Before Show; At Fest Grounds

“Kava” is coffee. I repeat: “Kava” is coffee.

I still ordered “coffee.” Chicken shit.

Hotter today than yesterday, which will reportedly be the trend for the weekend. The sky is cloudless, but I have water and a hat and the sun, and as I walked up to the backstage area where the espresso is the birdsong mixed with the already-tripping-out Svirav!Jam stage — I’d assume they just never stopped since last night, but the group was wearing different clothes, so at least there was a break overnight for some amount of time — and that’s a thing I hope to remember about this experience. The Main Stage soundcheck is loud, it wasn’t High on Fire, maybe ###, but I headed over quickly to the Mill to catch the start of Tight Grips. Less downtime today and tomorrow generally, but the tradeoff is more bands, so yes, all good.

More people swimming than yesterday too — kudos to the dude with the floaty that looks like a pocket calculator — and more people, period, but that’ll happen too after the warmup. I’ve still had no food beyond a pack of nuts, but I’m as ready as I could hope to be for this.

So we’re off.

—

Tight Grips

An interesting blend happening in suitably low-key style from the guitar/vocals, bass/synth and drums trio Tight Grips. Seeing them live is my first real exposure to them apart from a mention in the announcement that they were playing here, but with a foundation in heavy psych, they expand into more solidified riffage — a word I’m almost embarrassingly proud my phone recognizes when I type it — while keeping a rein on meter and aggression but still finding room for low-mouth duder vocals, some drone, a keyboard solo, sampled Tuvan throatsinging, some tremolo guitar in among and the crowd, and so on. Their builds were patient and the nod that paid them off heavy and big-riff enough to draw a crowd from among the swimmers and sunbathers, plus whatever I count as, and the impression they made despite the volume and snare snap was more subtle, calming but not without a cathartic side. Very clearly a band that listens to and draws influence from more than one kind of music, even if that’s mostly under the ‘heavy’ umbrella, and whether it was a more intense crescendo or a dreamier soundscape, crash or roll, they held tight to the weighted groove drawing together what would otherwise be disparate elements and so I guess Tight Grips is an apt moniker on that level, whatever else it might mean.

And all the while, the Sviraj!Jam rolls on.

Quiet Confusion

They were, of course, neither quiet nor confused. Very much the opposite, actually. The French four-piece brought a depth of perspective to their brand of heavy rock, with songs that were casually dynamic, ace basswork, two guitars — plus a cigar-box guitar that came out later — and a resultant style that left the crowd little choice but to be swept up. Accessible in a post-Queens of the Stone Age kind of way, they didn’t shy away from more motor-ready fare, jamming or a bit of crunchy jazz, some blues of course, and though they were heavy enough to fill whatever quota you might have for it, the songs were primary, thoughtfully constructed with dual-vocal arrangements, confidently pushed through their amps, and they leant a sense of range to coincide with the hooks and grit. The crowd under the pavilion ate it up like they’d been waiting for it, and if they had, I get it. Character is the word. I wouldn’t call them revolutionary, but they knew and clearly conveyed what they were about — shuffle included — and were infectious. I watched from the dappled light of the steps in back as a group of campers who I don’t think were attending Bear Stone at all came through in matching blue kayaks on the water. A tour group, maybe. They wound up where the swimmers were but didn’t stick around as Quiet Confusion hit a swinging slowdown and brought out the cigar box guitar at last. Their loss, surely.

Stonetree

Quiet Confusion were a hard act to follow, but Stonetree from Austria had a stoner rock thrust of their own with which to do so, and a vitality that served them well as the afternoon heat bore down. Limited shade to be had, even under the trees in back; I ended up walking those stairs all the way up — for any of my countryfolk reading, I’ll call it a Statue of Liberty’s worth of uphill steps — but I couldn’t find either the wifi or the management office, so I sat for a minute to catch my 40-something breath and made my way back down. When I arrived back at the Mill Stage, maybe eight minutes of real-time later, Stonetree were also visibly sweatier, and the crowd was packed into the shade under the pavilion’s roof such that there wasn’t really anywhere to be. I thought about sitting beneath, like, under the pavilion, but nah. A little further down the path, I found a corner near the river and could hear alright from there, even if there was some space rock bleedover from the jam stage. Gotta survive. There’s a lot of day left. Stonetree looked like they were considering hard whether to heed the calls for one more song, but in the end said their thanks and took their leave, having set their own high standard for the Mill Stage in energy and impact.

Baron Crâne

I didn’t know funk was the theme on the Mill Stage today, but I chalk it up to my own ignorance as so-tight-it-was-like-a-moral-position Parisian three-piece Baron Crâne closed out the pavilion-based portion of the day with noodly-nerdy quirk opening to big-nod groove that both accounted for what everyone else was doing and diverged in another, weirdo-jazzier direction. They were pointedly individual, down to setting up their speaker cabinets facing each other, and purposefully swapping out tempos and effects as they went, more changes in a song than some bands have on entire records, but flowing despite the inherently busy modus. Not entirely instrumental, but more interested in that end than vocals, they were able to land hard or bounce as they wanted, and as they danced around the stage, pulled this way by a riff or a solo or a build or whathaveyou at any given moment — not to imply randomness or lack of intent behind what they were doing — the crowd took it as a cue to do the same. So be it. The intermittent heavier roll served as both arrival and departure points, complementing the parts weaving through and around it in a slew of directions, some surf rock happening in there too, because of course. They mellowed, Hendrix-jammed, but you knew it was momentary, and in the end their blast was propulsive and raucous. That payoff was the most satisfying, but it got a worthy follow-up in the next song they played, complete with a stirring guitar solo echoing out. For the duration: never any more out of control than it wanted to be, riding dangerous turns and making hard changes sound easy. They were pretty fucking rad, in other words. “We have two songs left to play for you. Time to dance. Let’s dance together.” And they did.

Stopped by the Jam Stage to see the end of the Sviraj!Jam for the day. They had it going right up to the Mill Stage’s finish, and people still got up on on the Jam Stage after throughout the day to noodle and bang around. Awesome to see such open creativity fostered.

###

Ah yes, the beginning of the day. Opening the main stage, the band whose moniker is properly pronounced by banging three times on a hard surface — I believe wood is preferred — kept it punk-rock short and noise-rock intense with some experimental flashes for vibe’s sake. It’ll be less cool when someone starts calling them Knock-Knock-Knock, but it ain’t gonna be me. No words from the stage — as would make sense, in context — save for some shouting into the guitar pickups toward the end, they were there and gone in maybe half an hour. Or maybe I’m just not counting the stretch of amp noise from which they launched the set. Or maybe I lost a few minutes somewhere. Or it took me longer to get water than I thought. I don’t fucking know, okay? It felt short, and I mean that as a compliment, because if what they were playing felt long, it would mean it sucked. It didn’t. I got my photos quick and did meander a bit — it will be a mercy when the sun sets, for more than just the psychedelic visuals to be projected, but we’re not there yet — but wound up watching the finish by the side of the stage, and they pushed further for the culmination facing into the sunlight. It looked hot as hell up there, but ###, as the first band on Bear Stone’s big stage — I’d say “at last” because it feels like a lot of the day has already happened, but I’ve already established I’m Billy Pilgrimming on time — unveiled hit with a force not yet heard today or yesterday, and the notice they served did not go, well, unnoticed.

