Master Musicians of Bukkake
Far West

Do you have dandruff? Fear its return? Dry hair? Brittle? Prone to falling out? Well, forget about it, for Christ's sake! And instead of spending all your savings on products that do nothing, do something better: grow a beard. Not that sexy and reassuring stubble that the fair maidens love so much. Nor that fake and theatrical existentialist dandy hipster beard with a buttoned-up shirt to the collar, hoop earring, parka bomber, tight pants, Dr. Martens, and half-shaved hair with a tuft. Coarse hair, folks. Unkempt, unappealing; no conditioner when you hydrate it. Manly caveman hair, like Nico Giraldi of bygone times, and you'll be able to fight a bear with burps flavored with sausage and fish barehanded from the banks of the Rio Grande like the guys on DMAX. You might also decide to wear a tunic at concerts as if you were a Tuareg, with a deer mask on your head, and unleash the great Saracen beauty within you. As if you were an ethnic singer of intoxicating Oriental mysticism. Like a member of the Master Musicians of Bukkake.

Oh yes...super cool name, people. Like a comedy band of the worst kind. Like Lars Ulrich in withdrawal in front of the PC on a Sunday morning with tissues ready by the snare drum.

The MMoB materialize on Debasio from the ecumenical Seattle, with the hallucinatory Totem trilogy behind them that made so many hookahs consume and sum up drone, psychedelia, ambient, doom traces, American tradition, and Eastern scents in a single score, led by that jokester Randall Dunn with five other rogues in tow from Earth, Grails, Burning Witch, and other Christs I won't explain. The result is apocalyptic and solemn: synthesizer-infused jam-rock adorned with flutes, mellotron, bells, and various percussion. Niche stuff, for a few chosen ones if we want, in a circle of individuals ranging from Slayer to Katy Perry (when it comes to bukkake).

''Far west'' smells a bit more like dust and a bit less like incense. It has the scent of a junonic astral abyss, with a more world and Western touch compared to the past while maintaining a strong evil aura that instead of leading us among flowering meadows makes us sink into the putrescent catacombs of some ancient sanctuary from the pen of Edgar Allan Poe. Two drums, two guitars (one of which is a twelve-string), a well-equipped array of synths envelop us more than holding us hostage when the notes of ''White Mountain Return'', an opener with an undeniable Pink Floyd aftertaste, begin to indelibly draw the hypnotic paths of Mount Shasta, a Californian volcano rich in myths and legends (of which I could now make you aware but I won't, because I know well that you wouldn't care a ladle and plus my chapati is burning on the fire...).

''Far west'' is occult merchandise, shamanic, almost monastic (''The Cave of Light: Prima Materia'' and its Gregorian chants). Something halfway between an Indo-American séance and a pagan wedding ritual (''Gnomi''). It's easy to get caught up in it, shaking with bacchanalian fury amidst altered mental states, overwhelmed by the intensity of ''Arche'', with that perpetual and vibrant loop that seems like a Swansian apology mixed with an undefined flavor of progressive expanses. Almost like having GY!BE in front of you with about forty fewer strings.

Those who were looking for pornography in the literal sense will certainly be disappointed and this, perhaps, is the only real limitation of our guys. However, at the end of the day, you can be satisfied with these 45 propitious minutes of mystical epicism, just right for fantasizing with the extra 80 euros promised by DJ Renzi while amiably copulating with emancipated, graceful kitties.

Provided that the beard doesn't get in your way too much in intimate areas...