CAPTAIN'S CHRONICLES: When the Deadbolt Breaks - Angels are weeping... God has abandoned...10/11/2019  Captain Graves is on what we earthlings might refer to as "a tear," and I'm certainly not going to stand in his way. Enjoy his latest treatise. - Ed.
________________________________________________ I've been kept busy over here at The Village. They took me to their vomit pits for a glorious session. Watching feeble humans excrete from every orifice is quite satisfying if I do say so myself, and I do. When The Deadbolt Breaks' Angel's Are Weeping... ...God Has Abandoned... is far from vomit inducing. It's more homicidal/suicidal, and I really get into that. Destroying worlds and making people suffer is somewhat of an expertise for me. The first track "Centering Through Isolation" has a long intro, it almost turned me off from writing this review, but I'm glad I gave it a chance. Its atmospheric and sludgy nature reeled me in. "Blood Born" also has a long intro, but the guitar is trance-like and seems to tell a story on it's own. I do love wet guitar lines. It turns into a sludgefest after that, switching between operatic vocals and deathly screams.
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 In the drafty scriptorum of this Sleeping Village, power metal--and, by extension, said genre's upper echelon--serves a remarkably utilitarian purpose: pumping us the fuck up. In the turbulent seas of heavy music, very little rivals the charybdian draw of power metal's trademark infectious chest-pounding braggadocio.
As such, regardless of your contradictory opinions, and despite the (generally) bloody subject matter, an untouchable positivity reigns eternal in this particular arena. There's nothing like a little dose of Powerwolf or Judicator or Blind Guardian or Turisas or Falconer or Sabaton to banish a bad mood. Soaring vocals, lusty choral battlecries, meathook melodies, stomping riffage, and the promise of (obnoxiously) omniscient keyboard provide, for better or for worse, a highly energetic and uplifting experience. And, for that alone, power metal has earned a perpetual timeshare in our township.  Our (very kind!) music-reviewin' friends over at the wonderful Alternative Control sent a package this week containing a plethora of stickers and an (illustrated!) Owl Maker CD. In celebration of their general badassery, we slumbering townsfolk are re-running our review of Sky Road, said band's latest effort. This short lil' write-up was put to paper prior to our acquisition of the web property upon which ye currently gaze, so forgive the brevity.
Without further ado: Like all highfalutin peasantry, my rag-tag compatriots and I here at the Sleeping Village like our music with a little lyrical substance & mythological flavoring. As luck would have it, so do Owl Maker. Despite representing the insular world of southern CT, this hard-hitting trio is inspired by Lakota legend & moonlit desert landscapes. If anyone still needed proof that honest rock ‘n’ roll recognizes few borders, geographical or otherwise, we hereby present Exhibit A. Revel in the glory of Sky Road, Owl Maker’s latest EP.  The Village has accepted me as one of their own. I'm not entirely sure why yet, as I will sacrifice them all to our Mighty GOD, Varic. Not one of these sleepy fools even cares. How much weed are they smoking around here? A lot, the answer is " a lot."* Damn stoners, and losing their inhibitions. Regardless, I am here, and they will be an offering for Varic.
On Tumulus we are born into battle, or even from battle. Rising from the core of those slain. With my powers I can raise new crew members from the bodies of those I've run through. My next victim has been found, and if the crew member is anything like him. I'll surely have my work cut out for me. I haven't seen such a weak specimen in my life ( I do love hard work).  Look. In the hunt for excellent heavy metal with which to rudely awaken our slumbering populace, we're well aware that some genres, by nature, aren't...how shall we say. Subtle in their execution?
The nasty blackened thrash/speed metal/punk conglomerate brokered by Wraith is the definition of one such sonic palette. Gloriously exemplified by high-octane riffage, rabid vocals, and a general sense of fun-loving wild abandon, their sophomoric album is an effort as energetic as it is loud. Take opener "Devil's Hour" as a prime example of all that follows: a raucous ride, equal parts deadly and jubilant. Think Midnight, Witchtrap, or perhaps Exciter, all by way of Venom. While the more critical among us would comment on the extreme brevity and the general lack of diversity, I'm here to say, emphatically: who gives a damn? I went into Absolute Power expecting an absolute ripper, and that's exactly what I got. No more, no less. Thank god. |
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We provide thoughtful reviews of music that is heavy, gloomy...and heavy enough to wake us from slumber. Written by a certain groggy-eyed and highfalutin' peasantry. Archives
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