guiltless_1400

Indian, Guiltless

[Review by an Angel-headed hipster looking for a sludgy angry fix:]

(Released 4/12:)

i saw the best bands of my generation destroyed by Myspace™ and Facebook©

dragging themselves through the interhole, at dawn, looking for the perfect sludge/ noise fix

track one “No Grace” bashing immediately its message of frustration and anger, crushing hipsters, burning for the ancient hellish

connection to the blackened dynamo of Helmet-meets-Swans at a Ministry concert

these sounds: the machinery of night

Indian, in poverty and tatters, hollow-eyed and HIGH, sat up smoking

in the supernatural darkness of their drop-B tuning

contemplating aggressive free jazz like Pharoah Sanders in their sonic ranting, the black metallic vocals

track two, “The Fate Before Fate” a rasping drone over a Swans-Y riff, baring its brains to Heaven under the T

you’ll see Buddhist angels staggering on the roofs of clubs as their riffage transcends verbal communication: “Only the dead can love!” these radiant cool eyes exclaim

hallucinating Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn in 1988

among the scholars of war and METAL

we fade up into:

GUILTLESS!

[aka track three--]

its plod along its lowest note, that B again, so far below most tunings that it can’t see standard, a tuning expelled from the learned academies… for:

CRAZY

its lyrics publishing obscene odes about the windows to the skull, then

Guilty” its fragmented melodic attempt to represent furious delirious confusion/combustion… “Benality” burning its money in wastebaskets and listening to

the Terror through the wall of noise supplied by Marshall, eating fire with its riffage, drinking turpentine in Paradise alley, in death, or…!

PURGATORY

night after night,

with dreams

with drugs, with waking nightmares, with alcohol and cock and endless balls,

illuminating all the motionless mead drunkeness… storefront boroughs of teahead neon, vibrations in the winter dusk of Brooklyn,

ashcan rantings chained to subways for the endless sludge,

ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine, until the noise of wheels and panicked parents

brought them down, shuddering, mouth-wracked

in the dreary light of the (metal) zoo….

I’m with you in METALland.

 

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