•
Rating:
My first review, or a beginner in the field: so please don't hate me for the musical incompetence I may display.
The label is Robotic Empire, known for bringing innovation in the field of novelty, specifically emocore, though using this term purely for convenience. CTTS, in fact, do not merely imitate this already heavily exploited music genre (My Chemical Romance, to name a few), but they rework it in a simply excellent manner.
Here too, there is the dual vocal scheme, one female and one male, intertwining in an inextricable manner, with an almost perfect fusion of the scream parts with the emo ones, where each requires the other to provide it with optimal energy and significance, all mixed in very rapidly without a break, in an almost chaotic way.
Compared to Poison The Well (especially the latest ones), who are undoubtedly their main references, the more intense parts are truly so, extremely fast, alternated with exceptional melodies, profoundly deep, rich in arpeggios that soothe the previously stunned listener's ear, appearing as authentic diamonds in a sea of bubbling musical magma, only to betray him with more sonic lashes. The screamo voice isn't powerful but hoarse, malignant, giving these parts a truly gloomy pathos, while the slow sections are still sorrowful, yet of extremely refined taste, unlike most emocore groups where a bubblegum pseudo-punk is passed off as emo: as if a fragment of A Perfect Circle's Mer De Noms was nestled in the soul of a metalcore group.
Noteworthy is Interview At The Ruins, where a slow, majestic beginning is followed by an explosion of anger, which slides away at the end of the song and into the next, Non Objective Portrait of Karma, whose beginning inspires a sense of complicity and reconciliation with the entire world, and special attention to the lyrics, where adolescent-sexual themes are banned.
All that's left for you to do is try: after all, in its rapid alternation of sorrowful parts to those worthy of Arcadia, As The Roots Undo is nothing but a representation, in music, of everyone's life...
Tracklist Lyrics Samples and Videos
02 Same Shade as Concrete (04:28)
Rejoice, rejoice a noble birth, a prince is born.
Behold the birth of violence, beasts of fang and feather cry for our concrete rapture,
and if we beg to be put down, unto us the most inspired storm.
A princess ravaged by her prince behold; the birth of sex and distance, two frail corpses both were they, his eyes were the first to stray... every tree held fast the earth to sky.
Concrete replaces every branch and twig as they were frayed upon the birth of ambition. The heavens filled our gilded vessel with poison tears, before we drink, I propose a toast, a final prayer.
Here's to the watchers in the wood, here's to the last days, unto us a most inspired song.
Shaper, stop the music.
Halt the harp strings whose chords confuse our histories with textures.
With the disheartened chorus of a hymnal whose choir is the conviction of the starving, artless, tempted by the feast of proof that this body of work has worth.
Uncertain as the fingering of a chord torn prematurely from a piano's womb.
As we fill our precious lungs with concrete, that faithful shade, a shaper's song is stopped short- a dying breath a singing shore.
Then the only movement and the last remains of grace:
Pollen falling off the simple hinge joint leg upon the final breath of a dragonfly.
A cardinal, lost but headstrong in mid flight cries for our concrete rapture, wade...
in the water, wade. Let the flood swell, thank the storm for her tears.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will
but the fool knows what the prophets have seen, no salvation's impending.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will let the flood swell and the bodies that break we'll just float down the river. Stay tame, soft river, while we weigh our faith, stay sweet, run softly, sweet river, the fool who wades in doubt will float like concrete.
Come and fill your lungs. Come and fill your lungs.
There's so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will, let the flood swell
on the loudspeaker sermons and a parish descending.
There's so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
Let the flood swell.
03 Crowquill (02:44)
Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we found just make me sleep.
There's nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem.
Until the will to speak loses urgency.
Our animal indecency in print is so blase.
Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour.
Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire.
Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung.
Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so swallowed whole,
or the way my body barely pricks the sky,
the same as a century's worth of virgin's blood that's passed through my longing veins,
scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need.
Nothing's so purile as meter and rhyme when you can't see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest.
Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure my bough never breaks
I don't stumble into anything
so I climb and I carve my initials in the bark with that feather I found but its all so contrived.
My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a sage but I know how this will end, in apologies and ink on the page.
A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you,
black waterproof ink scars the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure.
A slowly constructed manifestation of "to tremble",
as base as a bridge in a song and less like the poem that I promised you.
Nothing's so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk,
all I've got is this ink smeared lines.
With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody.
04 In the Nervous Light (06:17)
Whispers invoke the artists of this tragically seemless, ill fated tapestry,
blistered fingers are tending their loom.
She collects the strands to braid into life.
Logging the weft of an ageless, woven infinity, countless raw fibers are clawing the frame.
A woman's work is never done, but the final stitch has got to come,
and so three witches contend to slice the very last thread
(that you curse, curse constantly)
But nothing's immortal, and comfort is not guaranteed-
a yearling who bears our sincere passions is chosen, frozen and quivering,
like a thread in the wake of a blade.
So we compromise, so we sacrifice.
Compromise nothing, but that which secures a comfortable life, risk as the indication of a healing sacrifice.
Destroy the altar whose boundaries tides will never exceed, ignite the pyres underneath a sedated mythology.
Five decades his lifetime, and his life's work is just fading scratches in stone.
She tends the numerals, counting fingers, counting her toes.
Keeping track of the time racing, years wasting
(dance to the sound of his weight bearing back breaking)
infinite ages the length of this quilt's making.
And we dance, we dance in the stronghold...
That you curse, curse constantly, of the needle's sheen.
Do you feel this thin strand resting in a pinch?
That's the thread that you curse, curse constantly.
An eternal patch on a quilt that hangs from a wall in a throw frought with our decay...
From six states away, five years of guilt postmarked four days before my escape.
All I ever asked was for a clean break.
In the first nervous light of the day,
collecting the novels whose scribes sought to keep me contained.
My dad's favorite novel on top of the pile, in the self concious first light shake the memory of his smile, igniting these volumes, igniting these volumes I'm warmed by the flames.
Alter the deafening earthen tones...
In the nervous light, I dance in the nervous light and I'm warmed by the flames.
Dance to the sound of his weight bearing back fucking breaking.
Alter the pitch of his weight bearing back breaking, dictate the pitch of his weight bearing back breaking,
Alter the tone of your weight bearing back breaking, we can mend all the seams that were torn during our backs slowly breaking.
In the nervous light...
Loading comments slowly
