Tenebra
Moongazer

I really like Moongazer, because I feel the pleasure of enjoying it in the extremely calibrated, warm scores, clearly and distinctly emerging, both in the rhythmic part and the solos, as well as in the dark crevices of the captivating rhythmic 'assignments'.

Thus, I believe, the music of Tenebra resembles a heavy genre, even though it is treated in a way that tends towards uniqueness, something the Black Sabbath mastered in creating, even regenerating in jazzy and the insanely beautiful lunar folk (I have a vision: the BS, druids of the spell, hovering in the night woods hunting for beautiful witches, during the full moon, daje! to organize a black mass). Tenebra, on the other hand, remains that little bit (which is actually little) adherent to those classic styles of occult-doom hard rock, yet they sprinkle their music with a strange dust that smells of novelty, because it shines autonomously in collective performance, which I sincerely hope will be greatly accentuated in their next future effort.

It would be a further pleasure to be able to read their lyrics and I also find fantastic, literally, the performance of Space Child which, when opening the package - and yes, I think of the dark timbre of Silvia - of the track, it exudes a whole floral intoxicating fluid mixed with pleasure and pain: here finally the blues is re-proposed between the viscous black walls of the obsidian sound, added by a wonderful sax + whawha, which still reverberates the echo of the deadly Funhouse by the Stooges, while continuing to keep a significant distance from it, as if to signify that the next stage will finally mark the break from everything and everyone, to wear the sonic and very personal mantle (for heaven's sake, but it already is!) of Tenebra (I like to refer to them in singular, as if they were a kind of diabolic hologram), within which the singer, Silvia, no longer resembles, even remotely, Doro Pesch, precisely soaring in a dark and distant sky (track no.8 says this). And we still station in the rock'n'roll mood, at least that of the notorious zones of the genre, the one that gives birth tiptoe to horror, the sudden chill running down the spine, namely, that ominous foreboding. We are now wandering in the outskirts of Dunwich.

I benignly learn from the album's notes that in the ninth track the surprising contribution of Gary Lee Conner, the great guitarist of the Screaming Trees, makes a cameo, and if the news alone is enough to make the heart throb while playing the track, where even the bounce of the drumsticks has a magical return of auditory pleasure, the tone becomes more agitated and strange, fast and moving, like having a cam in your hands while running, and the captured image is shaken, crazy, completely at the mercy of the alternating legs. And it is in this context that the liquid, incandescent, doped, and ascending rant of the electric guitar is grafted.
In my opinion, a great star is born. In Bologna.