The Silence That Remains

HEAT WAVE MUSICK You're mowing your dead-yellow lawn, drenched in sweat. There isn't the slightest breeze. Just the relentless humidity, the stench of pollution, and the slow onset of heatstroke delirium. Then— A frail, naked body falls from a lysergic sky and slams into the boiling asphalt in front of your house. An odd sound. Like a sack of mud bursting open. Blood spreads lazily across the road, thickening into a bubbling black pudding beneath the merciless sun. Grey matter escapes through the eyes, the ears, the mouth... Tiny fragments of skull begin roasting gently on the pavement. Then the vapours arrive. An impossible fog. No clouds. No rain. Just that blasphemous, pitiless Sun glaring down upon everything as though it had never intended life to survive in the first place. It's a sign. Time to crank the brand-new Voluptas Carnis, my friends. Warm beer. A cigarette—or something stronger. LaVey's Satanic Bible within arm's reach. Now surrender yourself to wave after wave of narcotic riffs, each one more delicious than the last. Music that never rushes, never begs for your attention, because it already knows you'll eventually submit. Psychedelic stoner rock of the highest order—thick, towering, gloriously smoke-soaked—drifting effortlessly into drone, flirting with noise whenever the moment calls for it, while the guitars remain impossibly languid... yet somehow triumphant at the very same time. An absolutely phenomenal band. Now turn it up. The heat isn't going anywhere. -Sir Kuliktavikt