Motorpsycho
Demon Box

THE REVIEW

Everyone is convinced that Norwegians, being Norwegians, can't go beyond a few fjords, but instead... There is clearly a violence that has nothing to do with Breivik, where here there's a human impulse, the brilliance that is mistaken for something dangerous when it wakes someone up
from "hibernation."

And a logical choice to title the work after the Dáimōn, de facto, especially musically, we are in the company of a good demon where the accelerations are brutal in their celestial disharmony. One is so immersed in an immediate transcendental joy that the smile it elicits remains throughout the album's duration, with the danger of not noticing a jaw dislocation, given the peaks explored of excited smiles.

And it surpasses the duality of time counting when we realize that the band has exorcised the influence of those Viking latitudes where the alternation of "six months of darkness & six months of light" no longer affects behaviors. The scooter this time transports to the antipodes of gratuitous Russmeyerian violence and resolves the nullification of the same in the happiness of the realization of solitude.

We find ourselves surprised, whispering "enchanting" at every track that follows, with a purity in not considering a rational approach for our ear drums that let themselves be inundated, observing that the flow is genuine. Aware of being alone, we acquire a playfulness towards all things, having also resolved the Wotan spirit of the warrior family tree.

Memories without regrets, youth always present, life pulsing without compromises, self-confession of a sought-after "it doesn't matter," Luciferian pointed fingers transforming into open hands of sincere peace.

Cover that reinforces the surprise of the whisper of an intimate little voice saying: 'where the heck have I ended up?' Yes indeed, the "box" is full of angels, the Pandora's box screams with a delightfully ungraceful shout that has nothing of suffering, it's a hurricane of bloody happiness narrating invisible abrasive purities.

The scream therapy triggers a loop where magma riffs, phosphorescent psychedelic splashes, and revisited folk ballads, placing themselves as aliens, exempt you from flossing between teeth as the debris are so disintegrated they don't settle in the gaps but, erupted, flow decisively leaving the enamel clean.

Like the beach volleyball pair Mol - Sørum, Olympic gold medal winners in that 2021, unexpectedly also in that 1993 "on the bridge the flag flutters"... Norwegian. May the whales forgive us, at least this time.