Virosa Ebriosa (album)
Fragments: The end of a set at one venue, a near miss at another, a sense that something missed was significant as condensation and sweat hangs heavy in the post performance air. A shimmering chimera rendered accessible through the recorded medium. The antiseptic digital format does not undermine the visceral energies contained within its virtual folds; Virosa Ebriosa is suitably strong and addictive even when consumed within the most ascetic environment.
‘You’re One’ bursts in, coruscates, accelerating through a notional set of friction heavy gears that cause it to skitter and bounce, plain sailing rendered kinetic through its reflexive serrations. Literate lyrics hint at the outsider perspective and juxtaposed belonging, a syncopated scratch that balms the savage itch. A torpedo descent to the bottom of Davy Jones locker switches perspective, driven by bass dexterity ‘Pyrate Bad’ cracks open a barrel of fun.
Waters run deep. The greenback river of Jordan is polluted by the pure light of actuality. ‘Ghostwriter’ coalesces into a venomous scarification of artificiality before fading into the tar melting two lane blacktop burn of ‘Bombshell’, a standout track that supports malefic vocals upon a sleek, portentous superstructure. The themes are heavy but the delivery is made with accomplished light hands.
After ‘The Ballad Of Lucifer’ rattles through like a night train carrying forbidden pets, ‘Hate Parades’ dares to skank. Strafing and evocative by degree, the number scours its groove, adorned by sumptuous lead and rich harmony. A sensual travelogue is unfolding; epitomised by ‘Hate Parade’, a spinning madrigal of bittersweet umami that traces the journey from conflagration to dying ember. ‘Lipstick Graffiti’ emerges as a broadcast from the last wasteland, twitching and convulsing in the crepuscular half light to recount pulp fictions with magnificent malevolence.
‘Russell (The Soundcheck Song)’ and ‘Sounds Like A Douche’ return fun to the top of the high octane agenda, paint blistering lead combining with the latter’s entrancing melodic savagery to frame an exultant release. Intent and execution rule here, with ‘My Lady Castlemaine’ writhing like an uroboros impaled upon its own fangs. With vocal prowess unrestrained, ‘Rage’ brings in the home straight; a furious casting built upon a rock solid gallows, before the episodic ‘Valkyrie Eyes’ delivers its Ouija board lexicon, immolating the heretical spellings within a house of flames. Kinesis and allure are juxtaposed.
Finally, the ramalama punkarama of ‘Train Of Stars’ loops around the outer rim of the non-stop pogo-a-gogo, a demented Sputnik that arcs toward the killing floor. Soaking its entry point with the same sweet condensation and sweat that hung in the air weeks ago now. This is mischief with ideas – experience it.