If a mad scientist were to somehow map out my tastes and set about designing my ideal album to lure me into some sort of trap, on paper that siren’s call would sound a bit like “nautically themed sludge metal/shoegaze/post rock/indie rock hybrid.”
But playing through speakers, that idea is even more alluring—not unlike the diver toward the light of the giant angler fish on the cover, I cannot resist this record. I hadn’t even finished my initial listen before purchasing a copy.
Generally, when a band is signed to a major label, they tend to smooth out their sound a little bit.
Nobody must have told the Melvins, because their second release on Atlantic is rawer, sludgier, and more experimental.
Across music history, there are scattered acts that never got the mainstream attention that they deserved, but they influenced legions of bands.
Bands like The Velvet Underground, of which it was once said, “[they] didn’t sell many records, but everyone who bought one went out and started a band.”
Among slow, lurching metallurgists, few bands are is influential as the Melvins.
After the crushing gorgeousness of Quietly, Mouth of the Architect got busy. Despite lineup changes, the band toured Europe, recorded EPs, and headlined a few festivals.
Then the group returned to the Midwest to record their fourth full-length, Dawning. But in comparison to Quietly’s thick, relentless avalanche of atmospheric noise, this record spends much more time flexing their melodic chops.
They say that you should never judge a book by its cover. That goes double for records.
Because if you were to look at the pastoral winter scene, gentle cursive text, and whimsical animal illustrations on the inside gatefold, you might think this would sound like a gorgeous, twee-folk Bon Iver clone.
And while this record certainly is gorgeous, it’s beauty comes through Mouth of the Architect’s particular brand of crushing sludge metal heaviness.
Caspar David Friedrich was an 18th century German painter known for his sparse, dreamlike paintings. His paintings stretch from triumph to tragedy to tranquility to torment.
And Locktender’s album that bears his name traverses through the same moods, stretching their fiery sonic palette through their interpretations of Friederich’s work.
For my great love of metal bands that are often described as “Black Sabbath worship” (see: Pallbearer, Elder, Baroness, Isis), I’ve never dug too deep into Black Sabbath themselves beyond some superficial listens to Paranoid.
But on a recent trip to the record store, I decided to change that. Trying to decide between this record and Vol. 4, I pulled up an article that called this record the “ultra-heavy” foundation of doom, sludge, and stoner metal.
I just wasn’t expecting so much overt Christianity.
If I were to ask you to imagine a female singer-songwriter, there’s a good chance your mind would go to a subdued, pensive artist, a la Joan Baez or Julien Baker.
But lately, there’s been a crop of women whose particular brand of introspection is better accompanied by rattling, detuned guitars and a pummeling rhythm section than an acoustic guitar. Women like Kristina Esfandiari of King Woman and Chelsea Wolfe.
As a guitarist, I sometimes bemoan modern music’s shift away from the instrument. Even modern guitar legends like St. Vincent’s Annie Clark have pivoted away from a guitar-centric approach.
But then, you have Cloakroom (who apparently live pretty close to me).
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