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Sixteen years of rehearsal rooms, gigs, parties, car rides, delays on stage, wasted money, out-of-tune guitars and retuning.
Sixteen years. No demo, no record, nothing at all. The basement, friends, acquaintances, mom and dad saying "at least he didn’t choose it as a profession".
Sixteen years.
A ton of bands don't even make it to sixteen years.
The Worship of Silence, for their sweet sixteenth, gift themselves their first audiocassette. A year earlier they offered it online, and it could be called a "Demo". Today, as it exists in the physical, tangible, analog world, it cannot be curtailed. A full-fledged album, as rectangle-shaped as demos from sixteen years ago, containing forty-two minutes of music like records of always.
People playing metal elsewhere, rocking elsewhere, who enjoy 90s prog, and for more than a decade and a half engage with that music made of hydroponic plants and indoor lamps.
They call themselves doom, but in California, there's too much sun. They call themselves "melodic" and perhaps they are, in the only plausibly enjoyable way: they have a singer. A real singer. Every now and then, in those 42 minutes, you forget about the rest. And you thank him. Usually, you don’t like songs, you want instrumental music, but you thank him and listen to him until exhaustion. And once you've thrown up, you start drinking it again.
Not the ultimate revelation in the metal genre. Were they truly melodic metal, they would be the best around forever. And, well, if they were really doom, they’d be something else. They will probably be somewhat post-metal. And there, in that genre born with precise coordinates and derived into a non-genre where you can throw everything that’s "well, what the hell is it"—no doubt about it—Joe Hutton is the best singer in history. Without ifs and buts, a ruthless and bloody victory.
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