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Passover

by

The Black Angels

 
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Passover
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Avg: 4.0 (336 ratings)

New Age apocalypso from a Texas-based sextet of space cowboys.

  • We Say...

    The Black Angels hail from Austin, Texas, bearing a geographic and spatial legacy inherited from the 13th Floor Elevators (ex-Elevator Tommy Hall, he of the jug and the metaphisique, penned a recent celebration of the Angels' fuzz-drone for the group’s website). Moving through such druidic touchstones as Jesus and Mary Chain, the Verve, and Brian Jonestown Massacre, the Black Angels plant themselves firmly with one foot on tribalstomp earth and the other in the stirrups of space cowboy.

    Passover is their debut album, containing just a couple of the songs appearing on their introductory EP, and mind-expanding on that promise. Listening to the Black Angels descend into the meltdown that is "The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven," with its vaguely Indo-modals providing a layered and cumulus atmosphere, the feel is less Syd-era Pink Floyd than Hawkwind. Their genre is new age apocalypso, with storm-warning vocals more frontal than many space-core groups, and the lyrics bear parsing: the segue of "Young Men Dead" into "The First Vietnamese War" is hardly coincidental.

    Nor is the reference point of their name, after the Velvet Underground's "Black Angels Death Song." Sterling Morrison, the Velvets' lead guitarist, wound up in Texas, and the Black Angels are the Velvets' "Prodigal Sun" come full circle, tom for tom-tom, guitars approaching escape velocity, in centrifugal gravitation. Like much mood-swing music, the effect is best taken cumulatively, a swirl of textural and perpetual in-motion that only approximates the Angels' live experience, where they perform before light projections and the hypnotic pulse of their strum and thrum.

  • They Say...

    "Black Grease" says it all, blackly: Austin's Black Angels temper stoned Black Sabbath drone with Black Keys bluesy bombast, producing a sort of boozy psychedelic White Light/White Heat in the process. The aforementioned song takes the record's central aesthetic idea and spirals it out of control. The shamanistic lyrics here rise as a single mantra of "Kill, kill, kill, kill," and the filthy reverberating guitars are kept to an acidic simmer, all so that Passover's real focus -- that is, Stephanie Bailey's insidious percussion -- reaches a level of unconscious insistence that feels almost locomotive, tumbling over itself too fast to safely stop. Other tracks, like seething, stately "Empire," wear the band's Velvet Underground influence more proudly, keeping the drums at a steady patter and letting the guitars scramble like rats up a well. Passover is a reactionary record, trading in Vietnam imagery and tired Doors tropes in places as easily as it does stoopid-awesome stoner rock in others, but it seems a reaction of the very best kind -- that is, free of agenda, full of ideas, and fun.

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