The Black Angels
Directions To See A Ghost

DESERT GLARES 

"Now you on the run son,
since 1981.
You went and did some things,
and spoiled all the fun.
Yeah you got the FBI,
they ain't on your side.
Yeah you're caught foolin' friend,
with a senator's wife.
Oh I don't need it,
well no one does.." 

Crossing the Mojave Desert, while the sun burns the brain and opens cracks in the rock, from deep within. It's a scorching blade on the skin, scarred, torn, numbed. The heat, the heat distorts the dry and bitter air of the land, returns it raw to the senses. Hallucination is a mental state, occupying hands that seek an impossible refuge in a hostile, alien landscape. The arid notes and tribal percussion of You On The Run, the voice like a malevolent mantra, incinerate the scabrous bark of a tree too old for these godforsaken territories. Science Killer is a sip of water among sand and coyotes, the throat an empty hole that begs and bleeds. The dark circularity of Mission District is a narcotic, abrasive nightmare. The sweat drips resignation and opens a gap in the hypnotic guitar work of the archaic mass of Never/Ever. The mystical epilepsy of the raga Deer-Ree-Shee dissolves into an instrumental coda mingling East, sitar, and rattles. The psychedelic time machine, the electric-jug of the 13th Floor Elevators, and the lyrical cosmic journeys of the Grateful Dead, has landed in Austin, Texas. And on board, this time, is a crew that certainly doesn’t hide indifference toward the shadowy rock, in dark sunglasses, of the Jesus And Mary Chain. 

There are bands destined for planetary success, million-selling albums, and transoceanic first-class trips: others simply exist and fuel an underground cult among a few laymen, capable of catching the unexpected glimmer in six young Texan guys. Christian Bland, Kyle Hunt, the girls Stephanie Bailey and Jennifer Raines, Nate Ryan and vocalist Alex Maas in a continual interchange of roles and instruments. The Black Angels, and the circle closes with another "masonic" group (there it is!) in the multicolored years of flower-power. Or rather "THE" group, a Warholian creature from the underbelly of Reed, Cale and the blonde German chanteuse. In the quarter-hour plus of Snake In The Grass, the gloomy intertwining of guitars, the obsessive and sullen bass is a muddy blend with the psalmody of bearded leader Maas. Echoes of Ian Curtis from the pitch-black bottom of a tar barrel. The offbeat drumming of You In Color opens up a melody reminiscent of Verve and Spacemen 3, warm wind that stirs lazy bushes on the infinite asphalt of the highways. Directions To See A Ghost is a magnetic, carcinogenic, and "dangerous" album. A wicked thought that fades the rainbow, a wicked snake in the grass.