Gnome

My first time seeing Gnome. Thank you, Bear Stone. Starting with their new single “Old Soul,” the Antwerpen three-piece moved between more and less aggressive parts in their material, but what I hadn’t realized about the band prior to now was just how much their material was made for the stage. That is, I knew that was the concept, but you see it live and it’s a different experience. Drenched in attitude and self-effacing swagger, they asked the crowd early on, “Are you ready for some more stupid shit?” And given the number of Gnome hats in the crowd, some of them autographed, people clearly were. I’m not sure I buy Gnome as dumb, though. I mean, it wouldn’t work if they got on stage and were hyper-pretentious about playing their songs, but as they hit into “The Duke of Disgrace,” another one from the forthcoming record, with some rougher vocals to emphasize the hook, I didn’t at all get “stupid shit” from it. Their King album was a big deal in Europe — the videos were great, they’re a touring band and all signs point to that continuing, etc. — and I’m not about to argue with that, but they’re toying with the idea of being ridiculous in a way that’s actually pretty clever. The hats? Well, if they’re still doing this when they’re 50, they might find the hats a little stale — or they might not; AC/DC still wears the same shit they wore however many decades ago — and two-thirds of them were off by the end of the set, but they’re having fun on stage, they’re righteously heavy, and they have the songs. To me, at least, that’s the source of their potential. If they were actually just screwing around, if there was no heart or consideration behind it, I don’t think it would have clicked as it has. Fuckery, but with songs, and just the right kind of revelry when it gets nasty. Riffs you want to know better for the next time you see them, and a “next time” that’s a given before they even finish this one. Dudes in the crowd went off. Good band. Look out for that album.

Muscle Tribe of Danger and Excellence

While they boosted the only cupped-mic thus far into the weekend, the heretofore-unknown-to-me Muscle Tribe of Danger and Excellence were as dudely as one might expect from the name, informed by hardcore, and had an underpinning of Clutchy groove that came out in both the quieter and outright pummeling parts, and as the sun went down and the stage lights were visible for the first time — last night’s projection test notwithstanding — they kept momentum on their side and had people out front dancing for most of their hour-long set. I don’t know where in Croatia they’re from, but the local contingent of the crowd — and that’s an assumption, yes; I’m not out on the grass checking passports — obviously was more familiar. Maybe more burl than I’d go for in general, which is what I’ve been beating around the bush of saying, but I’m not going to take away from the vitality they brought to the stage or the ease with which the metal side of their sound came and went, guttural shouts and cleaner singing intertwining for a broader take than the “dudely” tag I saddled it with above really communicates, though I stand by that too. Or sit, as it were, since I moved to the back, the food tent, to psrk my ass at a table and write as the set progressed. No worries though, that punch carried over the evening air just fine. Done well, and at a certain point hard groove is hard groove and this particular Tribe had plenty of it to go around, but not really my thing on the balance of it. That happens. They had the dogs barking approval between songs, so there you go.

Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs

Am I cool enough to call them PigsX7? Nope. Someday maybe? Probably never. It’s typing out Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs every time for me. This would be my first on-stage encounter with Newcastle’s Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs, and one to which I was looking forward. There was a half-hour break before they went on, presumably to let people eat — something I again failed on, because I am terrible at being a person; I’ve found an option though, so maybe tomorrow I’ll pull the trigger on it — and in that interim the last vestiges of evening began to turn to night. I moved up to the press area by the Jam Stage-adjacent bar for a few minutes of away-ness, and I think it did me some good in resetting before Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs — oh come on, please? nope. — Pigs Pigs got to it. And when they did, surely LIGO could measure gravitational wave as they wrent the fabric of spacetime with a cosmic thrust that, in my experience, is singular among their generation. I felt a bit like a rube having not previously been indoctrinated, but for anyone else who might be reading this who hasn’t seen them, rarely does lysergic music get delivered with such ferocity. Imagine getting five dudes in a room and this is what happens. My goodness. And not only were they charged, but h-e-a-v-y. I knew they had a reputation. It is earned, unflinchingly. Not enough hyperbole for it. They’re the most most. Stars came out while they played, drawn I assume by the gravity as Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs began fusing hydrogen in the middle of a stellar nebula. Whatever you’re thinking when you ask the question “were they really that good,” I assure you the answer is yes. I wasn’t ready for it. They knocked me on my ass. Imagine a now-heavy incarnation of earliest Monster Magnet prone to fits of cosmic hardcore punk and doom. Hell yes I’ll type their full name. It’ll be an honor.

High on Fire

Jeff Matz on a Boris-style double-neck guitar/bass. Not sure what you could ask of High on Fire than that, but you’re getting the barrage anyway. I wouldn’t trade this lineup of High on Fire, Matt Pike, Matz and Coady Willis for any other in the band’s quarter-century history. They’re tighter than ever, and they have a catalog to draw from that they’re able to bludgeon you from any angle they want, even if that’s usually just straight out running you over on their way to the next in line. They played “Fury Whip,” did a bunch from Cometh the Storm, and were High on Fire. That’s it. It’s a rare band where you know what’s coming and get blindsided anyhow. But that’s who High on Fire are. There’s a reason they’re headlining heavy fests across continents, and it’s because no one else delivers like they do on stage. Loud but precise, hanging by a thread like Slayer at their Dave Lombardo-drummed best, more able now to change up around that core breakneck pace, but absolute masters regardless of tempo of this monstrous, only-theirs fucking sound. And I’ve never seen them, with this lineup or any other, where they phone it in. They get up there and kill. Reliable into themselves. I was here and there as they played, but wound up by the side of the stage near the photo pit, and watched the finish from there, Matz picking the double-neck back up to riff at centerstage with Pike before swapping back to the bottom end. My goodness what a show. Like cruel kings reigning. Coady Willis gave someone in the front his crash cymbal when they were done. Wow.

Mother Vulture

You know, I’m not gonna lie and say that I saw the whole set or that I’m any kind of expert on what the UK’s Mother Vulture do, but I respect the shit out of the fact that after High on Fire handed the Bear Stone Festival crowd its collective ass, the brash Bristol heavy punk-metallers refused to be cowed. They would not be an epilogue, or an afterthought. They played their show and it was its own kind of intensity, with the band all over the stage — the bassist even leapt off from behind his cabinet at one point — the guitarist couldn’t seem to stop spinning in circles, and their vocalist was both ringmaster for the circus and in on it. I was surprised the drummer sat at all. But at the same time, what they played had so much more going on than a young band’s penchant for physicality. Some classic rock, loads of punk, some screams worthy of black metal, and a whole lot of “uncompromising.” They gave Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs a run for their money, while doing something different musically than any other band who’ve played thus far. Admirable and tight in kind.

—

My ride was waiting for me to get Mother Vulture pictures — thank you Nelly and Elias from Threechords Records for the lift; it made finishing this in time possible — and as we rolled through the dark and twisty streets on the way back to Slunj, we listened to Queens of the Stone Age’s Rated R and I looked at the stars and it was a good way to end the day, being able to take people from ‘people I know’ to ‘friends’ in the span of a weekend. That’s how it happens at these things in the best of times, which seems to be what I’m having. How about that.

Day three tomorrow is another long one. Buckle up. Colour Haze, 1000mods, on and on. Gonna be fun. More pics after the jump in the meantime.

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Before Fest — In Slunj & At Festival Grounds

Oh, I slept. I slept and slept and slept. I don’t know that I’ve slept like that since before I had a kid. I. Slept.

The ride to Apartments Daniela — the room is a bed, small table, tv, rug, couple chairs, bathroom with shower, etc., AC which is always crucial, and a shared kitchen right outside the door; I’m in room 1, the couple in room 2 seemed to be having it out this morning — was plenty pleasant. I haven’t seen the town center of Slunj yet, but I already got a recommendation on a place to get good trout that I hope to take up at some point soon. Quiet though, which is good. Could use coffee, but that’s pretty much always the case. It’s a walk. I’ll walk it tomorrow, I hope.

