Eyehategod
Confederacy Of Ruined Lives

The Sludge. Hardcore philosophy mixed with doom. The swampy, raw, Sabbath-like sound with the right southern influence to highlight the swagger of those who play it. Sure, a well-studied swagger, what do you think? Because it must be said that the sludge influence has well-defined production zones, geography is not just an opinion, the sludger knows this well. Those who play it do it best if they are in the Louisiana area and have a grain field behind the house, which isn't much of a poetic backdrop.
The sludge company of New Orleans really does things well, a kind of s.p.a. in pure Galbani Style. Let's not talk about the look. The sludger is studied in detail. He appears as a sloppy man with varicocele bags under his eyes, but only to the casual observer.
The cargo shorts, the underground band t-shirt, the greasy hair, and the baboon goatee (concepts I insist upon from 10 reviews so they get into those seeking minds) are actually part of a serious and refined scene in its being. A being as deep as a brown dirigible without wings or propellers. And an unmistakable sound, like that of the dirigible crashing into the toilet water, that "plooooots!" that only the "Real Jerk" knows how to make.
Now, let's compare Sludge to a supershit (which I will now call S.S., with no reference at all to the gay dance company of the '40s). As stinky and rotten on the outside as it is deep and with unparalleled vitality on the inside, combined with the satisfaction of having created it. Let's not forget that the S.S. also results from the constipation of various drugs and that weed and a bottle of Long John are the essential backdrop to the swamp philosophy. Aromas that make the S.S. liveried with brilliant green hues.

In short, Eyehategod does it better than anyone, the sludge, in the small company of New Orleans, where people collaborate who are more or less connected with the sludge-sound (from Jimmy Bower with Eyehategod indeed, to Pepper Keenan, passing through Phil Anselmo).
Lately, however, there has been a noticeable decline in quality, because people leave the countryside to find work in big cities, yes, even a cool guy like Kirk Windstein with his Crowbar lately flirts with banal melodies and uses instruments that are as out of place in the company as flatbread in the rump (the piano), the poor Iron Monkey have been hit by rampant bad luck otherwise, you would have seen butts opening for another 10 years like nothing. And ABOVE ALL, everyone is jealous of Eyehategod. The dream I had the other night took me back to the jealousy of those who don't do this genre very well.
In short, I was on the road in the car while returning from the doped mustard party with a crazy bummer when I saw lights on the horizon along the straight road. I immediately thought they were those of the limelight, but upon seeing the badge, I realized success was far away and flipped the car with heavy curses. They were two officers (one a dead ringer for Louis Falgoust of Soilent Green, the other was Carlo Pellegatti, a veteran doom-corer as he served with Trouble).
"License and registration" exclaimed Officer Falgoust in a growl.
I handed over the license (where I keep Syd Barrett's passport photo) and he immediately said: "Sir, you are listening to Eyehategod, it's a problem"
"But it's not Dopesick!" I replied with a mischievous air.
"Here it's a crime, you have to follow us to the station, I'm placing you under arrest"
"All the better, with the high I'm on, I couldn't drive for another 100 meters. One thing, can you read me my rights in a growl?"
"I'm sorry, I'm having a voice drop this period and would ruin a historic piece like your rights with a mundane vocal performance, I'm sorry, but now get in".
And I got in.
I'm sure they arrested me because they were jealous that Eyehategod does it better, the sludge.