13 & God
Own Your Ghost

THE REVIEW

It's like pressing your ears against the (un)natural manifestation of an astral limbo miles and miles away from the human imagination. Like the flight of the skeleton on the cover. An (im)perfect machine. Something else. It descends from the sky and reveals itself in (un)definable forms. These are the sounds of the ultravusic. When you think you've understood what's beneath, you're screwed, it's already changed. You have to (re)adapt.

There is a sad light that caresses the grooves of this work, represented by "Armored Scarves", the guitar riff paired with the spectral presence of tribal beats, cybernetic, icy and at the same time warm, an alien folk, a fearless hybrid, it plows ahead, the choruses at the end of the track create an additional melody that scales the piece, it is the soul of Markus from Notwist, it becomes bright, it comes out. And the killerflaw of Doseone in "Death Major" breaks the beat, minimal, messes with the moog as it navigates perfect rhymes, and at the end of the hallway of this building traveling in a transparent cube in space, choruses of medieval memory, cathedral melodies. The timeline shatters, breaks in half, there’s no point in trying to follow it, it feels like the Nineties, it feels like being in England, there’s no reason to say no, the space indie of "Old Age" talks exactly about this. The thread reconnects, and at its extremity, there’s a reverse mirror, "Death Minor" is the part of the scale that in the "Major" part remained hidden, the guitars draw a silver patina over the voices, like a sound frost, greeting winds that counterpoint, and an orchestra in the desert presents us the bill. We are no longer young and "Unyoung" is our legacy, a Depeche Mode reminiscence, a subdued piano, lost times recounted over staggered, hiccupping beats, mechanical voices in aid, Doseone sums it up, oldskool scratches, we are at the epilogue.

The skeleton touches the ground. It forges straight ahead seeking another time on a plane of existence we have forgotten. There is no one here. Only splendor.