The reason I didn’t today? Because I was sleeping. Hard. I showered as immediately as I could upon arrival yesterday evening, finished up a little other writing and email, blah blah, and thought I might play a little Zelda, but was unconscious before I even picked up the controller. I woke up at 11:30 in a panic thinking my alarm hadn’t gone off or I missed it or shut it off or whatever and brushed my teeth, got dressed for the pickup to go to the fest at 12:15PM and started packing my camera bag only to realize a few minutes later that it was still nighttime and 11:30PM and not 11:30AM, as I had apparently thought. Disoriented much? Coffee will help that too, I suspect.

I did play for a bit on the Switch, maybe an hour, just to calm down from that moment’s rush, then put on Star Trek: The Motion Picture — a download of the original director’s cut, as opposed to the 4K restoration — and was asleep again before the wildly indulgent circa-’79 sci-fi opening credits were done. I’d wake up a few more times, either to soon-reset alarms or not, and it was finally around 11:30AM that I convinced myself it was time to actually get up and get ready to go.

Being my first time at this fest, in this country and in the Balkans more broadly, I’m a little anxious for how it’s all going to go, but I’ve got a schedule document from the fest that I’m relying on. My 12:15 ride came a little after 1PM, so I spent some time writing/dicking around on my phone and watching a dude cut some stone tiles to put around concrete columns across the way — masonry — but it didn’t really matter as the day only has four bands, plus a big ol’ Sviraj!jam that I’m curious about, and seems to be easing the crowd into the weekend to come. Sunday is likewise mellow, while Friday and Saturday are more packed, with two stages (plus said jam) instead of one, more bands, headliners and all that. I look forward to seeing as much of it as I can.

“Bok” means “hi.” “Hvala vam” means “thank you.” “Voda” is “water.” “Molim” is “please.” “Kava” is “coffee.” If I can get these down by the end of the weekend, I’ll feel pretty good about it.

—

A long, twisty road surrounded by green round-top hillsides and more distant, likewise eroded mountains, sporadic farms and residences and camps and such leads to the festival grounds on the bank of the Mrežnica, the river, which is clearly a draw for the area. It was about 20 minutes from my room to get there, driven by an apologetic Marco. No worries, dude. I slept.

The festival site is gorgeous, as anticipated. Since 2013, this place has hosted the psy-trance festival Mo:Dem, which takes place in August just up the hill with a likewise stunning in-the-round stage area — almost an amphitheater — with more of the incredible wood carvings that seem to be just part of the thing between the two events run by Marin Lalić, who was kind enough to show me around. There’s no wifi where Bear Stone happens — I’ll be writing without a net since I can’t save as I go; never without risk but a tradeoff I’m glad to make — but up by the management office, past Mo:Dem’s currently-closed experimentalist cinema/vegan bakery, there’s a connection. A bit of back and forth suits me fine. I get restless at these things anyway, if it wasn’t obvious.

This is the third edition of Bear Stone Festival proper, behind the last two years and a ‘Year Zero’ test run in 2021. It’s easy to see there’s room to build it bigger — 1,800 people are expected; about 50/50 Croatian and foreign contingents — should they want to, but the surrounding hillsides and the tiny fish in the river, which pours over rocks into a lake also fed by an underground spring, 18 meters deep and cold year round, the woodworking and so on all feels executed with naturalism in mind, and it lends the whole area an intimacy that has its own appeal. I opened the door of the van and stepped into the vibe. People were setting up tents to camp, and the buzz in the air as the production crew made final preparations, security all-in on first-day diligence, gave some underlying tension, but quiet corners and under-tree shade are everywhere even outside the press area, and there’s espresso to be had.

I’ve been attending concerts since I was about 10 years old. In the more than three decades since, I’ve never quite experienced anything like this. And it hasn’t started yet. Bear Stone Festival has the chance to make and become something really special, and I am humbled and honored to be here for it, whatever the next few days will bring. I’m on an adventure.

The first four bands on the Mill Stage — a purposefully small pavilion which can be seen/heard from the path and knoll by the river — are A Gram Trip, Jantar, Entropist and Slowtorch. I had some time to explore, which is how I happened on the cinema/bakery, and get more espresso before the start. No regrets, there or thereafter when the music started.

Here’s how that went:

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A Gram Trip

In what I suspect will be a theme of the fest as a whole, people crammed in tight to the Mill Stage to see Zagreb’s A Gram Trip open the weekend with duly sludged ceremony. Riffs and screams backed by shouts, a persistent nod with aggressive undertones that might’ve been too much volume for the couple dogs I saw hanging around, but was compressed nicely by the slanted roof of the pavilion-ish stage itself. Shades of Church of Misery, maybe earlier Electric Wizard; Dopethrone if you want a modern analog; stonesludge that knows from whence it comes. The band started jamming instrumentally and were joined by their vocalist soon after, and some of the mellower parts — a touch of earlier Clutch in “Cosmic Fortress,” with cleaner vocals to match, leaning more directly into Sabbathy build later on — echoed that side of their apparent persona, but they were all reverence and no pretense for the duration, bolstered by light reflecting and refracting through translucent flowers and panels to create color. As if on cue, the sun came out to aid that and bake the swimmers and denizens of the grassy area around. Don’t mind the bees — remember you’re a guest in this ecosystem — and try not to leave too many footprints on your way through. As much stomp as A Gram Trip put into “Quite Nice,” I suppose that was bound to happen one way or the other. They’d inject a faster stretch near the end — in “Speed Queen,” suitably enough — but the roll was primary, and rightly so.

Jantar

Sharper in tone and more progressive feeling in their still-jam-based compositions, Jantar brought a touch of doom-jazz with foot-pedal Moog and no shortage of twists and turns. I heard a Kyuss riff in there though, I swear it. It wouldn’t be the last of the day. A little spazzy around their root groove, the three-piece were instrumental for the duration despite A Gram Trip’s center-stage mic holding down that spot amid the rhythmic intricacies surrounding, which to their credit would’ve left little room for vocals anyhow and were about more than the technical showcase the band would probably have no trouble otherwise putting on. Songs, in other words. They played songs, rather than part-collections as is the sometimes-wont of the style, and while they felt very purposefully conscious in being unpredictable, the procession was such that folks were dancing as they looked on in the late-afternoon/earliest-evening air or under the roof itself, where vibe was all the more right on. Ultimately, they were weird for more than just the sake of it, dared a touch of funk in the bass, and presented complex sounds as a means to their own end. It was a shift from A Gram Trip, to be sure, but not so much as to throw anyone off as tension mounted and was released in succession. When they got to the last one, in “Disco King,” you knew it in the boogie. A couple of the dogs even got on board.

Entropist

I had stuck around in the stage area after Jantar, rather than adjourning to the picnic tables in front of where the jam stage will be later, and when Entropist went on, they just kind of started. First there wasn’t a set, then there was. I wasn’t sure if it was a line check or what, but nope, they were playing. I dig that. Also instrumental, they were a bit spacier and they let their songs breathe in a way that was post-metal-aware, if not necessarily actual post-metal, moving with a fluidity that wasn’t by any means lazy, but cast a gradual impression just the same. With some Pelican/Russian Circles chug and tempos malleable but mostly in a middle range, they were kind of thing you could really get lost in, and I did that for a while before I ran out of water and decided to rectify that and move to the patch of grass by the water for what ended up being most of the latter half of the set. There’s a kind of secondary gathering here, people sitting facing the direction the sound of Entropist is coming from, but not really able to see it all as such, both because of distance and a tree in the line of sight. I guess I just didn’t want to fall too much into the routine of taking pictures then moving back to the bakery/cinema stairs to sit and write. I’m doing something I’ve never done before, maybe I can change up how I do it as well. Entropist — a moniker I interpret as being one who plays the universal drift toward chaos as one might the tiny violin mocking that very same decay — would soon loose their slowest plod (before a faster finish) and even from where I sat, the sense of their basking in it was palpable. I’ve also seen a lot of press passes, so I guess the word’s out about Bear Stone. Fair enough. I’m always late to the party.

