by these tragic, graceful, gargoyle-folk fragments and passages of psychic keyboard bewitchment, which come off like Miaux playing on the bonny banks of the river Styx. The devil take it!
Sorrowful chords from scorched, fragile synthesisers fall in an unpredictable, enchanting cadence, casting themselves around vocals that posses a haunting, dismal POWER, a force which recalls the poems of Charles Baudelaire and the menacing electronic settings in which Ruth White embalmed them on her dark, transcendent masterstroke, “Flowers of Evil”.
Round these parts it get’s thrown about like hand sanistizer but worth mentioning that to brand this THING “folk” may mislead to antiquarian hoo-rah - NEIN. While “Initiation…” bares all ye olde deeply damaged weight that anyone would desire from the decanting of the troubled noggin, it channels an entirely contemporary experiment in practical limitation, sonically sharing more in common with signal-starved, bedroom Black Metal and conjuring images of a demon-dashing exorcism carried out in the glare of a computer screen.
The shut-in charm and insanity of the one man band exposed to such extensive self assessment rarely feels as raw and revealing as it does on these crumpled, whispered ceremonies. Themes of loneliness, romance and, yup, loss, all float in the shadows of ritualistic moon-musik as Wormy glacially secures their route through vulnerability with a kind of palpable, all-but-suffocated sense of hope and vitality that manifests itself as something akin to the more emotionally challenging sugar rushes of our lives.
Although sensibly spliced into different tracks for digital distribution, the janitors of HELL would struggle to polish and bring order to the sprawling, psychedelic damage on this cassette version. Eighteen songs, which begin to resemble a collection of poems and short, poignant motifs, blend and bleed into one another and conclude with a healthy dose of VENOM. A shift from broken to barbed, a savage bloom of contradictorily tempered, minimalist piano serves as a tranquil landscape for a seething, verbal crucifixion of an old Tory shitebag, a recital which displays the kinda eccentric, satanic violence you might catch in the depths of an Ambrose Bierce short yin.
All in, the most compelling listen to come our way this side of indefinite pub closure. Highest possible recommendation!
C45 cassette. Screen printed, wrap around metallic case. Each copy comes with a unique painting by the artist.
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