Electric Wizard
Come My Fanatics.... / Electric Wizard

THE REVIEW

"Damn bro, feel that drop coming!"

These are those peculiar moments when, perhaps, it might be time to call for a review of the entire international school system. Because your favorite DJ isn't dropping anything at all. And yet, he’s trying, you know. Look at him there, clinging to those little knobs that, if nothing else, keep him from taking off after yet another methamphetamine jump.

No. He doesn’t drop. Maybe the headphones from the console. The phone from his pocket?

Certainly not the bass. And not even the chords. Those were handled by three lads immersed in a trip made of Black Sabbath, weed, Big Muff, probably located in a garage and, weed.

The first time it's kind of like being hit by a steam train hurtling at enormous speed (20bpm) while you sink into concrete. It was an old metaller, my neighbor across the street, tired of alternately hearing Amy Lee and Fabri Fibra rambling from my teenage windows, who brought me into his vinyl kingdom and, nothing. The first time it's kind of like being hit by a steam train hurtling at enormous speed (20bpm) while you sink into concrete. Repeating helps.

I've worn out this record, and it has worn me out. Someone: "It's all the same!" And they'd be right too. Yet, when you dissect it, when "Return Trip" starts for the 666th time (what a good metaller I am) it drags you back down. Into the muck. And distortion becomes nuance. The feedback, melody. This record surprises with its complexity. A range of facets to discover in the astonishing fog in which it is enveloped. It's like studying anatomy on the decrepit body of a zombie. Of course, many of the dotted i's have to be put in by the listener. Because they, those Wizards, neither had the transport nor the need to do so. On a trip, at least I imagine that's how it is, you have to interpret. It doesn’t ask or explain anything, just to let yourself go. A journey back that ends with a journey back.

...I find myself surrounded by five shady figures draped in black robes. Almost all have their hoods on. One of them takes off his hood. He approaches. He wants me to drink a purulent, decaying concoction. The taste is sour...

"Can I have another sip?"