Slowtorch

The jam stage actually started warming up before Slowtorch went on, but one the Italian outfit got the ‘go’ sign, there was nothing else to be heard at the Mill Stage. The night’s headliners tore with vigor into classic riff rock, a little burl here, some blues there for sure, but fun more than anything else, with their singer poking out from the side of the pavilion to say hi to the folks watching from below and making his way mid-verse through the crowd, perhaps appreciating the forward shove of the band behind him. Slowtorch made a highlight of the title-track to their latest LP, The Machine Has Failed, which was of a kind in catchiness and punch with the rest of the set, and I found a perch a little higher up the stairs where I could see — there were more people on the steps as well — and appreciate the pull of more and more people to the vicinity. I guess you’d call Slowtorch the most straightforward of the four bands who played today, at least in a rock and roll sense of that, structures and whatnot, but in stage presence and performance, they put everything they had into that set. “Never too old to rock!” before requesting and chugging a “tasty Bear Stone beer” from the crowd. It was that kind of party, and it wasn’t over. There would end up being enough beer for everyone in the band and more besides, enjoyed communally as their time wound down and the set itself wound correspondingly up. They rocked until the lights came on — because it was getting dark, not because they were being told to stop — and it started and stayed a good time. Front to back. Fucking a. They rocked the sun down.

Sviraj!Jam

I wasn’t sure how the jam stage was going to work, but the answer to that seemed to be “it works like a fucking jam, you dope.” There were three synths going as I made my way over from the Mill Stage, dazed but not entirely done, which is fortunate since there are three more days. Live drums and vocals joined in soon enough — no idea what those echoes were saying, but it seemed like the kind of thing that if you had a guitar and wanted to hop up there and be part of it for a while, no one would yell at you. Someone did that, and I wasn’t sure if it had been preplanned or not, but probably. A band gradually took shape. I sat at one of the tables, drank my water, happy to roll with it and to be here generally, happy to have slept before the day started, to have reset my alarm the two or three times, whatever it was. The band that wasn’t until they were built up a decent head of steam, and it was easy to dig in a spacey, obviously meandering sort of way. Just a jam, maybe, but also both epilogue for today and preface of more to come, something to dig into before you go back to your tent or room, but emblematic of the professionalism that’s rampant beneath the surface at Bear Stone. I’m not sure any of this would work without it, and so far, it all very much works.

—

Thank you for reading. I recognize that the only reason I’m here — certainly not my charming personality or social grace — is because you do, so know that it’s appreciated. My ride back to Rooms Daniela was at 10PM, which would give me enough time to shower and start in on the day’s photos before conking out. I failed at eating today. Old habits. A pack of almonds during Slowtorch and some last bites of the nut butter I brought from home were it. Tomorrow at some point I will need to search out a meal, however that ultimately happens. Until then, you’ll find more pics after the jump. Thanks again. Good night.

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People and faces, horses and wolves in the mind, a tumult of inner and outer overwhelm; it’s no wonder that Greenleaf‘s ninth album, The Head and the Habit, starts with the reminder to “Breathe, Breathe Out” amid all the tumult. There’s more to it as well. 2024 makes it 10 years since 2014’s Trails and Passes (review here) introduced vocalist Arvid Hällagård to listeners. Hällagård stepped in to fill the significant shoes of Oskar Cedermalm (also Truckfighters), who had handled vocals on their two prior outings, and has gradually become a defining presence in the band. Never more so than on The Head and the Habit, which in addition to serving as a handy showcase for how the Swedish four-piece founded by guitarist Tommi Holappa (also Dozer) have taken shape in the last decade, is also the band’s first outing for Magnetic Eye after a trilogy of releases — 2021’s Echoes From a Mass (review here), 2018’s Hear the Rivers (review here) and 2016’s Rise Above the Meadow (review here)  — issued through Napalm Records.

Hällagård fronts the band — Holappa, bassist Hans Fröhlich and drummer Sebastian Olsson — with marked presence in the material, and with the somewhat contrasting pair of shorter, subdued blues cuts “That Obsidian Grin” and “An Alabastrine Smile” positioned at the end of each side, his soulful delivery has become an essential facet in the band’s consistently evolving dynamic, as well as the symmetry of this LP in its own right. Greenleaf has seen a number of vocalists (not to mention bassists or drummers) come and go, between Fredrik Nordin (Dozer), Peder Bergstrand (Lowrider). and Cedermalm, but the nine songs of The Head and the Habit wouldn’t function as they do with another singer. In framing the lyrics around his experience as a counselor, handling the cover art (Lili Krischke also contributed to the layout) and recording whatever of his own performance wasn’t captured by the esteemed Karl Daniel Lidén (who once upon a time drummed in Greenleaf, lest we forget) at Studio Gröndahl in Stockholm, Hällagård‘s work in cuts like the duly charging “Different Horses” or the eight-minute side B apex “The Tricking Tree” cannot be discounted as part of the band’s persona, especially as they lean further into their own version of a heavy blues sound.

That’s not to say The Head and the Habit lacks for thrust, but where Echoes From a Mass edged closer than ever in terms of riffing to the intensity Holappa might proffer with Dozer — whose first album in 15 years, Drifting in the Endless Void (review here), came out in 2023 on Blues Funeral — this 43-minute collection feels more dug into Greenleaf‘s distinguishing elements. The meandering solo before “The Tricking Tree” slams into its final, nodding roll, answering back to the weight wrought in the likely-titled-for-its-tumbling-riff second cut “Avalanche” much as “That Obsidian Grin” and “An Alabastrine Smile” or even the hooky “Breathe, Breathe Out” and its side-B-opening counterpart “The Sirens Sound” serve as complements. The structure of the record puts one additional song on side A, but the cohesiveness and clarity of purpose throughout — as well as the breadth of the mix/master Lidén at his Tri-Lamb Studios — allows Greenleaf to shift intention from one track to the next without losing sight of where they are in the overarching progression.

The result is that The Head and the Habit flows smoothly despite conveying a bumpier path in theme and sound. Part of what makes it a success is the swagger put into a piece like “Oh Dandelion,” with its start-stop verse and twisting chorus, but as Greenleaf once again diverge from Dozer in terms of style, it’s the bluesier nature underlying even the shove of “Different Horses” or the foreboding “A Wolf in My Mind” — the hook of which brings the album’s title line — that comes into focus as being crucial to the songs. From the righteous shaky-cam rumbles of tone in “Avalanche” to Holappa‘s wistful leads in “An Alabastrine Smile,” as heavy and loud and brash or as quiet, lonely and contemplative as they want to get, it all becomes part of a take that is inextricably Greenleaf while reorienting the band’s position in terms of style, pulling in a direction they seem to be charting as they go.

This is exciting enough in concept — Greenleaf are approaching the 25th anniversary of 2000 their self-titled EP (discussed here); such ongoing creative development is rare regardless of how personnel factors in — but none of it would matter if the songs didn’t hold up. Fortunately, they do. It’s hardly the first time the band have been catchy and able to pack an emotional punch, but they continue to make it sound easier than it actually is from “Breathe, Breathe Out” on. And even in “The Tricking Tree,” with its earlier bashing away and pre-midpoint departure into mellower, jammier, bassier fare, they hold a sense of energy that is individual, unquestionably theirs. Olsson‘s drumming can’t be discounted in keeping the material fluid, but this incarnation of Greenleaf has put in the time on stage and in the studio to win their chemistry as a collective, and the strength of craft across The Head and the Habit feels like its own reward. It’s not just Holappa‘s riffs — though that might be enough, considering — or Hällagård‘s vocals, the character in Fröhlich‘s bass or Olsson‘s drums; it’s how they come together around these songs, which vary in shape but are largely unflinching in quality.

