:zoviet*france:
Eostre

After a few seconds, a thick, dark wall of sound has already dissipated, the incessant beat of a hammering ritual rhythm seeps into the nervous system in seconds, the sound is distorted, it seems to come from underground, sounds similar to strangled flute notes and Andean string instruments rumble, repeated they grow in intensity as if carried by a warm and dry wind, a voice intones chants that seem like prayers and invocations, "Shout The Storm" seems to truly belong to another concept of sound, as ancient as the world, naked and warm like the earth's womb.

The unique sound of Zoviet France appears to disintegrate in front of us every time; it is something organic, alive, distorting every perception of the concept of sound, it is continuous layering and sensory disruption, filthy, foul, threatening, and intact.

"Eostre" is yet another and devastating demonstration of being always and inevitably ahead, of continuing to experiment with the infinite possibilities of sound with the most minimal and poor means available, a track like "Gustr" is simply inexplicable, perceiving each sound is impossible, the twisted and disorienting mass moves towards unknown and disproportionate perspectives, in "Regn" the slow and emaciated beats of suffocating tribal drums resonate as if immersed in open and deserted spaces illuminated by a dim livid light, one cannot perceive how close or distant the rhythm is from us, another blurred perspective.

Each track of the album emanates primitive, ancestral, and psychedelic scents and colors, the estranging and melancholic serenity of "Pearroc" and "Bell", the feverish obstinacy of "Cad Goddeu", or the absolute and disarming beauty of "Angelus", wooden flutes, sounds resembling rattlesnakes, hypnotic jingles and a panting and painfully broken tribal rhythm, fractured like a desperate and strangely fascinating healing ritual.

In "Cirice", colors dissolve, a somber black and white seems the only chromatic gradation that matches this numbing and lulling abyss, a lethargic and floating piano is immersed in a spectral non-sound, everything remains still, it seems to see materialize before you the dreamlike scene of Pasolini's Accattone, everything is suspended, nude dead bodies among the rubble, a funeral procession slowly advances under a copper sun, "Cirice" belongs to the world of shadows, placed there right after the wild and vital opening of "Shout The Storm" it is even more impressive, but impressions and perspectives in the sound world of Soviet France do not exist, they are only barriers to be broken down.