Stone Machine Electric
Sollicitus Es Veritatem

If hard rock is to stoner as punk is to desecration, we can rest assured that here there's a surplus of healthy psychedelia that manifests immediately in delightful subtleties. It's fine that the opening releases exquisitely refined ummagummian craftsmanship, but for the remaining time, i.e., the 4" of the 7 available, I Am Free performs a capital sound that animates the beautiful and disturbing cover designed in the leaden clearness of calm chaos.

"Nightmares Are Reality", reads the album title, carved in Latin on the ruins of a burning building, well serving the second ignition, Dreaming, the ideal straining stretch: credit to the electric solo and feral rhythms that keep the heart and pathos alive, penetrating in waves into the center of the chest. The vibration shakes the body, and the senses sharpen, honed by the impending darkness.

When PorR shadows the sky with mutant specters in grim purple, you're already a victim of the granite repetition of the mantra that snakes alien over the heads of a humanity in peril, initially lulled by the self-proclaimed climax and then, past the eighth minute, you feel the warm reverence entering your lymphatic circuit: now you enjoy like a god, discovering that this apocalyptic chaos shreds a world reduced to relying on the deceitful politicians of the moment (the wolves). Bleating sheep, at their mercy, gather at the feet of their yelling leader, trusting to be led to salvation on Noah's ark.

The dark threatening storms and tempests, caused by climate change, rage under the dominion of trepidation before the hurricane's arrival - and there you are with the Stone Machine Electric playing on stage inside a deconsecrated church where irresistible charms condense to absorb under the skin. Demons is the reaffirmation of what is happening, immersed in a schizoid and parallel 'the day before'.
The doom-key blues vocal, intoned by William “Dub” Irvin, makes the red blood cells stand on end. In fact, everything turns red, as if we were in a dark room destined for the development of stinging snapshots. Thrown into this scenario at white heat, the black shadows give a critical perspective to the surroundings (dimension of the immaterial) and a luciferian and icy beer is served in that church from which heavenly fumes of forbidden spices rise from the censers...
Through the narrow unglazed gothic lancet windows, due to the flashing of lightning and thunder, one observes the hyperventilated weeping willows by the pre-hurricane blowers.

This very state of malevolent lightness, appearing in full conscience as a pure doom jazz style blessing, spreads the messianic by marrying the black roots of the earth; and if in your soul you perceive Aashaa Monetoo, there’s no more fear to feel, for now, you are nailed to the cross of delight that guides you on the tip of a guitar, grinding the thoughts and visions drunk with Dionysian strength in charge of governing the hierarchies of imagination. You fly over unhealthy swamps exposed to the light of the waxing full moon, gently wavering, skimming the water, lying on the flying carpet of the extra-sabbatical dream.

But this album is seriously a scandalous refutation that emerges in the oppositions of hyper-mental climate and environment, nourished by telluric ambivalence, deeply alternative in non-masochistic belonging, yet liberating from the false bleating paradigms (see the sad gathering of the flock). In conclusion, its mysterious power resides in the enchantment of a mental torment willing to surround us with post-reality, expressed by a liquefied maxim, during the dark night at the foot of the Himalayas, by the Great Spirit.

He succinctly states that it is better to live in an ugly reality being true than to live in a beautiful reality fabricated by polyvinyl makeup. And the masterful fade, injected into the ears by the final Slightly Burned, confirms the sinking into a parallel universe, having a salvific and opposite sign to the defeat, fortunate enough, well supplied with orgasmic hard'n'soul, for which the anthemic phrase is valid: for that matter, hot hell nights tend to put people in a bad moon rising.

The SME are a Texan duo from Fort Worth, composed of: Dub (Guitar/Vocals) and Kitchens (Drums/Vocals/Keyboard/Theremin), while the album dates back to May 2016.