Any album a given band might release is a marker of an ‘era’ in terms of encapsulating a time in that band’s existence — and, obviously, all things end at some point or another; Greenleaf don’t owe anyone anything and have precious little to prove, though they keep proving it anyhow — but The Head and the Habit seems so much to look ahead and to so fervently bask in what makes Greenleaf who they are nearly a quarter-century on that one can’t help but think of it as the realization of what their last decade has been driving toward. A to-date culmination made all the more vital by the high level of performance, the almost deceptively tight songwriting, and the fullness of scope in its component pieces and the flow between them. They’re a special band, and to call The Head and the Habit one of 2024’s best in heavy rock feels like limiting its appeal in terms of time and underselling the growth that’s led Greenleaf to this point — it’s part of a story bigger than itself — but it’s true just the same.

Greenleaf, “Different Horses” official video

Greenleaf, “Breathe, Breathe Out” official video

Greenleaf, “Avalanche” lyric video

Greenleaf, The Head and the Habit (2024)

Greenleaf on Facebook

Greenleaf on Instagram

Greenleaf on Bandcamp

Magnetic Eye Records store

Magnetic Eye Records website

Magnetic Eye Records on Facebook

Magnetic Eye Records on Instagram

This Friday, UK longform doomers Old Horn Tooth will release their second album, Mourning Light, via Evil Noise Recordings (tape) and their own London Doom Collective imprint. Prefaced by the 2021 standalone 21-minute-long single, “True Death” (review here), the four-song/68-minute sophomore outing gazes unflinchingly into the void of its own construction — a dark, densely humid weight of tone and purpose likewise realized in terms of the fervency of its riff worship and its downerism — and follows 2019’s debut, From the Ghost Grey Depths, with a strong, plodding and declarative step forward. Through “Precipice,” “No Salvation,” “Mourning Light” and “Invisible Agony,” the three-piece of guitarist/vocalist Chris Jones, bassist Ollie Isaac and drummer Mark Davidson (also credited with “griefcase,” which I’m going to assume is a laptop or some other kind of synthesizer apparatus) present themselves as monolithic but not monotonous and extreme in their approach but not without melodic accessibility or emotional resonance. That is to say, yeah, it’s a slog, but it’s very much the slog they intended it to be.

At nearly 17 minutes long, “Precipice” begins with a whole-album ambient intro before giving over to its first distorted rumblings and the march counted slowly in by Davidson‘s ride cymbal. The immediate touchstone in terms of modus is Monolord, but Old Horn Tooth carve their own niche in mountainous sounds as Jones‘ vocals echo in the mix’s deceptively broad space with a sense of longing that calls Warning to mind, and that continues to serve as a defining aspect of what they do as one verse gives way to the next, the trio departs to a more meditative instrumental stretch anchored around Isaac‘s bassline and lumber toward and through a suitable crescendo, fading to silence before the comparatively immediate impact of “No Salvation” arrives, quickly nestling into a grueling and punctuated roll topped with mournful lead guitar as preface for the condemnation narrative of the lyrics. By the time a few more minutes have passed, they’ve gone even further in this grim and consuming plunge, and as “No Salvation” nears its midpoint, the wash of distortion recedes and the drums momentarily depart, leaving a clean line of morose ambience soon given tension through kickdrum lubdubs.

It’s less a build than a setup for a burst, but whatever gets you there. At 9:22 into its total 14:38, “No Salvation” blows its own top (again) and renews the roll. Vocals come and go again in the unmired-but-engrossing nod, which culminates pretty much when they decide to let it come apart, having already given the repetition its due. The title-track follows, with a similar runtime and a smooth shift from its first-minute intro to the melancholic riff that earns the record’s title. “Mourning Light” holds the emotive crux for the album, and doubles as the catchiest of the four inclusions, with room for organ in its mix but an orthodox approach that keeps to some notion of being straight-ahead in its guitar-bass-drums-vocals arrangement despite the fact that nothing on Mourning Light is under 14 minutes long. Maybe it would’ve been too much, since part of what makes “Mourning Light” so effective is how it feels tied to classic and modern doom as Old Horn Tooth mold their niche within the genre. As if to say, “Nothin’ too fancy here, folks. Just some e’eryday dudes bangin’ out lengthy slabs o’ massive riffery.” Likewise humble and flattening.

“Mourning Light” ends quiet on guitar and so the drummed start of 21-minute closer “Invisible Agony” feel duly stark in their setting out before the guitar joins. As they have all along, the band bring a sense of patience to the finale — fairly sure if they weren’t willing to take their time, this music wouldn’t exist at all; the name of the game is ‘gradual’ — but when the bass starts rumbling the threat is clear. Right as they hit the six-minute mark, long after the hypnotic effect has been achieved, the lurch takes its full-toned form, still based around the flowing progression of the drums, but given heft through a semi-drone of low end and the self-assured course led by Jones‘ guitar. The verse starts eight minutes in and becomes part of that same movement, which pushes into a depressive swirl in a bleakly semi-psychedelic conclusion. It’s someplace they haven’t gone yet, so fair enough, but as with the launch of “Precipice,” the ending of “Invisible Agony” feels applied to the entire 2LP as much as to itself. And like much of what precedes it, it is vibrant in its misery without tipping over into actual melodrama or goofy posturing, finding a balance along its own deeply immersive wavelength.

Mourning Light streams in its entirety below, followed by more from the PR wire. Please enjoy:

Last heard slinging low slung fuzzed-out doom on their 2019 album, From the Ghost Grey Depths, this July will see the official worldwide release of Mourning Light, the brand-new studio album from London-based trio, Old Horn Tooth.

For any fans of the genre that have stalked the capital in recent years, chances are London Doom Collective has supplied you with ample opportunity to sample some of the finest underground bands in a live setting. Since 2020 – Ollie, Chris Jones, Mark Davidson, and Sean Durbin – have flexed their DIY muscle as friends, promoters, and three-quarter members of Old Horn Tooth to devastating effect. Now, with the band’s new album on the horizon, they finally turn their hand toward a new endeavour, releasing music on vinyl.

“Putting out a record ourselves through London Doom Collective is our own personal statement of independence,” explains bassist, Ollie Isaac. “It’s a testament to the power of the underground and a direct connection with the scene, people and international doom community that has supported, guided and helped us grow.”

Due for release on 5th July 2024, Mourning Light can be pre-ordered via London Doom Collective here: https://oldhorntooth.bandcamp.com/

The album will also be accompanied by the release of a limited-edition tape from Norway’s Evil Noise Recordings here: https://evilnoiserecordings.bigcartel.com/

And an exclusive beer in collaboration with Black Iris Brewery here: https://blackirisbottleshop.co.uk/

Live Dates
24th August – Cambridge (w/The Grey)
25th August – Cosmic Vibration Fest, Sheffield
28th September – Riffolution Fest, Manchester
16th November – Tonehenge, Kent

Track Listing
1. Precipice (16:55)
2. No Salvation (14:38)
3. Mourning Light (14:42)
4. Invisible Agony (21:52)

Old Horn Tooth:
Chris Jones – Guitars, Vocals
Mark Davidson – Drums, Griefcase.
Ollie Isaac – Bass

Old Horn Tooth on Facebook

Old Horn Tooth on Instagram

Old Horn Tooth on Bandcamp

London Doom Collective on Facebook

London Doom Collective on Instagram

London Doom Collective on Bandcamp

Evil Noise Recordings on Facebook

Evil Noise Recordings on Instagram

Evil Noise Recordings store

Life, man. This was my first night back in Jersey after being away for I think what ended up being nine days. Yesterday was a flight from Vegas to Providence via Baltimore, after driving from the Grand Canyon to Vegas the day before, from Mesa Verde to Grand Canyon the day before, Moab to Mesa Verde, Arches, etc., Zion to Moab and Vegas to Zion way back like a million years and a week and a half ago. The short version of the story is I was fucking exhausted. But, Freedom Hawk and The Bitchwax. In Clifton. At a brewery. It’s not like it was literally happening in my back yard, but it was as close to it as I could reasonably ask.

