Oxbow
Fuckfest

THE REVIEW

Of today's music, I have no memories and I don't give a damn about it.

So then...

1989

First comes the discomfort, before everything else comes the disgust, and before the disgust, there is nothingness. Then it all depends on how you start. And then comes the paranoia of starting off in the wrong way, and ending up worse than before. So this schizoparanoid feeling has to be taken and painted so badly that it seems splendid.

Delirious damn suffocation from panic.

Fuckfest

And if you start on the wrong foot and yet create something that scares you? Great, welcome. Eugene Robinson has his brain wedged sideways in the skull, and it is the focal point of the pain that Oxbow unleashes. And all it takes are the vocal spasms and bile regurgitations, spiced up with melodies tainted with fear from guitars like a theremin, a jazzamerda piano that occasionally emerges in "Yoke"? Yes. But then there are also the massive weights of "Curse" that reek of Unsane and piss-filled streets, the insane screams, and if you seem like Nick Cave during a Birthday Party high on amphetamines and interspersed with cast iron guitars, you've got it right there. And what is the worth of the guttural drunken chant on the decaying blues of "The Valley" if not hell?

It's beautiful when you feel bad.