In a sober-state, the Unknown Mortal voice behind the Orchestra would confuse me. He’s flexing Harrison-esque vocal muscles cloaked in studio effects, as if trying hide what is so painfully obvious: the mind-flaying musical alphabet starts with a B-Eatles and the drugs make you see shit, hear shit, believe shit.
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.
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.
The truth of the matter is, between Barnett mimicking Vile’s fingerpicking flightiness and Vile imitating Barnett’s laidback chordal quirkiness, it sounds like the artists don’t want to be known for what they do.
That creature is Robert Plant. In the water is Dreamland. As a record, it is a question. As an answer, it is a word: yes.