“When the Cold Truth Has Worn Its Miserable Welcome Out”

By Octopi Mills

Here we have Phil Anselmo of yore with a project  many, many years in the making and what has been said to stretch back to when these fellows were working on old four track recordings. The whole story is somewhat complicated to explain but in the end it is a long running set of ideas forming into this music. There are a good few musicians involved here; The Drover brothers, EYEHATEGOD and SUPERJOINT RITUAL members, WOVEN HAND and even Steve Bernal is cited who is a former first cellist in the Temple Symphony Orchestra. 

This said, it’s recommended for fans of WAITES and CAVE, and this is true as I might see it, too. The music isn't metal here either, but rather a dreamy, dreary down paced affair that is dark and brooding in grayer shades of things.  The main vocals are done by Anselmo and one can hear his guitar work as well, as it is listed in the credits. The vocals are low, deep, guttural things that sing but never break out of the gloom of the music, at times moving but ugly in passage with the atmosphere. There are a few moments where there almost seems to be a bum there, telling a tragic tale and New Orleans has to be the place. The scenes I gleamed were like the damp, rotten woods of the place with the tombs and graveyards always around the corner, always decay and decline somewhere to be had and as Waits can be misquoted  "Ah, its nothing a hundred dollars can't fix.". 

The music is anything but swampish and this recording offers a clear and open production in the likes of a good folk artist sound, and I was surprised at how the instruments are manned and how such a tight ship is ran here. There are no happy songs; no birdsongs or big metal riffs or modern drums. The vocals make a big impact on the listener and there is a stone golem approach to the said delivery. The music itself has folk elements at times but comes to moments and hints of the arabesque and exotic, though in a manner that is dreary and ugly. Acoustic strings dominate the recording here and are woven together tightly, like an old, home spun sweater Uncle Angus would have wore to rags in the long night outings while off to stake his claim before he rolled snake eyes somewhere and never returned. It has that sort of feel to it...the broken down part of town where no one makes it home and is eaten one dream at a time by the wild, slow circus in the underbelly of the city.