dream weapon ritual

Latest from the much admired Boring Machines imprint, something we mentioned in passing at https://marklosingtoday.wordpress.com/2017/11/14/dream-weapon-ritual-2/ – this be the darkly brooding ‘the uncanny little sparrows’, the latest outing from duo Dream Weapon Ritual. Courting the spectral beauty of say, Glissando with the overreaching shadow setting of Preterite, Dream Weapon Ritual craft a mercurial fusion of the old with the new that conspire the craft of musical landscapes etched both with new age phobias and the archaic haunt of a timeless solemn. The set opens to the album side consuming colossus that is ‘bird mother’. Engulfed in twilight mists, the groan of sea horns and the dead fall shimmering instil a disquieting beauty upon this ghostly mantra, its spell weaving stilled calm tempered in an eerie chamber folk macabre that’s cut to a lost forgotten musical tongue, the siren like calls serving as search lights lulling and mesmerising all into its ancestral fog, all the time the tonalities assuming mass and definition to rise from the droning gloom snaking their hypnosia to craft a sultry shape shifting primitive arabesque. Really is consuming stuff, atmospherically towering and somewhat studded in a head fracturing psychosis which I’ll say now, the further in you delve, the further it fractures and fragments to create a howling cauldron of tripping frenzy. Over on side 2 there lurks four more eerie visitations, ‘mating call’ mentioned previously still sounds to these ears like a darkly surreal sore thumb from the dark side of a sleeping child’s play room while ‘two little sparrows sitting on a bough and waiting for enlightenment’ is pulled straight from the sparsely set shadow worlds of the Virgin Passages. A primordial mantra set within a glooming ceremonial casing whose reference markers appear to be located somewhere between Coil and the Hare and the Moon while elsewhere some dark ne’er do well approaches this way with the creeping and crooked ‘tittle tattle among secret devices’, its misshapen ill formed rhythmic mooching and sinister prowl imagining Alan Vega lost in a petrified sonic outland conjured up by some unhinged alliance between a ‘death disco’ era Public Image and Throbbing Gristle. Which leaves ‘the one with the iron beak’ to round out matters towards the end groove, though not before summoning up an icy remoteness to fall upon your listening space whereupon scabbed jazz dialects scratched over a pulsing earth beat mantra act in a pact formed design to keep you shivered and frozen to your intensely watchful vantage point from behind the sofa, very La STPO in terms of edgy atmospherics and its overall sense of mind unravelling psychosia. www.boringmachines.it   

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