First heavy show at Ghost Hawk Brewing, and sold out to boot, so there’s a chance of it not being the last. Mellow vibe, dudes getting casually lager-drunk; I’ll call it relatable on demographic terms and stroke my graying beard. Food truck right there with the empanadas. I wasn’t in the door before I saw familiar faces. I’m pro-heavy rock in my beloved Garden State across a wide variety of situations, but if the Powers That Book wanted to make Ghost Hawk a stop on the circuit for bands coming through on tour now or ever, I’d call myself lucky. I neither drink alcohol nor eat cubanos at this point in my life, but the spot is pretty rad. Two bands, 7:30 start, a DJ playing cool whathaveyou in one of those turntable setups that are performative but kinda neat just the same. A fellow could get used to these things.

Freedom Hawk went on and were a couple songs in before the fuse or whatever it might’ve been blew — that whole ‘first heavy show here’ thing coming into play; bound to happen — but were back into it soon enough as the members of The Atomic Bitchwax and about 120 others looked on, surrounded by big-vat brewing machines and kegs with Ghost Hawk stickers on them, a tent outside with hightop tables and the smell of Jersey weed in the parking lot; a lovely evening on all accounts. And though they had that unexpected break, it’s not like Freedom Hawk were going to have trouble picking it up after the power came on. Too much groove to lose it so easily. And they’re all smiles on stage, having a good time, maybe a few drinks as well, and there’s no pretense and nobody’s arguing about absolutely nothing and the music started and I got a loud and clear reminder that that’s when things start to make sense. Well, loud and fuzzy anyhow.

By 10 after eight, the crowd was singing along with the riff to “Inside Out,” and that felt about right. “Indian Summer” followed, which is a signature piece for Freedom Hawk at this point, with a tense NWOBHM chug in its verse en route to an open hook that a fair but not at all exclusive swath of their work since has boasted and expanded on — the kind of tune a band writes and learns from, as they did. Catchy. Crazy catchy. Threatens metal but is a rocker all the way, representative of Freedom Hawk more broadly. And no bullshit. That was the theme for the night. Sans. Bull. Shit. It would take more time or energy than I have to convey how much I needed that. That might just be what ultimately got me to Clifton.

The semi-slowdown of “Stand Back” — I’d been listening to Brant Bjork in the car; decent fit — and “Land of the Lost” rounded out the set that had started raging with “Executioner” and “Under a Blood Red Sky.” The Bitchwax, meanwhile, kicked off with “Frankenstein” and “Hope You Die,” as they will, and went into “45” and “So Come On” directly thereafter, so yes, rock and roll was had. New or old, fast or not-quite-as-fast, The Atomic Bitchwax are a reason unto themselves why New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the union. Founding bassist/vocalist Chris Kosnik asked the crowd how many people had heard of the band; honestly I think most had. Then he said 2024 is their 30th year as a band and they tore into “Birth to the Earth.” Hell yes. What a way to announce yourself. Hi we’ve been here for three decades pardon us while we melt your face. Could only be an improvement, dudes. By all means.

Recent favorites like “Ninja” and “Coming in Hot,” “War Claw,” and so on found the apparently-been-at-it-for-30-years-almost-time-for-reissues-I-guess trio very much in their element as regards speed, and the fun they seemed to have bashing away at high velocity and volume was duly infectious as the songs came and went. Many fuck yeahs were had, from all sides. Kosnik on mic: “This one’s for all the girls…” followed by counting. “1.. 2… 6… If we get up to 10, that’s the most we’ve ever had!” Almost made it. Time for “Kiss the Sun,” the Core cover that might as well be an original by now. Let up on the throttle a bit so Garrett Sweeney’s shred feels all the more soulful, Kosnik and drummer Bob Pantella lockstep in holding the riff for the turn back to the verse and chorus, then on to the heavy boogie finish. Not unexpected, but definitely welcome.

I honestly don’t have it in me to check the balance of new vs. old in the set, let alone lay out the parameters of what counts as what, but it felt right on with where they were at last time I saw them, and “Ninja,” “Live a Little” and “Force Field” felt ace in setting up “Shitkicker” (plus a little more “Frankenstein” to cap) closing out. No bridges. No tunnels. No bullshit anywhere to be found. An evening of rare luxuries.

Back on Rt. 3 headed west to go home, I came upon the offramp for Nutley, and as I do nearly every time I pass by that exit on that road, I thought of my friend Gina Brooks, who lived in that area and is buried at a cemetery a bit down the way. She was someone deeply passionate about music, and supportive and kind to me when she really had no particular reason to be. A friend I’ve missed for over a decade now, and a chance to remember that I appreciated. She would have loved this show. I saw fireworks through the trees after I got on Rt. 80 a short time later. It was a good night.

Thanks for reading. More pics after the jump.

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[Click play above to stream Shadow Witch’s Eschaton (The End of All Things) in its entirety. Album is out Friday on Argonauta Records and the band play their release show at Maryland Doom Fest 2024 this weekend.]

All things end, and Shadow Witch‘s songwriting is suited to endtimes, with a gospel feel and theme amid the doom rock groove and an intermittent metallic severity. Eschaton (The End of All Things) is the fourth full-length from the Kingston, New York-based four-piece fronted by Earl Walker Lundy with Jeremy Hall (since replaced by Jesse Cunningham) on guitar/keys, bassist David Pannullo and drummer Justin Zipperle (also piano/Hammond) making his first recorded appearance since coming aboard following the tracking of 2020’s Under the Shadow of a Witch (review here), which until now was their most realized outing to-date. Clocking in at an easily manageable 36 minutes, the eight self-recorded pieces of Eschaton (The End of All Things) ask little — not nothing — in terms of indulgence and reward the listener in the diversity of their approach, starting with the quick 80-second motor-riff of “Speedy Goes to Sludgetown” that is deceptively complex as it builds to the finish with synth and vocals worked in around the centralized forward push. It’s not nearly as atmospheric as “Dominu Sanctus Oblivion,” which leads off side B with its hard-hitting cycles of drumming and layered vocal chanting, references to The Exorcist on guitar and so forth, but that song is six minutes long and it probably wouldn’t work as an album intro. No time to waste. Shadow Witch have places to be and the songs to get them there.

Eschaton (The End of All Things) of course begs the question whether the ending being discussed in its title is that of the band itself. Best I can do in terms of an answer after listening is: “maybe?” One never knows generally and I won’t make any definite predictions, but between the departure of Hall, the plague that happened between the third album’s recording/release and this one, and the creative progression undertaken since Lundy, Hall and Pannullo set forth in 2016 with their debut, Sun Killer (discussed here), if this was to be the final Shadow Witch release, they certainly don’t owe anyone anything, and they sound like they’ve put everything they have into this record. From “Speedy Goes to Sludgetown” into the melancholic starts and stops of “Satellites” touching later on Southern rock as it brings acoustic and electric guitars together with keys and the first of several standout performances from Lundy, whose lyrics recast manmade spacetrash as falling angels and/or stars, namedropping a burning bush and serpent along the way to emphasize the being-raised-baptist-is-a-trauma religious undertones that have been a part of Shadow Witch all along but that also find a fresh point of view throughout Eschaton (The End of All Things). A melodic soulful dig in “Tell Me,” which follows, is burly but almost desert rocking in its tone, shifting from the sweeping crescendo of “Satellites” with organ and backing vocals to a more rigid stomp that grows fervent in its later gallop without any real threat of derailment to the momentum the band have already built.

