Remember last time you woke up suddenly, vomited from the cavern where our lady of darkness hatches her deformed spawn, pupils dilated, aware of the presence of a shark circling your precarious raft under the deceivingly calm surface of darkness?
Then a roar down the road outside sudden, sharp tubes of light exploded in a lattice of white over the walls to reveal animal, human and unspeakable shapes surrounding your bed, sitting in the floor and in the chair and hanging from the ceiling, mute and staring at you with blank eyes.
Then it was dark. And it all began again.
Never build your house above a desecrated cemetery. Not worth it.
Psychic Ills are another of those ace bands that have haunted the pages of this blog since our early days, their dirge wave taps direct into a tortuous well of murky energy where the essence of gnostic secrets filters from damp cellars and eerie hillocks deep in the neck of the woods no-one dares visit, and you know what happens to those who do. Their new 12, Catoptric, released by the Social Registry in June, sounds like the aftermath of a cosmic battle where different factions of the occult fought for control over this tract of the sky, as far as we know none of them had a place for mankind in the scheme of things to come.
Even in the Dark might be the closest Water Borders have come to delivering a club banger yet, it definitely did threaten the soul of our feeble 13Monsters speakers when we slipped it on at the club last weekend.
We throw around concepts like ‘dirge step’ or ‘haunted dancehall’ around with excessive abandon, but then we would be forgiven for resorting to stylistic shorthand when confronting beasts as numinous as this one- panic buttons for awed scribes, that’s what they are.
It works at two levels, first as a nocturnal chase through wild woods agitated by Satanic winds of Neubateian provenance (there), Evil Dead sans the slapstick. Second, as the dissonant soundtrack for the exploration of a derelict cabin, each stab of the synthesiser an eerie revelation, think of grainy photographs nailed to the walls, and bones, like a subtler version of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
These two scenarios are overlaid, wrapped together by the wraith-like vocals, an undead the Knife or Scott Walker’s balladry as sang from the gut of a vulture swirling in Tibetan skies. The interpretation of this scheme is that the ghost chasing you down the forests is the same that inhabits the cabin you just slipped into, and both things happen simultaneously. The perfect synchronisation of these two situations is the sort of challenge to space-time conventions that music with power is able to produce.
Even in the Dark is included in a forthcoming EP in Disaro. And more good stuff to come from them, very close to home.