Just how visceral is rock ‘n’ roll meant to be?
Percussive melodies, finger-picked guitars and humming drones that metamorphizes folk into electronic, melds shoegazer with bluegrass (bluegazer) and dark ambient with art-rock (dark-rock). Does this sound like no one? Then that’s where Loma will start.
Make no bones about it, this is a riot grrl, Mogwai-like, psychedelic effort. Vocals are damn near impossible to fully understand and should we survive to the next cut, I’ll bet you five bucks the lyrics are lost forever. They bark orders against the blazing payloads of the riffwork.
Mouth breathes in again, having forgotten, as we all do sometimes, that something which is so important. Essential. And with each breath? A pulse, an om, a bass, Ament. Vedder accompanies:
Moving from the mad love of Sylvia Plath to morbid memories of family, Gainsbourg waxes love and death while SebastiAn works, needle and hammer, to bring this poetry alive.
Plant’s voice, thus, moved from black women wailing and tall tales of a rambler to the slow, low burning insights of a man who has seen the rock ‘n’ roll world for all it’s worth, all it’s false promise, all it’s real excess.
Sleep only had time for the ethereal, the subconscious tangential, not time for the latency of metal. Sleep only had time for dreams and, conveniently, the last few days boiled down to nothing but Fleetwood Mac on repeat.