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Rating:
Slowmotional, ordered fury and slowed beats.
Like losing blood in torrents from a leg and dragging steps in the forest sun seeking help without screaming.
At their fifth attempt, those morbid bastards of Dead Meadow place the album that allows them to say: "Okay, we've already spilled all the jam, live we're whips (listen to the exorbitant Peel Sessions to believe) and now, only now, we start writing songs". Splendid songs, I would say, supported by a dormant voice and handfuls of sinuous midtempos, hard-folk embroidered around the dark things of the '70s; echoes, reverbs, mellotron and acoustic guitars under the shadow of a polluted and bastard psychedelia, daughter of Love and concubine of Sabbath.
When they push, they have the burning stride of early Cream and the pose of Jefferson Airplane in dilating times; when they unplug, they remind one of the Led Zeppelin in a bucolic version that somehow (wonder how) suits the salt taste of the Beach Boys.
Then you remember that they are Dead Meadow and that it's an album that suits only itself.
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