The face of the mother was first green, nourished by the energy of secret reservoirs. There built the naked apes their temples, scarring her skin still she smiled.
Around these temples, villages grew in an avalanche of life, subsistence, commerce. Eventually the temples were demolished by the new religion, and replaced by churches, the primeval ceremonies restructured into a pyramid of fervent prayer received with indifference, and the towns grew into cities, and industries thrived, through the iron mask which now covered her face still she smiled.
The new religion became old and was forgotten, its places of worship desecrated, graffitied and scarred like the mother’s face had been before, only now it was a father’s face which the few believers clung to. Around the forlorn places of worship grew the woods wild and irresistible, and in their decaying cellars footsteps were heard again, erosion removing layers betwixt the surface and underground reservoirs whence green sprouts, aided by shovels and picks, fertile soil eventually reached, the gap of a smile whose teeth are millennial stones.
A cruel smile, the smile of one who knew her time would come again.
Cult of Youth are Deliverance to neofolk’s House of the Prairie. Their music is powerful and scary, it draws on the savagery of pagan stalwarts Comus and a thousand nameless ballads of loneliness and bloodshed, as processed via the necrotic arteries of Death in June and Neubauten. It traps in the cage of its mighty guitar strum and bass vertigo a black bird of intense gaze and portentous wingspan, watch it feast on the vehicle of life which is the rotten carrion with which it’s fed. Very soon it will be strong enough to break away.
Get Filthy Plumage in an Open Sea! from AVANT! Records.
The last couple of weeks have found us wading knee deep in the veritable flood of cryptic balladry with which Drew Price’s Bermuda Triangle have inundated our sensory channels.
‘Wiz kid produces 40 astounding gems of shining pop under the stern gaze of subtly deformed cuddly toys dangling from the shelves of a crammed bedroom’ is one of those archetypical stories of the musical underground which nevertheless deserves attention every time it is sincerely proclaimed, because it isn’t often that one gets invited into the weird world of one who has single-mindedly pulled the muses from damp corners, strangled them over a patchwork of shadows as they rotate generating venn diagrams of diverse depths and shapes, their desperate squeals condensed into masonry with which edifices of Babylonian filigree are built, colourful spires connected with fragile arches under which visitors strut in wonder.
Like Ariel Pink, like Atlas Sound, only it’s different, say hello to another true original.
There is much to download at his myspace page, this is just an introduction.