The subsequent “Nobody” leans into insistent punk-metal with a hook that reminds me (and this is a ‘me’ thing rather than a likely influence) of Midwestern pushers Bloodcow as Lundy takes on the voice of some of masculinity’s more toxic gaslighting in the unfortunately-not-post-Trump era: “Nobody knows more about you than me/Nobody does more for you than me… I’m the man/And you all must do as I command,” and so on. Discussions of power and the abuse thereof aren’t necessarily new for Shadow Witch — the third album had “Wolf Among the Sheep,” and a cut like “Cruel” from 2017’s Disciples of the Crow (review here) saw its subject through a social justice lens — but the craft on Eschaton (The End of All Things), the subtle turns in the instrumental arrangements and the heart poured into the belted-out delivery of the vocals over top, frame the conversation and exploration of ideas in an accessible, heavy rock and roll that has never been both so broad in reach or so outwardly sure of its path.

Recorded on their own, as noted above, with a mix and master by Paul Orofino, the material feels divergent but is structurally sound and aware of its audience, with “Nobody” giving over to the big-nodding side A finale “Let it Out” giving willful contrast to “Tell Me” earlier — directly: the repeated line of the backing vocals is “Don’t tell me…” which Lundy answers in call and response — in a tight three-and-a-half-minute course, moderately placed like if KISS had ever given a damn what their songs were actually about. They’ve got some according swagger there, but Shadow Witch have never been just darkness stylistically. In terms of aesthetic, there’s as much light as black under their blacklights.

With a hook that’s downright vibrant and swing to spare, “Let it Out” is for sure present-tense in its frustrations, and it ends with Zipperle‘s drums on a fade before giving over to the immediate riff introducing “Dominu Sanctus Oblivion,” which is based around a chorus that becomes a kind of thanatos/destruction-worshiping chant and a lead-in for the apocalyptic narrative fleshed out across “The Lion and the Lamb” and closer “The Fallen.” The last three cuts, all over six minutes long (nothing on side A touched five), retain the intentionality of, say, “Satellites” and “Tell Me,” but are focused on a distinct procession. “Dominu Sanctus Oblivion,” then, is both the moment where that turn happens and the beginning of the story perceived, told in fire-and-brimstone preach and sharp streaks of guitar soloing, a manifestation of the Judgment Day being referenced in the album’s title. They still make it move and have a quieter break in the second half to offset the song’s cyclical pattern before they restart for one more hypnotic, willfully grandiose time through, finishing riffier and edgier before the cold stop brings standalone guitar at the start of “The Lion and the Lamb.” Marked by its inclusion of organ and evocative lead guitar, the penultimate cut on Eschaton (The End of All Things) is both a lead-in for “The Fallen” and a landmark in itself for the band, reminiscent of some of Dio-era Black Sabbath‘s more sprawling fare, whether that’s “Heaven and Hell” or “Falling Off the Edge of the World,” neither of which it’s actively emulating.

A synthy wash of noise eases the transition to the urgent opening build of “The Fallen,” and if there is some autobiographical aspect to Eschaton (The End of All Things) — that is, if part of what’s ending is the band itself — no one will be able to say they didn’t go out on top. A career performance from Lundy around a get-in-punk-we’re-taking-Heaven lyric and the corresponding manner in which the song unfolds instrumentally is stately in a way that both accounts for “The Lion and the Lamb” and the detail and arrangement flourish Shadow Witch have basked in throughout. But the closer is singular in its character and caps with a vision of doom that is bluesy, classic, gospel-informed and progressive without pushing so far as to lose the plot of which it is still only one piece set forth in the two songs prior, culminating with layered vocals and organ in complement to the final lines as the song resolves: “Fold your wings around me/We’re going home.” Those wings are leather, and “home” is a march of the fallen on capital-‘p’ Paradise, but the emotion behind the delivery is sincere and palpable, and as Shadow Witch do on their fourth album front-to-back, they depart with the sense of purpose that Eschaton (The End of All Things) has so roundly highlighted. Like I said at the start, all things end. Not all things are fortunate enough to do so with such resonance. I don’t know that this will be the last Shadow Witch record or not — and for what it’s worth, I hope not — but what they bring to fruition in these songs should be considered nothing less than a definitive work today, and today is what matters.

Shadow Witch, “The Lion and the Lamb” official video

Shadow Witch on Facebook

Shadow Witch on Instagram

Shadow Witch on Bandcamp

Argonauta Records website

Argonauta Records on Facebook

Argonauta Records on Instagram

M-E-L-L-O-W, and that’s not a complaint. The apparent pull of the Great Magnet spoken of by Hunter S. Thompson whose whims Gronsveld, the Netherlands-based guitarist/vocalist Sander Haagmans has been following for the last 12 or so years would seem to have been drawing the former bassist of Sungrazer toward turning his solo-project into a full band. Live at Bankastudios, Maastricht, 22-12-2023 isn’t the first The Whims of the Great Magnet offering with a full lineup, but the 59-minute set recorded by Edis Pajazetovic at — wait for it — Bankastudios, in Maastricht, NL, and mixed/mastered by Arthur von Berg does comprise the first live release they’ve done, and it feels purposeful in its psychedelic soothsaying in a way that could indicate a new direction for the project which, true to its moniker, has up to this point seemed to resist set parameters of style around Haagmans‘ songcraft.

Or maybe part of that is wishful thinking as the gracefully jammed, flowing takes on the title-track of 2021’s Share My Sun EP and the 2023 single “Same New” (review here) present extended interpretations around the root structures and memorable melodies. Those pieces, which on Live at Bankastudios (if you’ll pardon the truncated title) run 14 and nearly 18 minutes, respectively, are also the only two songs included that were previously released, which also speaks to composition happening, perhaps also in a group context. While it’s ultimately pointless to speculate whether this incarnation of The Whims of the Great Magnet will embark on one or more studio releases with this configuration — mathematically speaking, they either will or won’t — the exploratory aspect of their work here and the reads-as-declarative chemistry of their performance highlights potential for what they might accomplish should the pursuit continue.

But that’s getting ahead of Live at Bankastudios itself. Beginning with the nine-minute raga-type warmup jam “Das Schwarze Munster,” a thread of improvisation seems to wind through the proceedings. Obviously there are structured parts, both in the two longer cuts already noted and the casually rolling fuzzer “Reborn” that precedes the open-spaced finale “Frog.” but with that bookending excursion into the unknown-till-they-get-there, the three-minute instru-shuffle of “A New Bro Rider” and the cosmic-leaning feel added to the middle of “Share My Sun” by means of keys/synth, everything comes across as being either built from an improv foundation or actually improvised. It is loose. Not so much in terms of the band being sloppy, but in the utter lack of pretense of the execution and the seeming willingness to let the songs unfold as they will, The Whims of the Great Magnet indeed feel ready to let themselves be drawn in whatever direction the material itself might want to take.

The lineup around Haagmans is well suited to that task of letting go. The already-mentioned von Berg handles the synth as well as guitar and vocals, and Jonathan Frederix drums. On bass/vocals is David Eering — also the founding guitarist/vocalist of The Machine — and his pairing with Haagmans feels significant in a way that undercuts some of the intentionally-low-key presentation of the album, though more conceptually than in the actual listening experience. That is, a collaboration between Eering and Haagmans is a big deal if you recall 12-14 years ago when, in The Machine and Sungrazer, they were at the vanguard of a new generation of jam-based heavy psychedelia.

In terms of hearing Live at Bankastudios, it feels much less like an ‘event’ on that level. Given that it it was recorded live, even live-in-studio, it is inherently more concerned with its present than its pedigree, and appropriately so. The chemistry between them — Haagmans also did a few shows with The Machine when they were between bassists, so the two are well familiar with each other — becomes part of the full-band persona with Frederix and von Berg‘s likewise noteworthy contributions.

