by Octopi Mills

The hour is late, and the Doctor's orders tonight are Ides of Gemini, a band from Los Angeles. The first thing I noticed is the recording and sound values, which have a good olde demo sound, but something modern still is at hand, though with a sort of vintage sound. The music I hear is somewhat indescribable, though in the metal field, if such a term can still be applied to the artists. The vocals are original and somewhat dreamy. The singing is done well and in layers, and is unmistakeably female, whilst the drums could be described as martial, and not of the norm. This makes things very different, as most drums/percussion of all times present and past are well outdated in most music forms and this adds something to the music. The press notes mention a journalist on the guitar, a fellow from the works of the magazines Decibel, Terrorizer, Revolver, Alternative Press and Thrasher, and though this is somewhat interesting, it is not so important here at this current time.

The guitar has a consistent sound in the first tracks thus far, and there is a feeling evoked here one might not hear anywhere else, which is always good, of course. The music itself could be compared to a blending of things of many different genres; gothic, metal, even "alternative", as we have all come to know through these tags which brainwash and malform- disgracing many musicians throughout the times as well as elevating some for lack of better overseers and men of lesser penmanship. Here we find something different and new through such terms and idiocies and I will now apologize for being a human, something I come to disdain in many aspects. To judge such a work is painstaking and often unfair, and I will say that this is creative, emotional music, and more deserving than everything on our radio or charts, and this being said, I will say that means much in a world of sham and brains turned gelatinous in such realms of arts and sciences.

 And now I don the ape like mask of the accuser and the critic and confess that the music leads me to boredom, and I say that to hear the first fifteen minutes of this album is to hear it all, and it offers nothing surprising or novel and loses me before I can offer it the praise some might find it truly deserves. There is a flow here, but it must then take the listener somewhere to be truly memorable and I feel that I am going nowhere slowly and I drift to an anarchy that makes me wish for something more, as free as this music can be. I find myself wanting something more in the end, and feel guilty as one of the hardest parts of being a reviewer is to say such things about another's  hard won art-it is a job that is something one might find in comparison and relation to the job of a mortician in the end. I find myself a bigot and wonder if i could have guessed the very location of the terrain and country of the music, and I will stop before things become cruel and childish and can only say this will certainly appeal to a certain folk or character, and I am not one of these in class or spirit. I am sorry somewhat to admit I will never listen to this again, but can also say it has much merit and will serve a certain few very well indeed.