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The cover that graces this brilliant debut by British band Sloath is fucking appropriate; a sepia toned rocky landscape revealing several peaks and maybe a canyon. I say that because “Black Hole”, the song that opens this recording, features vocals that could only come from a man that is unwillingly falling off a huge cliff at great speeds. The huge cliff could be the highest peak from those cock-like mountains in the middle of the artwork.
Picture it; his life is flashing by him and the splattering moments when it all will go kaput is coming faster than fast. At this figment of a moment, the man is probably regretting all his missed opportunities; the women he could have slept with, the drugs he should have done when they were offered for free, the trips he should have taken instead of paying hsis credit card, the fried kitten he should have tried at the Chinese restaurant. Instead, he stuck with the fish and chips, chose monogamy and made some asshole rich by paying his bills on time.
Also, think of the barren relation between artwork and the sound of Sloath; which is primitive and basic. It is a regression of sorts, to a time when technique was a bad word. Sloath is the negation of all things complicated. The negation of digital. The negation of the virtuoso as an individual capable of creating worthy music. The negation of spider fingers. The negation of speed. Music, especially this music, belongs to cavemen who scratch their heads at the sight of a neatly chopped steak. Cavemen whose heads explode at the sight of a number and who dance around the fire for a month straight upon the invention of the wheel. Hence, Sloath appeals to our most basic instincts. This is ear candy for the neardenthal within.
Personally, I can say this much about this recording; I could listen to these songs forever. Each cut could go on for hours and I would be fine with that. It is monotonous. It is incredibly repetitive. What you hear in the first minute is exactly what you hear for the following ten. It’s OK, this still rules. There may be variations. Tones might slightly be accentuated or pushed forward. A guitar sound this saturated is most likely only the result of a joke. Not funny. But for a record that sounds like it was mixed to blow speakers, that’s just a detail most will overlook.
This first release contains three songs. Lengths vary from long to super long. “Cane Trader” stops one second short of the eleventh minute while closer “Please Maintain” stops one second short of the twenty-second minute. Sloath play sludge doom of the highest denomination. Louder than loud guitars that take all the space. Paced drums rudely and gently (like on “Please Maintain”) splashing. And drowned vocals that likely, make no sense but represent the pain of a neardenthal whose penis just got impaled while out hunting for bison.
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