Starchild
The Futurist

When I hear that "underground" refers to that multitude of so-called "autonomous" groups, who don't know how to publish their work and therefore turn to independent labels of the most varied types and biologies, I can only orgasmically enjoy the idea that there exists an additional "under-underground."

In this enchanted under-underground world, all those realities converge that would not only struggle to be produced in the overlapping sub-layer, but perhaps, would even "clash" there!

And immersing ourselves in this marvelous and translucent dimension (where often the air smells of incense, the water of opium, and the sky is peyote-colored), we often risk (in my opinion fortunately) encountering mythical creatures whose existence we would never, ever have believed in, not even under guantanamiana torture.

The winged and flying rhinoceros I stumbled upon is called Starchild, and it is a product of itself, even before being "produced" by 12th RECORDS (2003). And believe me, it was a real pleasure, because the album I propose to you is one of those things that are hard to forget, especially if you are nostalgic for past 70's, looking at the interstellar and monstrous space with a metaphysical as well as psychedelic eye. And in fact, these three guys from Waycross, Georgia, speak in an entirely sonic alphabet of their own, fusing the ethereal and lava-like doom-stoner of Sleep with a lysergic Sabbathian singing, both filtered through an atmosphere that has a lot to do with the proto-grunge of the late '80s. The result is unsettling and poetic, but above all perceptive, as the ear, even after the listening is over, tends to orient towards the source of the pleasant noise that this band so magnificently generates. Not for nothing, the Malleus of the more famous Ufomammut, decided at that time to conceive the cover of this recording, commissioned by the three Americans, thus baptizing one of the most important auditory experiences of the band's discography. But aside from factions, let's anatomically dissect our specimen:

"The Futurist", the track that gives the album its name, is already a dimensional business card, soluble to taste, sight, and hearing, imposing itself through two stereoscopic big-muff towers that adhere well to the eardrums; "Wings", the wings of our ancestral rhinoceros, indicate the way to take off, and then intoxicate us with cirrocumuli once we've gained altitude in what seems to be a sky of rarefied rationality, and the slowness increases stabilizing only then, with pressure; "Pearl" sinks white acoustic claws that blatantly lie to us, introducing the subsequent "Freedom", an Atlantis flamethrower of unmatched engineering design; "Eyes On Fire", one of the most Sabbathian tracks on the album, is a monolithic trans-temporal piece that compels us to a tour of the universe in just about 5.40 minutes, to date the landing along the shores of "God Shaped Hole" where you can hear the echo of alien and ecstatic voices; with "First Dawn" you can feel how much Good Sleep have left on this radioactive planet (and I advise you to ascertain it all the way through). And finally "Truth", and as in every respected ascetic conclusion, the ultimate truth rises from the stomach, manifesting from our mouths to take an enigmatic shape, in this case, mystical and progressively scalding, like the worst Saharan sun ever risen.   

"The Futurist", is what many stoner-doom lovers would want to possess and jealously guard in their basalt showcase. It is the proof that there are those who understand that to make good music, the quality of an instrument is not necessary, much less the pursuit of "right" productions.

"The Futurist" is truly something wonderful and thanks to Visnu of unknown and unknowable, billions and billions of light years away from the tar-like oceans that modernity has caused, with its greedy grasp and its spirit of expanding possessions.

Let yourself be kidnapped by the child of the stars, it is really worth it.