Discover 2 drone metal releases with free Bandcamp download codes from independent artists and labels.
There is a strange voluptuousness in watching something beautiful die. Witch Of Creation returns to ECHØVEIL Records with Death Throes Of A Burning Forest — a magnificent descent into drone-doom, black metal and ambient, wandering slowly and heavily through the incandescent entrails of a forest caught in its final hour. Everything burns here. But nothing seems entirely willing to disappear. The blaze is alive and ravenous, swift yet somehow suspended — tetanizing, sublime. Great walls of sound smoulder and breathe; guitars dissolve into scorched drones, distortion becomes weather, and the whole landscape seems caught somewhere between unbearable density and weightless apparition. Above it all hangs an infinite scarlet azure: the impossible sky beneath which dying things become beautiful simply because they are dying. Ash-ghosts wander through the filled void. Impossible fruits grow there too — swollen, fleshy things ripening from branches already reduced to charcoal. And somewhere inside this burning dream, terror and beauty cease to contradict one another. Death Throes Of A Burning Forest is heavy without ever becoming earthbound. Its mass floats. Its violence dreams. Its darkness glows from within. Everything remains suspended in that strange intermediary state where matter has begun to perish but has not yet understood that it is dead. A spiritual DRANO poured directly through the crown of the skull — melting the spinal marrow while somehow inseminating the eardrums with bruised, diaphanous dreams. Noise as purification. Doom as levitation. Black metal as the distant shriek of matter discovering its own impermanence. Nothing remains entirely solid. Only imprecise densities, incandescent wounds, charred reveries and the slow voluptuousness of extinction. The dreams of a midsummer night— set on fire. -Sir Kuliktavikt
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
