Tenebrous Liar
Tenebrous Liar's Last Stand

This early December marks a bitter turning point for many debasers, I imagine you know to what and whom I am referring. I don't know about you, but in these sorrowful days, I have been overwhelmed by a wave of angry rage. Desire to break things (done). To curse God (done). To snap at those who care about me, vaf-fan-cu-lo I am no t-okay... done.

One last (fucking) time

How many times has Malaika asked me to start writing reviews again? Countless. She never let go, and this always made me flip inside. She cared. I didn't at all. I never dared to tell her.

But here I am, woman. For one last fucking time.

"I Tenebrous Liar are the creation of Steve Gullick and five other friends. British, they love black spiders. Gullick is better known as a photographer. An eye on his images; more or less the Corbjin of the new millennium indie-rock scene. On the cover, the dark atmosphere of a gloomy forest, which fits perfectly in this premature winter that has crept inside and outside of us. Title: Tenebrous Liar's Last Stand. Let's listen. Low fidelity, drunk indolence, an inevitable sense of impending catastrophe, sick poetry. Musical photographs arranged in a grave angle panorama. Each of us will find their own something in it. Or rather, it will pass before their eyes, fleeting, blurred in other harmonies. It doesn't mean this is a flaw. There are whispers about TL as if they were the Shellac and the slacker Nirvana, or Dinosaur Jr. versus In Utero. To me, it seems I've glimpsed among the frames, even subliminal shots of Kyuss, Pere Ubu, God Machine. In short, you would have understood if you have read this far. Simply of the '90s glorious era that we miss so much! Here comes the nostalgia..."

As you can see dear, I'm no longer in the mood for reviews.

One Way Love

If someone asked me what is the album of the year, I would say: this. Just this, period. It is not a masterpiece, although it has its own morbid and seductive charm. It is not even original, given the overabundant references to a recent past, yet hard and pure. It is a personal matter. This album will stay inside me, damn it. Because it's the last one friend Trell scrobbled on Last Fm, the night before... A file I had sent her through our secret and senseless channels. She listened to it all, until the end. This makes me believe she liked it. Or not? A truly atrocious doubt. It is a record that will always lack an absolute answer. Hers, of Trell. How could one not love it for eternity?

Last Stand

The last track is divided into two parts: the first, two and a half minutes long, is based on painful screamo, which hurts. Really hurts, and this is where it all adds up. Take that Kosmo, there you go. Last Stand. The last song Malaika listened to. The last title that will forever be fixed on her LastFm page. The last of a file I passed on to her. And an anguished scream rises in my throat. It gets stuck there. Rage! Then a void. Heavy. Dense. There must be something more! Indeed, after a minute comes the final tail. Paranoid, altered. Psychedelic, dronic. Seven delirious minutes that end with a very gloomy, grating feedback... the last seconds that disperse into space. Stop.

Here Malaika that evening turned off the scrobbler.
Infinite silence.

Now I break everything.