Sleep
Sleep's Holy Mountain

THE REVIEW

Take a man, give him a copy of 'this record, lock him in a room for 7 days and 7 nights, provide him with essential goods primarily consisting of shovelfuls of black tar and gallons of whiskey. Let his senses gradually expand, let the auditory perception of the sonic matter spread along the walls and propagate into the surrounding air, becoming an integral part of the place itself, let everything slow down, let splashes of acid in their purest essence stain the room, hover in the air, and solidify in the electrostatic flow of this overflowing sabbathian river.

Let your knees start to hurt, enter a state of perpetual blackout of psychomotor functions, move in jerks without precise destination, let yourself be carried by the unhealthy waves that crash over you as if you feel swallowed by invisible and otherworldly quicksand, held back only by your apparent calm.

The Slimy Muddy covers you from head to toe, but you enjoy staying a step away. And do you know why?

Because Al Cisneros is your God and your guide. Matt Pike's Guitar drags you out through psychotropic solos and the most abnormal and acidic things you can find in an Iommi-like guitar riff, that behind the drums a demon named Chris Hakius feels satisfied to roll your temples and make you lose any kind of space-time connection. You have spent 7 days and 7 nights in the company of Sleep. My sincerest congratulations. In your world, they correspond to 52’ 15’’ of a great record named “Sleep’s Holy Mountain”.

Go find it again. Now. Only at the best record stores, remember. Obvious, isn’t it?