Chelsea Wolfe
Apocalypsis

Some time ago I was talking, most likely to myself, most likely facing the wall, about the black sun towering over California, a sun swollen with agony and anxieties, hovering over the deserts like an endless zeppelin. Chelsea Wolfe descended from this pitch-black star like a necessary entity meant for the purification/putrefaction of the sonic color that looms around us and infects both ears and eyes.

"Apokalypsis" is all of this:

A splinter of a splendid (new?old?) hypnotic and paranoid wave hides beneath the voices dragging along "Mer", which melts under specters lamenting against the backdrop of coal-colored folk, echoes, choirs, who knows?, with a melody that is easily assimilated by the heart rather than the brain. A sweet bitterness in shades of painful americana walks on the guitar strings and Chelsea's voice in "Tracks (Tall Bodies)" where the refrain rises on a pedestal made of broken glass, declaring the distance from a crooked world and a connection with a kindred line, melancholy reaches levels on the edge of nothingness and noisy silence. The perverse tribalities of "Demons" shift the album's lo-fi accent to more dynamic situations, the guitar gets much dirtier, nervousness manifests as a fast-paced drum and a vocal urgency that tastes of acid. Winds of feedback and sand-flavored ambient synth accompany the immense choir of "The Wasteland", and more liquid electronics rising up the auditory duct, and a mantra materializing lost lands from abandoned roads and derelict buildings. Heavy and deadly are the 7 minutes of doom'n'gloom "Pale On Pale", marked by the march of a thick and consistent drum where before there was only its trace on the black sand, and the voice seems to evoke ancient chants accompanied by mescaleros with earthy and suffering faces leaving the land for other shores.

To be administered in case of:

-lack of the visceral nature of a PJ Harvey faded by the years, nostalgia of Jarboe-like pain, lack of sleep, total absence of joy.