Nuances like the maybe-backwards loops of low end after seven minutes into “Das Schwarze Munster” and the voice-push in the later choruses of “Same New” enrich the spaciousness overarching throughout, and the grunge-informed languid roll of “Reborn” should offer a thrill to those listeners who hold Sungrazer‘s output dear even as it branches off from that to chase its own ends. Positioned between “Share My Sun” and “Same New,” “A New Bro Rider” has an inevitable grounding effect, following a single bouncing progression for about three minutes without the need for much else around that until it comes apart near its end and the drums snap into the start of “Same New,” fluid and pastoral, clear in sound and what the instruments are doing and all the more you’re-in-the-room with the Dutch spoken between some of the songs. Above all other concerns, Live at Bankastudios feels committed to organically representing this version of The Whims of the Great Magnet has to offer an audience/listenership.

And that too might be part of why it feels so much like a showcase of potential between the in-moment immersion, abiding sweetness of melody and mostly relaxed grooves; because part of what resonates from Live at Bankastudios is the sense of a beginning. That runs counter to the fact that Haagmans has been putting out songs under the banner of The Whims of the Great Magnet since 2012, but it’s true nonetheless, and crucially, it’s not just about his bringing Eering into the mix, or von Berg or Frederix. It’s about what the four of them conjure as a unit. Live at Bankastudios is almost humble in how it highlights the character of this version of The Whims of the Great Magnet, and of course there’s no guarantee they’ll ever do anything more together — all the more reason to put this out, frankly — but even the fleeting nature of an outing like this that happened while it was happening and then was over and (sooner or later) everyone went home feels like a story only starting to be told.

One hopes it turns out to be precisely that, if it needs to be said, but in case the Great Magnet pulls Haagmans in another direction, the ephemeral nature of Live at Bankastudios makes it all the more a special moment to have captured in the first place. The lesson — which becomes to let the future be what it will and focus on now — is not lost, even if that does prove to be something of a challenge.

The Whims of the Great Magnet, Live at Bankastudios, Maastricht, 22-12-2023 (2024)

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Heavy existentialism. With the Welsh concept of ‘hiraeth’ — being homesick for a place to which you can never return; mourning a loss of self-in-place — at its core, The Hiraeth Pit is the second Deer Creek full-length. The long-running Denver heavy rockers issued Menticide (review here) as a 20-years-later debut album in 2022, and the seven-track/38-minute The Hiraeth Pit follows just two years after with another round of consuming riff-led miseries. That relatively quick turnaround isn’t really a factor in terms of the band’s sound, as the four-piece of guitarist/vocalists Paul Vismara and Conan Hultgren, bassist/keyboardist Stephanie Hopper and drummer Marc Brooks have been around long enough to have some sense of who they are as a group either way, but atmospherically and in terms of mood, The Hiraeth Pit — recorded and mixed by Bart McCrorey at Crash Pad Studios, mastered by Chris Gresham at Ember Audio Productions — is vividly downtrodden.

It’s not that they’re playing death-doom, or even doom at all all of the time, but life becomes a wait for death within the album’s span, and lyrics like, “Why are we here again and again?/Simply fighting for your boring life,” from the penultimate “We Dreamed of Flames and Suffocation,” or the line “I watched the last bird die in your arms,” from the more broadly socially conscious “Crushed by the Hand Slowly Filling with Gold,” are emblematic of the point of view from which the proceedings as a whole emanate. With Vismara‘s lead vocals severe in delivery in a way that in other contexts might lean toward goth but is born of classic doom, the affecting depressiveness is there from the lumbering opener “Bodies to Be Kicked” onward, and it is the defining spirit of The Hiraeth Pit. As the listener, they put you right in it, and the deeper you go, the less any kind of escape feels possible. How do you escape when you’re your own problem anyway? When the mundane becomes a thing you dread?

“Grey” takes that hopelessness and departs from its first two verses into a litany of references to science fiction from Ghost in the Shell to The Wrath of Khan, but the central question around that escapism is asking the aliens, “As you get ready to leave/Will you give us a ride?” and the answer is a resounding no. We’re stuck here, in modernity. Stuck with the opiate crisis in “Bodies to Be Kicked” or the descent into distinctly-American stupid-leads-the-way fascism on “The Wretches Who Grovel” and “Crushed by the Hand Slowly Filling with Gold,’ grifted, without agency, and punished for existing as something other than rich. Stuck as “They Were Buried Yesterday” seems like it’s trying to shake itself out of grief but can’t, and stuck as “We Dreamed of Flames and Suffocation” imagines an overthrow of what capitalists sell as the natural order, but feels all the more like a dream as Deer Creek land in the bleak reality of closer “Almshouse Stench,” where “My zest for life grows cold,” and the album’s last lines beg for relief: “Save me from this pain/For I cannot face another day/Dreadful day of rain/Plagued by this clouded fate.”

To be sure, Deer Creek aren’t the first band to operate in this kind of emotional sphere of inward-looking and outwardly-trajected disaffection, but they are striking in the forwardness with which they do it, and the according feeling of gruel with which The Hiraeth Pit is delivered. It is resolute in its sadness, weary by the finish in a way that is consuming but not necessarily mirrored in the tempos of “Bodies to Be Kicked” or “The Wretches Who Grovel,” which at least feel relatively upbeat for how disheartened much of the lyrical perspective actually is. This contrast becomes part of what makes The Hiraeth Pit so engrossing, and it’s worth emphasizing the word “relatively” in that last sentence; it’s not like Deer Creek are writing Torche-style sludge-pop about feeling dead inside, but there’s movement in that opening duo and in the cave-doom-NWOBHM (think Witchfinder General and Pagan Altar, etc.) chug in the chorus of “Crushed by the Hand Slowly Filling with Gold” that lets the material come across as not completely void of hope even as “Crushed by the Hand Slowly Filling with Gold” resolves in flashes of noisy “soloing” that feel specifically in the tradition of Saint Vitus, who of course were no slouches themselves when it came to thematic downerism.

Ultimately, the lesson of The Hiraeth Pit isn’t so far removed from that of Menticide, but the sophomore long-player feels more purposeful in its construction as it makes a centerpiece of “They Were Buried Yesterday” and gives breadth to the central intangibility of mourning: “Ah, I miss you.”  Not brutal in the sense of death metal or other extreme styles, it nonetheless seems to center around the weight of its emotionalism as much as that offered tonally, and that leaves even “Grey” — which is arguably the least melancholic of the tracks, with its self-aware winks at The Empire Strikes Back, Dune, and so on — as an act of labor. But at no point, in “Grey” or otherwise, does it feel performative, like the band are putting on some woebegone veneer. In this way, “We Dreamed of Flames and Suffocation” feels almost daring in its willingness to envision living something other than the boot-on-neck life, and the most punishing impact isn’t even the extra-fervent plod around which “Almhouse Stench” coils and the low, throaty growl that accompanies, but the overarching feeling of loss and being lost that finds its culmination therein.

I’ve remarked on the lyrics a decent amount, and fair enough as The Hiraeth Pit has something to say about what serves as its crux in terms of subject matter, but it’s noteworthy that the title-line itself, which appears in “They Were Buried Yesterday,” isn’t trying to revel or celebrate grief. There’s no glee. But as purposeful as Deer Creek are in the expression that defines the work, they’re not lost in it or themselves consumed by what, as a listener, feels so consuming. This is where 20 years of songwriting before they did their first record comes into play, perhaps, but it’s also clear that in following-up Menticide, they’ve discovered something more about what makes an album a front-to-back experience. The Hiraeth Pit only benefits from this learning.

Deer Creek, The Hiraeth Pit (2024)

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